Racing Hearts

Chapter One

Georgia

Through my mirror, I glanced at my brother whose car was in second position on the starting grid.

Henri wanted this Spanish Grand Prix victory as much as I did, and he wasn’t going to make this win easy for me.

His cold text messages earlier this morning showed just how frustrated he was to get second place in yesterday’s qualifying.

Sarcastically telling my brother he should have practiced more probably wasn’t the best choice of a response, but this was my first time qualifying on pole this season, and I wasn’t in the business of apologizing for my success.

One light.

Two lights.

Three lights. The distinct smell of engine fumes crowded my senses as I continued to breathe deeply, steadying my heart rate.

Four lights.

Five lights. Lights out.

Without hesitation, I squeezed the throttle and launched into the first corner, determined to defend my first-place starting position from Henri’s aggressive overtaking tactics. Our cars jostled for the lead, tires sliding as we fought for control.

So, it’s gloves off then, is it, Henri?

“Careful on tires, G,” Mel mumbled through the radio.

She wanted these tires to last. Defending position from other drivers tore away the rubber grip, but like hell was I going to let my brother overtake me on lap one.

The Barcelona-Catalunya circuit required two pit stops, and the longer you could make the first set of tires go, the better the second half of your race would be.

Lap after lap, I maintained my lead, my car gliding through the track with precision, edging just slightly away from the rest of the cars behind me.

At around lap seventeen, the Hermes team called Henri into the pits first, his tires worn thin from his attempted overtakes.

My brother had never mastered the ability to conserve his tires.

Two laps later, it was my turn to veer off the track and into the pits.

I exited the pit lane clean, heart still pounding, only to see a bright purple streak fly past me. My heart sank as I watched the other Hermes driver pass me by.

Luca Rossi.

“Of course, I come out behind Luca,” I muttered under my breath.

Memories of last week’s tense battle flashed through my mind.

He’d refused to give up the racing line to me, a line that I’d clearly won, and his arrogance had sent him into the gravel, ending his race.

But now Luca was in front of me, and he was undoubtedly going to make me pay.

For an entire lap, I shadowed his every move, analyzing his trajectory, searching for weaknesses. But each time I lunged, he defended his line, refusing to let me by. Even if it wore down his tires.

“Asshole! We’re not even racing each other!” I screamed inside my helmet, glad the radio feed was off. Considering Luca had qualified in sixth place, he should have been more worried about saving his tires to battle it out with Lily and éliott—not me. Defending your position wasted lap time.

My attempts to overtake him at various corners were thwarted, but in a moment of slight misjudgment, Luca drifted too wide on a turn, giving me the inside line, and I was not going to back down. I braked late, turning in sharply forcing Luca to yield, which he wisely did.

Luca had learned his lesson: Georgia Dubois didn’t back down from fights, she won them.

Finally, after maneuvering through the other cars, I’d easily returned to first position, my car gripping the track with absolute perfection with my newer tires.

A second pit stop was completed with utter perfection, and by lap forty-nine, I’d put ten seconds between me and my brother, an excellent buffer.

My body tingled with adrenaline that sent a fire through me.

Imposter syndrome had been my biggest weakness this year, and after each lap, its grip on my heart was fading.

At the start of lap fifty, Mel popped on to the radio. “Yellow flag and safety car. Accident close to the pit entrance.”

“Shit! Just my luck to get a safety car this close to the end.”

Five races into the season, and Lady Luck never seemed to be on my side.

A restart with the safety car meant all the F1 cars would be forced back together, eliminating that beautiful ten-second gap between me and my brother.

All of the work from the first half of the race was down the drain.

With the yellow flag in play, the next five laps felt like utter agony as I drove behind the safety car, weaving as best I could in an attempt to keep my tire temperatures up.

For cars meant to go 200mph, driving this slow in a race was nearly impossible.

“Track is almost clear. Race is about to restart,” Mel announced.

Henri was right behind me now, probably singing his victory speech in his helmet. When it was safe to restart, I led the group of cars off again, but as I rounded the next corner, I felt my wheels spin, making me go wide. A rookie mistake.

“Fuck!” I yelled out as Henri’s car zoomed past mine, his tires hugging the track as he overtook me in one fell swoop. I knew I hadn’t kept my tires’ temperature up during the yellow flag, and cold tires were impossible to control.

There was no response from the team, and undoubtedly Mel was assessing the situation from the pit wall where my race engineer and leadership sat. My tires were wearing, and we couldn’t risk a blowout.

I drove behind Henri for another ten laps, and as I entered the penultimate lap, I was still trailing a second and a half behind my brother in second place.

Time was running out for me to catch up, and my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would break through at any moment.

This was Valkyrie F1’s first real opportunity to win a race, and with each passing second, that dream of being the first women-run team to win a Grand Prix was slipping from our grasp.

The jaws of defeat started to wrap around my heart, but I gripped the steering wheel harder, forcing the dread away.

Formula 1 champions didn’t give up, and come hell or high water, I was going to be this year’s F1 champion.

Isabelle’s voice came on the radio like a thunderclap. “Georgia, only one and a half laps to go. Fuck the tires. Punch it.”

Had my team principal just told me to fuck the tires? A staunch variation from the tough, determined, take-no-shit approach that she was known for, but I knew there wasn’t another option, not if I wanted to be on the podium’s top step.

If we’d all been thinking straight, Isabelle would have told me to play this safe. We shouldn’t be risking a puncture on used-up tires, not when P2 was full of valuable points. Points we desperately needed.

But we hadn’t come to Barcelona to place second. After dominating free practice and qualifying, we knew this was our race to win, and no man was taking this from me, especially not my brother, F1’s beloved golden boy.

I increased my pace, and after another turn, my window of opportunity appeared. Henri had made a mistake on the apex in front of me, his tires sliding slightly off the racing line, causing him to lose time.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I screamed. Half a second stood between me and Henri, and all I needed was to reach a passing zone where I could gain an advantage on his car. I flew past another corner and saw the next passing area come into view.

It was now or never. The flap on the wing of my car opened, and to my surprise, I easily flew past my brother’s Hermes car. The sheer speed of my Valkyrie in a straight line was unmatched, and the race lead was mine again.

“Final lap, G.” Mel’s voice was almost a whisper over the radio, and I knew the entire team was holding their breath while they watched. With no more laps remaining, there was nothing they could do but silently cheer me on.

I started the last lap, hitting the racing line with such ease I almost didn’t recognize myself while I defended another lunge from my brother’s car. As I rounded the final corner, the long-awaited checkered flag came into view.

“Come on, Georgia,” I whispered to myself, “you can do this.”

Focusing on the black and white cloth straight ahead of me, everything else faded away. The roaring of the crowd, the small hum of the radio feed—the world around me fell silent as I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline surge through my veins the moment the flag was behind me.

But this time was different. This time I had crossed the line first.

My radio was full of joyful yelling, but their words were fuzzy and muffled. I took a moment to look up at the large screens, watching my bright blue car on the grandstand TVs.

“Wh–what was th–that?” was all I could utter back as I heard distant screaming and cheering through the radio, the sound of the crowd roaring so overpowering that I couldn’t hear Mel’s voice.

Warm tears formed in my eyes, and I knew my body was registering my win, even if my brain was struggling to catch up.

Mel’s voice popped back on, and I finally felt the pent-up rush of tears trickle down my face, like a dam that had been blown wide open.

The sadness, the excitement, the fear that I had bottled up inside me came pouring out as all of the emotions that I had forced myself to hide since Valkyrie F1 Racing had signed me as their lead driver could finally be released.

I was the first woman to win a Formula 1 race in forty years.

Pulling into the pit lane, I turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, my knees sinking to the ground as I hugged my front left tire with all my might. My brother’s hand landed on my shoulder, and I could feel it vibrating from his excitement.

“Congrats, Peaches, I’m so damn proud of you!” my brother yelled over the roaring crowd, his voice almost completely drowned out by their deafening cheers. At hearing the affectionate nickname he’d given me when were young kids, I smiled back up at him.

Even though I had passed Henri on track in what I’m sure the media would deem a “tense battle between siblings,” I could see the look of love and happiness for me in his eyes as he grabbed me and pulled me towards him.

Henri knew what this meant for me, and when I’d joined F1 we’d made a deal: when the race ended, so did our rivalry.

Behind Henri I saw a familiar body emerge from the group of parked F1 cars. As soon as my brother saw his teammate, Luca Rossi, he let me go.

“Luca!” Henri frantically pointed at me. “We got another member of the F1 winners’ group!” Henri ignored the slight pinch I gave him.

Luca walked towards us, taking off his helmet before running his hands through his dark, wavy hair. His large brown eyes were red and full of exhaustion, but that didn’t stop a sly grin from inching onto his face.

“Congrats, Dubois.” He leaned in, the smell of his pine tree cologne was overwhelming.

His soft eyes and beaming grin might have fooled my brother, but I knew there wasn’t a bone in Luca’s body that was happy for me.

“See,” Luca motioned his arm towards the roaring crowd, “looks like you can win a race without bullying someone off the track.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice like poison from a fairy tale’s apple.

The nerve of this man. “For the last time—” I spat out, stepping into Luca’s space. Henri slipped between us, giving us both a wide-eyed, panicked look, a reminder that some discussions should be kept out of the public’s eye.

“For fuck’s sake, keep it together,” he hissed. Luca looked down at my brother, and then back at me, slapping on his infamous Cheshire cat grin as he patted me on the back in a move that felt more patronizing than praising.

Fucking prick.

“Ignore him. Let’s go celebrate,” Henri whispered, before leading me to the post-race weigh-in. Looking back, Luca was still standing there, his gaze locked on to mine with a silent glare that spoke volumes, and I knew this battle between us was far from over.

After a quick stop in the cooldown room, Henri and I were ushered to the podium celebration where bottle upon bottle of champagne was sprayed over both me and my race engineer, Mel, who had joined me as the winning team’s representative.

She was the first female racing engineer to stand on the podium, and I knew this was equally as special for her.

Mel had fought to be here just as much as I had, and for the first time in Formula 1 history, there were two women on the podium.

Drenched in champagne and smelling of sweat, I smiled back at Henri, giving him one last hug before running down the paddock and back to my team, who were waiting for me with more popped bottles of champagne and open arms.

“Congrats, Georgie. That’s P1, first place!

Well deserved!” Nora called out as she practically strangled the upper part of my body.

My media manager undoubtedly had the toughest job on the team, and yet she wore her assignment with the world’s bravest face.

The Formula 1 paddock could be on fire and Nora would still announce, “At least it’s warm in here! ”

“You know what I think this win deserves?” I chuckled, a little hint of mischief playing on my face, which I could tell Nora noticed by the slight arch of her brow.

“You still have to do media duties. Don’t even ask.”

Worth a try.

Win or lose, there was never a reprieve from the Lion’s Den—my affectionate name for our contractually obligated press conferences.

After every race, the top three drivers were forced into a special dog and pony show full of ruthless questions, lest we be fined thousands of pounds by the FIA, Formula 1’s governing body.

I glanced at Isabelle, the Valkyrie team principal, who flashed me a small smile as she casually waved, like we hadn’t just made history as the first women-run team to win a Formula 1 Grand Prix.

And yet in all my time of knowing her, Isabelle had smiled maybe three times, so I was honored that my race win was one of them.

“Alright, time to go show the media that you are the star we all know you to be!” Nora gave my shoulders a squeeze as she gently pushed me toward the garage’s exit, like she wasn’t convinced that I would attend the press conference without some coercion.

To be fair to her, if I could’ve gotten away with feigning an illness to get out of media duties, I would have.

Still, today I’d made history. We’d made history.

And for the first time, these journalists were going to have to acknowledge Valkyrie as a winning team. As championship contenders.

Or so we hoped.