Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
On the drive to COTA, I put in my earbuds and turn on some music, but what I’m doing is thinking.
The problem with all this attention is that it’s stolen my agency.
And Nico’s. I’d only just dipped one toe into the waters of a relationship with him, but now everyone’s splashing about in our business and someone’s bound to piss in the pool.
Right. Enough, Petra.
I close my eyes and make my mind go blank. Today is race day, not the day for figuring out my love life.
Usually I drive us to the circuit, but Rodrigo was waiting in the lobby when we came down from my room, and he took the keys without asking me. Guess he knew I needed a little extra time to get into the zone.
Now the car turns in to the car park. Beside me, Cin squeezes my hand. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I open my eyes and nod. The initial shock of the photo’s leak has bled off. My attention needs to be on doing my job. Morning prep and a workout in the hotel gym has me (mostly) centered and focused. Whatever chaos waits outside doesn’t matter.
The walk to the Nitro garage feels like a gauntlet, but my team keeps the press at a professional distance. Rodrigo’s taken the lead ahead of Cin, me, and Claudia, and his massive frame offers no option to anyone except to move the hell out of the way. Bless the gentle giant.
Pink-streaked hair and rabbit ears are everywhere. The combined fan clubs have definitely mobilized.
But so has the media.
“Petra!” a reporter shouts over the crowd. “Any concerns about team loyalty with your relationship?”
“Are you worried people think you’re sleeping your way to wins?” another calls out.
“Does Nitro management approve of fraternizing with rival drivers?”
I keep walking, jaw tight. This is exactly the bullshit I feared.
Inside the garage, Nitro’s morning routine continues despite the circus out in the paddock. Bowie offers a fist bump as I pass. One of Reece’s mechanics winks and another mouths, “Good on you,” while she moves a tire rack. Even the no-nonsense logistics blokes give me a couple of thumbs up.
Dad’s eye-roll when I enter the engineering room is practically audible, but his smile takes the edge off. “Managed to complicate an already complicated race, I see.”
“You know me.” I grab a seat. “I never do anything by halves.” I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked me why I didn’t confess to the kiss last night, because I don’t have a good answer.
Asuka doesn’t even look up from her data. “If you’re done breaking the internet, can we focus on the overnight modifications?”
Her all-business non-reaction settles me completely. Trust our chief engineer to care about what affects the car, not the driver.
“Absolutely. The rear suspension is what matters right now.” Everyone dons a headset. We’ll be radio-only for all meetings until the race is over. “What am I dealing with?”
“We’ve compensated as much as we can through diff maps and brake bias.” She pulls up diagnostics and charts. “But you’ll need to be extremely precise with your inputs. The differential settings are creative.”
“Define creative.”
“We’re running a looser diff on entry and mid-corner. It’ll help mask the suspension issue, but you’ll have to manage the car manually.”
“Especially under braking and downshifts.” Bowie highlights several curves in the data for me.
Asuka continues. “Turn-in will be trickier. You’ll feel some instability in high-speed corners, particularly if you get on the power too early.”
“The trade-off is better rotation,” Zara adds. “If you can handle the looser rear, you might actually find more speed through some corners.”
“Might being the operative word,” Bowie mutters. “One wrong input or moment of lost focus and you’ll be eating gravel.”
“Got it.” I memorize the critical parameters. “What about tire management?”
“That’s the other challenge.” Asuka pulls up temperature maps for all of us to see. “The revised settings put more stress on the left rear. You need to pay attention to heat buildup.”
Right. Just manage an unstable rear end, watch tire temperatures, handle manual differential adjustments, competitors on the track, and oh yeah, deal with the media frenzy about kissing a rival driver.
I nod and flash a smile for the team. “Just another race day, then.”
We move on to strategy specifics, then it’s time for me to chill out.
When we leave the garage for the business unit, the energy outside has shifted from media circus to street festival. Music pumps from a DJ booth and the Honeys and Bunnies have transformed the paddock into an impromptu celebration.
“Look at this.” Claudia’s grinning as she hands me a pink shirt. “Hot Bunny Luvin’ is trending harder than the actual photo.”
The shirts are everywhere, stylized rabbit ears forming a heart above the words. Match that with the face paint—pink rabbit-ear hearts decorating cheeks of fans of all genders—and it’s less scandal, more celebration.
“Your public awaits.” Cin nudges me toward a group of especially enthusiastic Honeys. Their squeals when I start signing shirts could drown out a Formula 1 engine.
“This is mad!” I laugh, accepting my own shirt from a beaming fan. The atmosphere is pure joy and support instead of judgment. And it’s infectious.
Claudia watches the fans dancing and singing. “If I’d known it would be this big a frenzy, I would’ve told you to kiss him a long time ago.”
“Pretty sure that wasn’t in my PR strategy.”
“No, but it’s working better than all my planned campaigns.”
A chorus of “Tenacious P! El Conejo!” starts up, accompanied by what sounds suspiciously like the chicken dance mixed with “Crazy in Love.”
F1 fans, I swear.
Graham’s Paddock Access camera blokes are there and I figure I can’t escape them, so I stop and smile when Pippa Blackwood shoves a mic in my face.
“Petra, can we discuss the elephant in the paddock?”
I shrug. “You will even if I say no.”
She laughs. “You know me well.”
“Right.”
“This Nico thing, is it love or do you think he’s just trying to get into your head?”
“My head?” I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself. “Nooo, Pippa, I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get into my knickers.” Then I wink at the camera and escape while her mouth is still hanging open. I might catch hell—and an FIA fine—for that, but it was worth it.
Rigo steps between me and the cameras. Claudia and Cin whisk me back my driver’s room. I pass Reece on the way and he fist bumps me.
“Well played, Hayter.”
I snort. Reece Pritchard and I are as much friends as we are teammates, and I snag his sleeve. “Reece?”
“Yeah?”
I lower my voice so only he’ll hear. “Fuck team order. Take the shot if you get it, yeah?”
He considers me for a moment then grins. “We’ll see, TenP.”
My driver’s room is a sanctuary after the paddock’s chaos. Cin sets up the reflex board while I settle into my pre-race routine, muscle memory taking over.
“Your heart rate’s good.” She’s checking readings. “Blood pressure normal. Whatever else is happening out there, you’re ready to race.”
The familiar light patterns flash. I move automatically, anticipating, reacting. Hell, yes, I’m in the bloody zone today.
A knock interrupts.
Cin opens the door because the only person who’d dare break my focus at this point is Dad.
“Give us a few minutes, Jacintha?” he asks.
She checks her watch. “Five minutes, Coy. Then meditation.”
The door closes behind her, leaving me with a man who’s trying to be both father and team principal.
“Ready for this?” He settles into Cin’s vacated chair.
“The race or the circus?”
“Both.” His expression is unreadable. “Putting aside the fact that ‘just talking’ involved a certain amount of body language you failed to mention last night—”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Dad—”
“I’ll back whatever you decide about Nico.
” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“But I need to know you can compartmentalize. Graham’s going to use every bit of this.
The press will be watching for any sign you’re distracted.
And Nico will be out there driving like his life depends on proving he’s not the reason you lose focus. ”
“I won’t lose focus.”
“I know.” His smile is slight. He stands, smooths down my hair like he used to when I was little and about to get into my kart. “Now go do your job. The rest we’ll handle like we always do.”
“As a team?”
“Precisely.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “Though maybe next time kiss him somewhere without photographers, yeah?”
“I thought I was.” I roll my eyes. “Also, technically, he kissed me.”