Chapter 6
As Travis and I walk back through the paddock, a bright voice calls, “Jacob!”
My muscles tense up as I look around, half-expecting to see another one of my father’s awful colleagues. Instead, I find a smiling girl with long red hair.
“Anne!” I say. “Long time.”
“You, too. How’ve you been?”
“Good, really good. Oh, sorry—this is my boyfriend, Ben.” She touches the arm of the guy standing with her, a tall, athletic-looking guy with a friendly smile.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking my hand.
“You, too,” I reply. “This is my—this is Travis. Travis Keeping, I mean.”
Smiling politely, Travis shakes Ben and Anne’s hands.
“We actually met once, a couple of years ago,” Anne tells him. “It was at that party Jacob threw in his hotel room in Austria.”
“Oh, right,” Travis says. “I remember that.” He glances sideways at me, his eyes crinkling at the edges. That party was the first night he and I ever spent together. “Your brother was there, too, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, Oliver.”
“Is he here this weekend?” I ask.
“No, he’s back home. Probably green with envy, watching you race.
” She smiles at my Crosswire suit. “We came with friends of ours.” She gestures to two guys standing nearby, taking pictures of one of the old F1 cars Torrent Racing has out on display.
One of them is a really tall, handsome guy who makes me think of a Californian surfer, the other is a bit shorter, with dark hair and pale skin.
“They’re both volleyball players, like Ben,” Anne says.
“We all play in the Italian league,” Ben adds.
“That’s cool,” I say. “I know absolutely nothing about volleyball.”
Ben laughs. “You probably know more about it than I do about racing. We went to the races in Silverstone and Zandvoort over the summer, but I guarantee Anne will still have to explain everything to us during qualifying.”
“You guys should watch from the Crosswire garage,” Travis suggests.
“Absolutely,” I agree. Then I add, under my breath, “Am I allowed to do that?”
Travis shrugs. “Why not?”
“That’d be so fun!” Anne says. “I mean, if you’re sure it’s okay.”
“I can definitely ask,” I say. “We’re heading there now, if you want to come with us.”
“I’ll go get the guys,” Ben says. “I apologize in advance for Trevor. He’s definitely going to hit on one or both of you.”
Anne laughs and says, “Jonathan will keep him in check,” while I try to stop myself staring after Ben like an idiot.
I glance at Travis, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual.
He doesn’t even blink when Ben returns with Jonathan and Trevor, who are very clearly a couple.
They aren’t holding hands or anything, but they smile at each other every ten seconds, and every other story Trevor tells us starts with “we.” “We flew in yesterday” and “We’re staying at that cool hotel with the boat on top of it” and “We live an hour outside of Florence, in Tuscany.”
“I’d love to go to Tuscany,” Travis says, as we walk through the paddock.
“Same,” I agree. “I’ve been to Florence a couple of times, but I never made it out of the city.”
“You should come stay with us,” Trevor says. He has an easy sort of confidence that reminds me of Matty. “Jonathan’s done the guest bedroom up all fancy.”
“You can’t invite people you just met to stay at your house, Trevor,” Ben says.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s psychotic, that’s why.”
Travis laughs. “We’d love to visit. This is me,” he adds, as we reach the Harper garage. “Nice to meet you all. Jacob, you’re good to show them the way from here?”
His voice is casual, but he catches my eye when he says it, another question in his gaze.
It takes me a moment to answer him. I’m still thinking about We’d love to visit. Such a casual “we,” like the ones Trevor and Jonathan use.
I grin at him stupidly. “I’m good. See you after.”
He smiles back and squeezes my arm before he leaves. As he walks away, Trevor says, “Damn, well done,” like he’s complimenting me for landing such a catch.
Ben saves me from coming up with a response by smacking the back of Trevor’s head. “For fuck’s sake, Trevor.”
“What?”
“You can’t just assume people are dating.”
“Yes, I can. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
“I mean you shouldn’t,” Ben says. “Sorry, Jacob.”
“Yeah, sorry for complimenting you on your sexy boyfriend, Jacob,” Trevor says.
My cheeks are warm, but I laugh. “It’s okay. We’re kind of—keeping it quiet, though.”
Trevor mimes locking his mouth with a key. “I won’t say a word.”
“Ever again?” Ben says hopefully.
“He seems really nice, Jacob,” Anne says.
“Yeah,” I say. “He is.”
She and I smile at each other, and Ben and Trevor bicker some more, and then we’re at the Crosswire garage.
I step away to ask Cory if it’s okay for them to watch from the back of the garage, where there’s a space reserved for family members and celebrities.
My heart aches in a good kind of way as I watch Marcie usher them to the very front row, right where my father’s douchebag friends probably hoped they would be.
Anne gives me a thumbs up and mouths, “You’ve got this. ”
I smile and turn my attention to Cory. He’s got a bunch of data pulled up for me to look at, and this time, I don’t feel overwhelmed at all. Qualifying starts in less than an hour, and I plan on putting on a good show.
Travis makes us all look like idiots in Q1.
Qualifying is what determines the starting lineup for the race, and in Formula 1, it’s divided into three sections.
First, in Q1, everyone has eighteen minutes to set their best lap time, and the slowest five drivers are eliminated.
The remaining fifteen drivers go onto Q2, where the five slowest drivers are cut after fifteen minutes, then the top ten go on to battle for position in Q3.
What everyone wants, especially here in Singapore, is to start on the front row of the grid.
The race has been won from pole position for four of the last five years.
If Q1 is anything to go by, Travis will be taking that spot. He’s seven tenths—seven tenths—faster than anyone at the end of the session. Mahoney is second fastest, while I wind up eighth. The track doesn’t feel any different than it did in FP3, but I can’t seem to find the same speed.
I chew on my lip as I sit in the garage, waiting for Q2 to start. I don’t feel panicked or nervous, just thoughtful. This is a big part of my job back at Crosswire. I run tests on the sim, review data, look for ways to improve.
The problem, I realize, as I pull into the pit lane to start Q2, is me.
I’m driving tired. I was so worked up in FP3, so full of adrenaline, that I could ignore the sweltering heat and the ache in my muscles.
Now that I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m making subconscious decisions to give my body a break, taking corners a hair more slowly, giving the track walls a bit more berth.
Dumbass, I chide myself as I pull out onto track.
I do the exact opposite this time, throwing my car into every corner, pushing its limits, gauging my success by how much my neck aches.
I brush the wall twice, just enough to scrape a bit of paint off, and as the track ramps up, I find more and more time, finishing the session in third with a very respectable 1:29:60. Mahoney is in second, with a 1:29:54.
Travis puts in a 1:28:80.
I have absolutely no idea how he does it.
I can ask him, later tonight, but I doubt he’ll be able to tell me.
Travis likes listening to music and running through tracks in his mind before races, but that’s the entirety of his process.
Data mostly bores him, he views sim time as a chore, and a couple of months ago, someone posted a funny montage of his race radio, with his race engineer Freddie asking for feedback on the car and Travis responding with a slew of one-word answers, “good” and “bad” and “meh” and “fine.” He doesn’t overthink things, Travis. He just gets in his car and flies.
I start Q3 knowing in my bones that I can’t beat him. Maybe someday, if I land an F1 seat and get more experience, but not tonight, not on a single lap.
Mahoney, though. I’ve got him in my crosshairs.
My first flying lap is alright, only a 1:29:90, but the track is ramping up as more rubber is laid down, and when I set off again after a brief stop in the pits for a fresh set of soft tires, I can tell right away that it’s going to be magic.
Everything clicks into place, and I fly around track like the car is on rails.
Sweat pours from my skin, and my muscles actually shake with exhaustion and effort, but when I cross the finish line, I’m smiling so hard it makes my head ache.
“That’s provisional pole, Jacob,” Cory says in my ear. “Incredible lap, really great work.”
I laugh aloud, bright and happy, even though I know I might not hold onto it for long. Mahoney will be finishing his final flying lap any second now, and Travis, too.
“And Mahoney P3,” Cory says.
Yes. Yes.
I actually did it. I outqualified Mahoney.
I wait for the inevitable, for Cory to tell me Travis has taken pole. Instead, thirty seconds later, his voice comes through again. “And that’s P1. Pole position, Jacob. Absolutely brilliant lap, really well done.”
I can hear people in the Crosswire garage clapping in the background.
“Really?” I say hoarsely.
“Really,” he confirms. He keeps talking, telling me where I’m supposed to drive to and what settings he needs on the car, but I’m only half-listening.
I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.
“What about Travis?” I ask.
“P2,” Cory answers. “Track limits on his second lap.”
My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
“Yes. So, when you pull up, let’s kill the engine, then wait five seconds and switch fully off—”
I pull up in front of the “1” flag and do as he says, my mind still reeling.
It’s not like Travis to screw up on a final quali lap.
I know it’s possible—as much as I tease him about being a robot, he’s human like the rest of us, and capable of making mistakes—but it seems more likely that something went wrong with the car.
Or maybe it’s Cole Milton’s fault, somehow. That would make much more sense.
I take off the steering wheel, climb out of the car and put the steering wheel back in.
I’m distantly aware of the crowd cheering, and cameras flashing, and Mahoney pulling his car up in front of the “3” flag, but I think I’m still in shock, because it doesn’t quite feel real, like everything around me is a scene playing on a TV screen.
I come back to myself when I see the Crosswire crew waiting for me behind the barriers.
They’re clapping and hollering, and Sofia is with them, standing a bit at the back with an appraising sort of smile on her face.
Grinning, I jog toward them and let them hammer me on the back and on the top of my helmet.
Mahoney joins the celebrations, congratulating me and shaking my hand, then I follow him back toward the cars, to the boxes where we can take off our helmets.
I’m fumbling with my helmet strap when someone steps close and squeezes my shoulder. I know that it’s Travis even before I look up, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to throw myself into his arms.
Instead, I grip his hand as hard as I can and beam at him under my helmet.
“You did it,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It was that dog!” I can actually hear the smile in his voice.
“You’re joking.”
He laughs. “No, I swear. It ran straight across the track, I almost binned it swerving out of the way.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy,” he agrees. Then he squeezes my shoulder again, tightly, and steps away to take off his helmet.
With effort, I make myself turn away from him to do the same. A woman with an FIA badge appears and helpfully points me to the scale to get weighed while Travis goes to celebrate with the Harper folks who are waiting for him.
While Mahoney is interviewed by James Riley, Travis drifts toward me again, standing close enough that our shoulders briefly touch. There are cameras trained on both of us, so I stop myself from smiling at him stupidly and ask instead, “How’d Matty do?”
He takes a swig from his water bottle. “P9, I think.”
I stifle a wince. That’s really not great.
“He’ll get it back,” Travis says loyally.
“Yeah, for sure,” I agree.
Travis is waved forward for his interview.
He hands me his water bottle to hold, and I almost take a drink from it before remembering that might look odd.
Then I almost do it anyway. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so thirsty in my life.
I can’t wait to strip out of my sweaty race suit and chug a glass of ice water.
A whole pitcher of it, actually. And maybe a second one to dump over my head.
“Travis Keeping!” James Riley says, as Travis steps up to the camera. “That was quite the session. You were on pace for pole position until that dog ran across track. Tell us what happened.”
“A dog ran across track,” Travis says. The crowd laughs appreciatively.
On the big screen behind Travis, they’re playing a replay of his last lap, and sure enough, the same white dog from FP3 darts directly in front of him, missing death by a foot.
He has to swerve way off track to avoid it, invalidating his lap.
James chuckles. “I meant, is there anything you could have done to avoid it, anything you could have done differently?”
“I guess I could have kept driving straight and run over it,” Travis says. “But I’m not a total sociopath.”
Another laugh from the crowd.
“But will you feel that way if it comes to the end of the season, and you lose the championship by seven points?” James says.
He’s only joking, and Travis laughs, but I feel a weird prickle on the back of my neck when he says it, and my stomach does a queasy little flip.
“What do you make of Jacob Nichols getting pole position in his first ever qualifying?” James asks.
Travis grins at me, and the weird feeling vanishes, replaced by a flood of warmth.
“Impressive,” he says.
The word shivers through me, deep and curling.
James thanks Travis for his time and waves me forward, and a distant part of me registers the roar of the crowd and the echo of my voice as I do my best to answer James’s questions.
But most of my brain is still hearing Travis say “Impressive,” and counting down the minutes until I can get him alone.