Chapter Three
Georgia
After sixty-six laps of white-knuckle driving at intense speeds, I should have felt calm.
Steady. Triumphant. Instead, I was sitting in the center seat of the post-race press conference, gripping the edge like it might suddenly vanish beneath me.
Not because I doubted I’d earned this spot—but because I knew exactly what came next.
Sitting in this chair was symbolic, the winner in the middle flanked by second and third place, but it also came with being the center of attention, something I was definitely not used to.
Henri slid into the seat beside me with that insufferable mix of swagger and confidence, his face armed with a smug grin.
He shifted his eyes, and I knew he was tracking my breathing, noticing the steady four seconds between each one, an exercise my therapist had suggested before media obligations to help relieve the anxiety that always accompanied these events.
Like a gnat at a picnic, press conference anxiety always felt impossible to get rid of.
Henri leaned over, his voice just low enough not to carry. “You’ve got this, Georgia. Just grin and bear it, yeah? They’re not going to be too tough on the winner.”
“As long as they don’t ask me something stupid like ‘Should we have more women in racing?’ I’ll consider it a victory,” I grumbled. A crowd favorite from this group of journalists.
“Just keep it civil, please.” Henri shot me a warning look.
At the start of the season, the media had dubbed me “Sissy Dubois,” a somewhat rude but boring nickname referencing the fact that I was the sister of fan-favorite Henri Dubois.
By race three, I had become “Sassy Dubois”—which was definitely worse.
Apparently, correcting reporters during press conferences did not make you friends.
No one liked a know-it-all, especially not a female one.
I flashed my brother a small smirk, turning back to face the bright lights that were shining directly into my eyes as I fought to keep my breathing level. In. One. Two. Three. Four. Out. One. Two. Three. Four.
A hushed silence grew over the room, and a question broke me out of my breathing pattern.
Time for the vultures to descend.
“Georgia, congrats on your first win with the new Valkyrie F1 team. It must feel thrilling to be the first woman to win a Formula 1 race since 1980. How do you feel?”
It’s an easy one, Georgia, I reassured myself. After years of practicing this answer in the shower, this one I had locked down.
Ignoring my trembling hands, I answered, “Phenomenal.”
I spared a glance at Nora, who was standing at the back of the room, motioning with her left hand for me to continue as her right hand massaged her forehead in silent frustration.
More words, Georgia. I chastised myself. You’ve got a whole dictionary full of them.
But for some reason, getting them out was a near impossible task.
“Yeah, umm, it was… great.” More silence surrounded me. “Very… cool?” Hearing a low laugh next to me, a poorly hidden grin stretched across Henri’s face.
“Just cool?” the press officer prodded, his voice filled with amusement. “How lucky do you feel to finally have a race win?”
“Not lucky at all,” I said flatly. “I earned this win.” The journalist’s scrunched face told me he didn’t appreciate my dry tone, which was fine since I didn’t appreciate him implying that I’d won out of luck.
Deep down I knew what everyone wanted from me, from this press conference. They wanted a fairy tale. A teary monologue about how shocked and surprised I was that I’d finally won— that a woman had finally won in this man’s sport.
But I wasn’t shocked or surprised, and I definitely wasn’t lucky.
It was hard work from me and the team that pushed me over the finish line first. Night after night, I studied every inch of the circuit until I could drive it in my sleep.
I memorized every corner, every braking point, every curb down to the millimeter.
While Henri and the other drivers were out grabbing dinner or pranking each other, I was on my simulator at home or the office.
Thinking back to my pathetic media training, I swallowed the urge to scream, throwing on a big smile to help ease the awkwardness, but Nora’s wrenched face told me I’d failed.
She was standing at the back of the conference, her expression willing me to continue, but before I could muster another word, the journalist had already moved on.
“So, Henri, I saw you and Georgia had quite the battle at the end. How did it feel to be beat out by your sister?”
“It was great! Sorry… it was very cool!” Henri winked at me.
“My sister is an incredible driver, and that Valkyrie F1 car is fast as lightning, especially in a straight line. Disappointed I couldn’t keep up with her, but it’s hard to fight with that kind of talent.
Plus, I knew if Georgia beat me, I could guilt her into buying the drinks tonight, so it’s not all a loss.
” Henri smiled, earning himself a few laughs from the crowd.
Show-off. Press had always come easy to Henri.
After a few more engineering and strategy questions for my brother and the third-place driver, another hand shot up.
“We noticed after the race, Georgia, there was some tension with you and Luca Rossi. Are there still hard feelings after last week’s race?”
Of course they’d noticed. Just fucking great.
Taking a deep breath, I stared at the back of the room, willing myself not to say what I actually thought about Luca Rossi—that he was a sore loser with more excuses than podiums. That he’d blamed his failure on my “bullying” overtakes instead of owning the fact that he’d driven like a jackass.
But I didn’t have a legacy to fall back on. No famous father. No powerful name. No one was there to save my seat if I slipped up.
“We’re both professionals racing in the world’s most competitive motorsports championship.” My voice was astoundingly level for how heavily my blood pressure was racing. “Tensions can be high, but I’d like to think we can leave our track disputes on the track.”
A subtle dig. Sharp, but safe, and just under the threshold of what would have Isabelle hauling me into her office for one of her infamous lectures.
While Luca could sling around his complaints no problem, the one time I opened my mouth about his aggressive lunges, I had no less than five articles about my “whining”.
The big thumbs up from Nora gave my confidence a boost.
Another journalist cleared their throat.
“Georgia, I hear Valkyrie aren’t leaving for Miami until Tuesday.
Do you have any shopping plans for your day off tomorrow?
” I fought hard not to roll my eyes. Henri had spent ten minutes answering questions on suspension upgrades, but I’d managed to snag me a tried-and-true classic: a question about shopping.
“This is a race week, which means I’ll be back on the simulator tomorrow and studying the track all week.” I resisted the urge to add, “You know, professional athlete stuff.”
“Practicing all week? No minibreak after your well-deserved win?” The incredulous way he said well-deserved assured me he didn’t believe it.
If this were a race, the yellow flag would have just turned into a red one.
“I figured you would have a shopping spree organized or a photo shoot with a makeup brand?”
“Seriously?” I snapped. “Did you ask my male counterparts if they intend to spend their few precious days off before a Grand Prix shopping?” Heat bloomed on my cheeks. After five races, I could count how many engineering questions I’d been asked on both hands with fingers to spare.
“Well, you know—” Before Henri could finish his attempt to save me from myself, I cut him off.
“I’ve never raced in Miami. In fact, no one has raced this new track layout.
I need to focus every spare moment on learning it if we’re going to win next week.
If Valkyrie wants to win the championship, there’s no time for a day off.
Today’s win doesn’t mean that the championship fight is over; it means it’s just begun. ”
The journalist’s face looked as if I had just told him pigs could fly. Then, finally, he sat down. A wave of relief swept through me.
Almost done, Georgia.
Another hand shot up, and Michael Clifton, the F1 commentator, nodded for Frank, an Upland Media press officer, to ask his question.
“Georgia, congrats. So, tell me, now that you’re a race winner, I bet you’re beginning to see the World Driver’s Championship in your view.
Must be nice to be the first woman to win in several decades.
” My body immediately tensed, and I cautiously nodded, already knowing what was about to be thrown my way.
This was the intro I fucking hated before the question that I despised.
Please don’t ask it. Please don’t ask it, I silently begged to whatever God was listening, although based on how all of my press conferences had gone this season, I suspected I’d probably pissed Her off in a past life.
“Do you think it’s time to see more women in racing?” Ah, there it was.
My brother let out an almost inaudible gasp next to me, and I couldn’t help but smirk.
If there was one thing the journalists were good for, it was this question.
A full preseason and several races later, the men in the room never failed to softball this question with a patronizing grin, like they were just dying for me to say, “Actually, I think women should get back to the kitchen where they belong.” Notably, they never asked the other male drivers. Just me and my teammate Lily.
Unable to keep my frustration bottled up any longer, I let out the most exasperated sigh, matched only by my rather noticeable eye roll.