Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Where’s your focus tonight?” Esteban adjusts Nico’s position during their workout. It’s evening, but a few other drivers are in the gym with their performance coaches, so he and Nico are speaking Gallego, Esteban’s mother tongue.
“Thinking about tomorrow’s race.” They’re doing neck training, Nico wearing a neck harness and resisting the weight his physio has added to it. He loves and hates this training in equal measures.
“And the stewards’ decision? And Graham’s threats? And whatever happened here with Petra?” When Nico doesn’t respond, Esteban sighs. “I heard something interesting from Jacintha Hayter.”
That gets his attention. “What?”
“Focus.” Esteban taps Nico’s head, then answers. “Nitro has a rear suspension issue with Petra’s car. Their engineering team’s pulling an all-nighter to find workarounds.”
Nico grasps the weight to ease the pressure against his neck. “How bad?”
“Bad enough to need creative solutions. Not bad enough to give up the pole for a pit lane start.” Esteban takes the weight from him and adjusts the harness as Nico sits up. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“Right. Like you didn’t care about the Singapore incident?”
Time for isometric exercises. “That was about fair racing.” Nico holds his head in place, resisting the pull that Esteban asserts against the harness.
“Suuure. Like Carlos was just concerned about general safety regulations when he fought the FIA?”
Nico frowns. “That was different.”
“Was it?” Esteban eases off on the pressure and studies him. “He saw something wrong in the sport and tried to change it. He paid the price but kept fighting anyway.” He pauses. “Sound familiar?”
“What exactly do you think I’m fighting here?”
Esteban reengages the band, pulling even harder on Nico. “What I think doesn’t matter, but you need to stop, because Petra can fight her own battles and if she thinks you’re stepping in to protect her, she’ll cut off your balls.”
“What are you talking about?” Nico resists the pull of the weight, gravity dragging him inexorably forward. This is why all F1 drivers are bull-necked.
“You know what I’m saying.” Esteban’s voice turns careful. “It’s why you look at her like she’s something you need to protect but can’t quite figure out how.”
“I don’t—” But the denial dies at his friend’s knowing look. Nico stops fighting the pull and slips off the harness. “Shit.”
“Finally, he admits it.” Esteban sits beside him. “Look, Conejo, I get it. She’s brilliant, she’s fierce, she’s beautiful.”
“But nothing can happen. I know.” Admitting that sucks.
“That’s not what I’m saying. You just need to move carefully. Graham’s looking for ammunition. Junior’s waiting for you to slip. And with both championships in play, there’s too much on the line to make a move without being certain of your intentions. And hers.”
“Politics and points. Always. Why is everything so complicated?”
“Because money.” Esteban squeezes his shoulder. “Just be smart and intentional about this. Whatever this is.”
As they’re finishing the workout and stretching, Nico’s phone buzzes with a message from Carlos:
In your driver’s room. See me before you go to the hotel.
Esteban heads back to the Fairmont, while Nico returns to WolfBett’s team building and finds his father working in his driver’s room.
“What’s up?” Nico drops his gym bag and flops into a chair while Carlos closes his laptop.
“I received a call from Emil Krastev after the FIA decision.” Carlos leans back in his chair, his face lined with weariness.
“And?” Nico braces for bad news. It’s rarely good when the FIA calls your father and manager, especially on the eve of a race.
“And he had a warning for you to be careful about ‘negative publicity’ after the mess at The Blue Wall.”
“What mess? A wall punched Wyn.”
This earns him an intense look from his father. “This is what happens when you inject yourself into another team’s affairs, Nico.”
Says the man who took on the entire racing world. “I was in the gent’s room.” Nico meets his father’s gaze. “That’s all.”
This isn’t the first time they’ve had this kind of conversation, and they both know the pattern.
Carlos drops a hint about boundaries, Nico defends his actions, and they reach a stalemate that lasts until the next incident.
After all, Nico is his father’s son and always sides with the underdog in a fight.
“You were there, and now you’re covering for someone.” Carlos picks up a pen and rolls it between his fingers. “Graham Pritchard’s calling for sanctions. The FIA’s watching. And somehow I doubt they’ll appreciate the official story if they decide to dig deeper.”
“There’s nothing to dig for. Wyn was drunk and hit a wall. If the story was different, he would’ve said so.”
“Except a man’s ego can be more powerful than a woman’s right hook.
” Carlos’s expression betrays nothing of how he feels about Petra’s act of revenge.
“Standing up for what’s right is admirable, Nico.
” He leans back. “I spent years fighting the FIA over safety regulations. It cost me positions, opportunities, and relationships in the paddock.” He pauses.
“I made enemies and, yes, I’d do it again. ”
“Then you understand my choices.”
“I do.” Carlos sets the pen down. “But I also understood exactly what I was choosing to fight for and what I was willing to lose.” He meets Nico’s gaze.
“There’s a reason Petra’s the only woman on this grid, and the only woman in the history of F1 to stand atop a podium.
This sport has cracked open its doors begrudgingly. ”
“Which is exactly why—”
“Everything you do matters.” Carlos leans forward.
“Every defense of her gets scrutinized. Every incident gets twisted. People are looking for reasons to say she doesn’t belong, that she’s a distraction, that female drivers bring drama.
” His voice hardens. “And they’ll use you to prove it if you’re not careful. ”
That truth punches Nico in the chest. Singapore’s crash, the bar incident—Graham’s already spinning narratives about his “questionable priorities” and “concerning behavior.”
“So I should do nothing? Let Wyn keep running her off track? Let drunk assholes say whatever they want?”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” Carlos stands, gathers his things, then holds Nico’s gaze. “Know what you’re fighting for and what price you’re willing to pay. Because this sport will cost you, mijo. It did me. And if you’re not careful, it will make her pay most of all.”
“She can handle herself.”
“I know she can. She’s proven that over and over.
” Carlos moves toward the door, then pauses.
“But ask yourself—are you defending the sport’s principles?
Or are you defending her specifically?” He turns back.
“Because one of those fights, the paddock might forgive. The other? That changes everything.”
After Carlos leaves, Nico sits in the quiet of his driver’s room.
Am I defending principles or Petra?
The answer should be easy. It’s a matter of safety and holding drivers accountable for dangerous moves. All the things his father fought for.
But Singapore wasn’t just about racing ethics. And The Blue Wall wasn’t about sportsmanship.
Nico grabs his bag and heads for his rental car. A lap around the track will clear his head. Burn off this restless energy that always hits before race day.
Through the paddock gates, he catches a glimpse of movement. Someone is running the circuit’s service road. Even in the distance, he recognizes that stride, the flash of pink-streaked hair beneath the circuit lights. Also the giant man running beside her.
Petra and her bodyguard.
“Be certain about what you’re fighting for.”
His father’s voice echoes in his head even as his feet carry him toward the service road.
Nico is certain. He has been for as long as he can remember.
The road curves away from the main complex, rising slightly with COTA’s elevation changes. Ahead, Petra maintains a steady pace.
“Either join me properly or stop stalking, Belmonte.” She doesn’t turn when she calls him out. Doesn’t even break her stride. However, she does say something quieter to Rodrigo and the guy falls back, letting Nico pass him and giving them some privacy.
Nico increases his speed and falls in beside Petra, matching her pace. “Shouldn’t you be resting? Big race tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t you?” But she’s smiling slightly, breath steady. “Or are you here to demonstrate more perfect racing lines?”
“Hmm. You’re still angry?”
“No. Puzzled. Why did El Conejo play it safe in sector 3? In all the years we’ve been racing each other, I’ve never seen you give up an advantage, Nico.
” She eyes him. “During the race you didn’t.
And again during race qualies. I watched the replays.
You kept Wyn on the back foot in the sprint.
Even when he was being reckless enough to force his way through, you didn’t give him an inch.
And you made me work my arse off for tomorrow’s pole.
So why did you do it in sprint quali for me?
Riddle me that, Spaniard? And give me a real answer this time. ” She picks up the pace.
He matches her stride easily. “I told you, I took the fast line yesterday.”
She scoffs. “The noble line, you mean. Very Belmonte. Very principled.”
“Like you know anything about my principles.” He’s not mad or being rude, just blunt.
“I know you gave me pole for the sprint when the points were less, but not for tomorrow’s race.”
“I gave you?” Now he does bristle. “Check the times, Hayter. You earned that position.”
“Did I?” She cuts him another sideways glance, and pushes the pace more. “Or did you see a chance to prove a female driver belongs on track with you and the boys?”
They’re both breathing harder now, competitiveness bleeding into their run like it does everything else.
“Do you hear the bullshit coming out of your mouth?” He matches her stride for stride.
“I said what I said, Nico.”