Chapter 3
My fingers are so shaky and clumsy that it takes three tries to get my shoes on.
“Did she say that you’re racing for sure?” Travis asks. He’s kneeling on the bedroom floor, digging through his suitcase.
“She just said that Clayton might need surgery, and that I had to get to track as soon as possible to get my seat fitted.”
“Sounds like you’re racing to me,” he says, holding out one of his sweaters.
“It’s still ninety degrees outside,” I point out.
“Yeah, and I’ve seen you shiver at noon on a beach.”
“It was cold that day!”
He grins. “Sure it was. Do you need anything else?”
“No.” I check my pockets. “I’ve got my wallet and my track pass and—oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“My luggage. It’s got all my race stuff in it, my shoes and gloves—”
“They’ll sort something out for you,” Travis says. “Don’t worry about it.” He studies my face. “You want me to come with you?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“You sure? I don’t mind walking you over.”
I smile. “I know you don’t. But I’ll be fine. And you need to sleep, you’ve got qualifying tomorrow.”
“Today, technically,” he says, nodding at the clock. “And so do you.”
“Yeah.” My heart skitters anxiously. “I guess I do.”
He steps closer and kisses me. “You’ll call me if you need anything?”
I nod. “I will.”
“Don’t be nervous,” he says.
“I’m not,” I reply.
I’m obviously lying. My fingers are cold with nerves as I ride the elevator down to the lobby. I shove my hands in the pockets of Travis’s sweater to try to warm them up, but it’s no use. They’re still icy as I step outside into the hot, humid air.
The city is dark and quiet, only a handful of people out on the streets this late at night.
Their voices are strangely muffled and distant, like I’m walking inside of a bubble, or maybe inside of a dream.
It would honestly make more sense if this were a dream.
I can’t really be racing in Formula 1 this weekend. That can’t possibly be real.
The pit building is eerily quiet, too, except for the Crosswire garage, where a handful of engineers and mechanics are waiting for me. They’re accompanied by an FIA official who’s there to make sure they don’t make any changes to Clayton’s car, which is absolutely forbidden after hours.
Sofia isn’t there—she’s still at the hospital with Clayton—but Samuel the mechanic fills me in on what happened.
It’s probably the least dramatic story I’ve ever heard.
Clayton was walking through the hotel lobby, tripped on a marble step, and fell on his outstretched arm.
He only went for an x-ray to prove to the team doctor it wasn’t broken, but sure enough, there was some weird fracture that has to be fixed with a minor surgery.
They think he’ll be fine to race Austin in two weeks, but he definitely won’t be driving his car this weekend.
I’ll be driving it, instead.
Within minutes of my arrival, the team gives me a spare race suit and race shoes to change into so they can start fitting my seat.
The shoes are a size too small, pinching my toes as I climb into Clayton’s car.
To fit the seat, they use this strange bag of pink foam that expands against my frame.
It takes nearly half an hour, and the foam gets so hot that tracks of sweat itch down my back, but I don’t dare shift an inch, in case I ruin the fitting.
When it’s done, the engineers whisk the foam away to magically turn it into a carbon fiber seat.
Usually, the process takes a few days, but they assure me they can put something together by six p.m. this evening, which is when FP3 is scheduled to start.
While someone else goes off to hunt for race shoes that might fit me better, Clayton’s race engineer, Cory, sits down with me to review the steering wheel.
An F1 car’s steering wheel has about twenty different buttons and knobs, all of which I’ll be expected to operate while driving two hundred miles an hour. The steering wheel on Crosswire’s factory sim is similar to the one on their current car, but different enough to make me nervous.
“Don’t worry about memorizing every little thing,” Cory says, when I ask him to go through all the settings for the third time. “Just focus on the most important things, and I can help you on the radio if you run into any trouble.”
“Right,” I say. “If we can maybe just go through the important stuff one more time—”
“Can I steal Jacob for a little while?” a voice cuts in. It’s Marcie, the team’s social media manager. “We have to get some photos done if we want things printed in time.”
“Of course.” Cory rises to his feet.
“Any chance I can take that wheel home with me?” I ask.
“It costs about eighty thousand dollars,” he says.
“Oh. Er—better not, then.”
He chuckles at the look on my face. “Don’t sweat it, Jacob. You’re going to be fine.”
“No, for sure,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
I am seriously such a liar. And now that the initial adrenaline rush has faded, my exhaustion is starting to weigh me down again.
I spend half an hour smiling awkwardly for the team’s professional cameraman, then another half an hour signing paperwork with the scary legal people, then Sofia arrives from the hospital, takes one look at my face, and orders me to go home.
I stumble back to the hotel in a daze and collapse in bed beside Travis. The last thing I remember is his arms wrapping around me, pulling me back into the warmth of his frame.
When I wake up, it’s half past two in the afternoon. My limbs are heavy and warm under the sheets, and for a few bleary minutes, I have absolutely no idea where I am. Then I roll over and see the Marina Bay Sands’ towers peeking through the curtains, and my heart gives a huge, giddy leap.
Holy shit.
I’m racing in F1 today.
Travis is already gone, but he’s left a note on the nightstand that says “See you at the track xx.” He must have ordered room service for breakfast—I’m not sure how I slept through that—and he’s left me a plateful of fruit and pastries.
I make myself a coffee from the machine in the living room, then I curl back up in bed to eat.
When I swipe open my phone, there are forty-nine missed texts.
I scroll through them swiftly to make sure none are from Sofia or Cory, but they’re all just messages wishing me luck for the weekend.
Most of them are from people I work with at the Crosswire factory, but there are messages from some of my old racing friends, too, and from Kelsie and Nate.
That must mean the news that I’m racing this weekend has gone public.
Sure enough, when I search “F1 news,” the first five articles are about Clayton and me, with headlines like “Nichols to replace Clayton for Singapore GP” and “Former F2 driver Nichols set to race for first time since tragic crash.”
It's kind of eerie seeing my name in news articles, and Instagram is even weirder. I’ve been tagged in about a hundred posts, and I’ve got nearly three hundred message requests.
Most of them are just random strangers wishing me luck, but it’s the internet, so some of them are really bizarre.
A girl with the username “futuremrsclayton” says that if I think I’m going to steal Clayton’s seat, I’ve “lost my tiny mind,” and some guy’s sent a message that says, “if u crash again try to kill mahony this time.”
Weirdos.
I close out of the app without responding to anyone, and text replies to Kelsie and Nate while I eat three pastries and a bowl of fruit. Then I take a shower, dress in some of Travis’s clothes, and head out.
It’s so hot it’s like stepping into a sauna, the sun blindingly bright in a clear blue sky.
I hum absently while I walk, marveling at how calm and steady I feel.
I’m definitely nervous, but it’s the good kind of nervous.
I’ve got an hour of FP3 to get to grips with the car, and it’s not like I’m expecting to get pole in qualifying afterward.
My secret goal is P3, which would prove to Sofia that I’m at least as good as Clayton, but honestly, I’ll be happy just to crack the top ten.
Realistic expectations, that’s what I’m going in with.
My old therapist Amanda would be so proud of me.
I’m thinking about sending her a text when a bright voice calls my name. It’s a young girl standing just outside the paddock gates, dressed in Crosswire colors. “Good luck this weekend, Jacob!” she says.
I smile at her and give a little wave of thanks. As she holds out her baseball cap for me to sign, nearby heads start to turn toward us. Then a guy hollers, “Yo, it’s Jacob Nichols!” and I’m completely engulfed by a crowd.
I’ve seen it happen to Travis and Matty, but neither of them ever mentioned how overwhelming it is.
Two seconds ago, I was walking alone, unrecognized.
Now, there are a hundred phones pointed at me, and people are shoving hats and t-shirts into my hands.
I’m jostled from side to side as people sling their arms around me to take selfies, and one guy is trying to get a chant going, yelling “Crosswire! Crosswire!” loud enough to split my eardrums.
I’m close enough to the gates that security sees what’s happening and comes to my rescue, but it’s still a full minute before they can extricate me from the crowd.
I try to keep a smile on my face, scribbling my name on things at random and saying, “Thanks, thank you” to everyone wishing me luck, but my heart is pounding hard by the time I’m finally free of them, and a shaky breath escapes me as I swipe my pass to get into the paddock.
On the other side of the gate, about fifty reporters are waiting for me, flashing rapid pictures and calling out, “Jacob! Over here!”