Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
As I stand in the open door of the track-side Ignition garage, watching a Union Jack flag wave far above the jam-packed Silverstone Circuit, my ears start to ring.
Funnily enough, getting a single hint that Formula 1 might not be the safest thing in the universe is making me jumpy. A certain type of person lives in D.C.; self-important lobbyists, NDA-clad federal workers, pastel-pants consultants, and my camp, drawn to document the blood. Putting your all into your job is normal to me. Losing sleep over it, losing friends.
But car crashes? A high-speed accident that alters your life trajectory—then you get back in the car?
Damn.
Also, Delaney had been correct: the grandstands are full, people are everywhere, and the noise is overwhelming. There’s fans yelling, music playing, and people all over this garage, a mosh pit of Ignition polo shirts and headsets. Really, calling this screen-covered room a “garage” instead of “mission control” feels wrong. Engineers helm every keyboard, technicians pass blanket-wrapped tires, mechanics circle like sharks. Earlier, Arthur’s car was in here, and that’s when I started to feel truly anxious. A Formula 1 car is not like a regular car. It’s waspish but also shockingly big, all four tires and the cockpit exposed, the body too close to the ground for comfort. It’d taken three people on either side to push it, with another man in front and a woman guiding the dramatically flared rear wing. Seeing Arthur climb into it had made me seasick.
For once, he’d looked… well, not small, but like just an orange helmet in a great big orange car. That’s my view of him now as he waits in the pit lane so he can go out there and, I hate to say it, drive really super fast.
“Out of the box,” someone snaps, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re talking to me. I nod, hold my camera to my stomach, and navigate to a spot deeper into the garage. Ignition didn’t receive permission for me to film closer to the track, with the other purple-outfitted media folks, from the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile—aka the FIA. Though Sarah had promised, Footage from the garage will be just as fun!
I don’t notice I’m next to Cameron until he leans over from his computer screen—by far the biggest in here—and shoots me a lazy smile. “Ready for your first Quali?”
“Um. Yes.” I bite my lip. “Shouldn’t you be busy?”
“I am busy.” He looks back at his screen, reads something, then back to me. “Remember how this works?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
Cameron motions to my camera, cutting me off. “Quali on Saturday determines the order of the race on Sunday,” he tells the lens. “Fastest driver gets pole position—that’s the best spot up front. There are three sessions, knockout style, with the slower drivers eliminated as we go. Drive a fast lap, move on. Got it?”
“Got it.” No wonder Arthur had been in a good mood earlier. He gets to drive as fast as he’d like, surrounded by cheering fans.
“Here.” Cameron grabs a spare headphone set from his desk. “This’ll let you hear Arthur and me. We should be the only two on the radio, as long as Holmes doesn’t butt in.”
“Wait, the team principal can also—”
“Hold on.” He holds up two fingers, pausing me, listening to his headphones. “Sorry. Gotta go. Oh, and this.” He pulls a can of ginger ale out of thin air. “It’ll settle your stomach. My first race made me throw up.”
I smile, taking my gifts, and don’t bother pointing out that he was probably eleven at the time. After finding the only open chair in a back corner, I slip the headphones over my ears, ignore the uncomfortable pressure nipping at my glasses, and blink.
It’s… quiet.
Blissfully, perfectly quiet. Gone is the noise from the crowd and the music and the staff, canceled out completely by the headphones, leaving me with only Cameron’s and Arthur’s voices.
“How are you doing?” Cameron asks.
“God, it feels good,” Arthur replies, and it sounds like he’s saying that right into my ear. Slightly disoriented by that particular sensation, I shift my camera until it’s braced against my shoulder, then point the lens at Cameron’s back. The shot’s okay. Frames him nicely with the screen.
“It’s good to be back in the garage,” Cameron continues. “Life-affirming.”
“Try being back in a car,” Arthur laughs.
They talk like an old married couple. It’s kind of adorable. But then a deeper whine cuts through the headphones, the noise ricocheting off the grandstands, buildings, garage. The first car is out on the track. My eyes find a screen that shows a more aerial view of the pit lane, and I lock on to the image of Arthur’s dark orange single-seat car purring as he waits for his moment—his number 9 painted in white across the car’s angular nose, a praying mantis of an automobile.
“Think now’s the time,” Cameron says. “Ready?”
“Born,” Arthur answers.
Hold on , I think. This isn’t really happening. Arthur can’t compete in a race. He won’t take it seriously enough. He’s too much of a risk taker. This can’t be safe for him, or the mechanics, or any of the other drivers who are already out there, driving too fast for my liking—
Arthur’s out of the pit lane, and then his car springs forward so quickly that it rips the breath out of my lungs. I’ve never seen anything move that fast in my entire life. It’s like it vanishes out of existence.
No, not it. Him .
Out of nowhere, any remaining idea that I understand Arthur is whisked into the dirty air, left behind in his wake. That isn’t the snarky, temperamental man that I’ve argued with. That’s—he’s someone else. From behind the lens, I watch as Arthur guns each straight shot like a stallion down a single field of grass, barely braking enough to take the corners, the red light on the back of his car blinking off and on. I keep the camera on his spot on the screen around and around and around—and I get it, then. Why he’d asked me when the last time I felt alive was, on the first day we met, when I’d said Formula 1 is only about going fast.
Today, out there. In the car, in front of packed grandstands, on live TV.
Arthur isn’t just breathing or existing.
He’s alive.
Perhaps being addicted to this level of adrenaline isn’t healthy, but then he starts another, quicker lap, and he’s moving faster than a human being was ever meant to move. It must feel like a trade-off. He was already born into fame and chaos; if he goes fast enough, he can outrun that feeling, leave it in the dust. For a Formula 1 driver, physically outrunning your emotions might be possible.
An excited voice I don’t recognize fills my headphones. I think it’s somehow an announcer. “A whopping start from King as he’s back in the driver’s seat for Ignition Energy Drink Racing! Note here how Bianco’s on softs on this fresh Silverstone Circuit. It’s an audacious move from one of our favorite audacious drivers.”
Audacious? I lean forward, camera following, my pulse pounding. “In front of King is Jean Baudelaire for Leone Racing, and see how quickly Bianco is catching up to that honey-gold Leone lion,” the announcer buzzes. “We knew King would come out attacking, but if he catches up to his old teammate too fast, they both might end up in the grass.”
What? He’s right next to the gold blur on the screen.
“Don’t get too cocky,” Cameron says. His voice has switched tones from earlier. This Cameron is all concentration.
But then there’s Arthur, his short rumbling words in my ears. “We’ll see.” His voice is different, too. Concentrated and tight.
“Take Maggotts and Becketts like you want to live until tomorrow.”
There isn’t time to wonder what Cameron means. Arthur’s car blows through a series of stomach-swooping bends in the circuit. “Fine,” Cameron says. “That wasn’t bad.”
Arthur laughs breathily. “Thanks.”
“Uh-huh. Back to the road.”
“Aye-aye.”
Their voices melt into background noise as I follow Arthur from screen to screen, around each corner and bend and the horrible straights where he drives faster than thoughts can form, the sweet smell of chemicals and burning rubber enveloping the garage. Logically, I believe the engineer I overheard earlier who said that the first Qualifying session is only eighteen minutes long. But in this moment, I don’t know how that’s possible. Time loses its shape as Arthur drives the miles-long circuit in a minute and thirty seconds, a minute twenty-nine—setting aggressively fast lap after aggressively fast lap.
“Oh, look at that lap time, ladies and gentlemen. With Q1 drawing to a close, it’s a minute-twenty-eight-second go-around for the King, and the best time of anyone out there yet. The prodigal son of Formula 1 is back!”
My headphones buzz. The announcer is talking, and Cameron and Arthur are back, and the driver scoreboard shuffles rapidly as the last cars finish. But I’m buzzing, too, my heartbeat hammering like a mile-high metronome. Beyond the open garage door and the long, wide circuit, fans are screaming in the grandstands, as tiny and Technicolor as spilled ice-cream sprinkles through my camera lens. When Arthur returns to the “box,” the mechanic next to me jumps to her feet, clapping, yelling.
I barely hear her.
This will be the beginning of the documentary. My opening sequence. There’s an entire story in this camera footage: a hero’s comeback, the tenacity of a young man, the roaring public who power his journey. And it’s happening in England, the country where Arthur was born. Because this isn’t only a movie about Arthur’s behind-the-scenes business drama. It’s about the man in the car and the man outside the car and the people, all of us, watching the cars, watching him win. Arthur will be my allegory. I can show the different sides of Formula 1 through him, the frightening, the masculine, the exhilarating. The addictive, even.
We might actually do this. Arthur and I’s movie might actually be amazing.
When I hear his voice again, he’s sharp and breathless and as excited as I am.
“Did she really watch that?” Arthur asks.
Cameron’s shoulders stiffen. There’s a longer pause than usual, just enough time for me to dissolve.
She.
Who’s she?
Arthur can’t mean me—wouldn’t, since I’m clearly watching, I’m hired to watch him—but then there’s what he’d said in Texas about us, the inevitable suspicions—about wanting someone despite disliking them—and I haven’t thought about it since then, so ridiculous, but it’s how he said it, his tone, really watch that , it almost sounded like—“Who do you mean?” Cameron says after a second. “The doc crew? Or—”
“No,” Arthur cuts him off. “Not… Never mind.”
My pulse flutters distractingly. My camera keeps rolling. There’s another Qualifying session. Then another.
None of that distracts me from that one word.
No . No, not the doc crew, no, not me.
No, there’s someone else Arthur wants to watch him.
Once all three sessions are said and done, Cameron excitedly tells Arthur that he’s “on pole” for tomorrow, and I should care about that, really. I shouldn’t be wishing that the noise cancellation on my headphones would last forever so I couldn’t hear the Ignition garage explode with joy as my throat twists into a knot. I should open up Cameron’s ginger ale. I should…
She.
This isn’t a total surprise. Sure, he hasn’t mentioned having a girlfriend—but Arthur isn’t the girlfriend type. And okay, right, any other subject might’ve mentioned a serious partner while I’ve been filming them, but it isn’t like this is a normal documentary.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I’m not upset. I’m just… When he’d said people would think he was interested in me, I’d almost believed him. No one would think that. No one has for all these weeks. And it’s not like I want him to be, obviously. I don’t. But why had he tried to convince me it was possible?
Why does he lie so often?
I’m grateful I have my camera to hide behind as I march past Cameron and the mechanics to the post-Qualifying media pen. One by one the drivers walk in, some smiling, some not. When Arthur appears, grinning and excited and pushing his sweaty blond hair from his face, I tune in to camera mode. Just a pair of eyes. Impartial. Unbiased.
But my body is warm, and I don’t want to hear him talk, but I do, and this is such great footage. The camera loves him. I don’t know why that isn’t making me feel better.
The journalists ask their questions. It’s filler, cute stuff about how he’s liking England and how he feels about the race tomorrow, etcetera, etcetera. A smaller woman in a polished gray suit appears at the barricade with a microphone. “Good afternoon, Arthur, just one question for you. I was wondering, how does it feel to prove everyone wrong?”
Laughter ripples behind me, and with fizzling discomfort, I realize fans have gathered behind me to watch Arthur speak. “Fucking great,” Arthur says with a devilish grin. “Ah— dang. Sorry. That’ll be a fine, huh?”
“Probably.” The journalist laughs. “My name’s Katie, by the way.”
“Katie,” Arthur repeats. “Gorgeous name. Thanks for watching today.”
“Always. I always watch you race.”
“Well, then.” His smile compresses into a laser just for her. “Thanks for always watching.”
The fans behind me lose it, obviously amused by the Arthur Charms Women show. Great. Fantastic. Must be a regular occurrence. Maybe Arthur doesn’t even have one secret girlfriend that I don’t know about. He could have multiple, a list, including any media personalities he doesn’t immediately hate upon meeting, like me.
When the journalists pack up, I hurry to leave with them, the nonsensical pit beneath my feet growing wider with every nauseating moment. “Hey,” I hear behind me as I shove my camera in my bag. “Graywood. You all right?”
I don’t turn around. That’s why I don’t see, only feel Arthur taking the back of my elbow, his grip warm against my skin. We’re by a back door, but there are people around, and I yank my arm away from him and mutter through my teeth, “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t,” Arthur says, concerned but not totally unhappy. Slightly plussed, let’s call it. “We have the same schedule tonight.”
“I said, I need to go.”
“But we need to chat. Big updates going on.”
His playfulness makes me suck in a breath. “Can you be serious?”
“I am.”
I jerk my eyes up to meet his and I catch it again, Arthur’s cologne, carbonated and sweet and— that’s his scent. He smells like the chemical fumes from the track, toxic and honeyed, bad for you as you breathe them in. When I place it, the frustration that’s been building inside of me goes from a splinter in my finger to the entire forest falling over.
“I get it,” I snap. “You’re handsome and talented and famous so you can usually do whatever you want, but it’s not actually great to be around on, like, a human level. We need to be on the same page! And I’m trying really hard here to not ruin my career because of you, so you can’t just come up and grab me in front of half the sports journalists in Europe whenever you feel like it.”
“You…” Arthur takes a step back from me. Swallows. “You’re mad.”
Another cutting realization from Arthur Bianco. Choosing silence, I zip my bag shut and swing it over my tired shoulder. Professionalism. Detachment. Not friends, only enemies with the same enemy. Max’s words from our fight in Glory Run simmer in my memory: You never let anything go.
Time to prove him wrong.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say with saintly restraint. “And please remember to not touch me without my permission.” Would hate to give anyone the wrong idea , I almost add.
I’m two steps away from the door when Arthur catches up. Probably took him a single giant footstep. “Are you—are you jealous?”
My stomach clenches like a fist and I swallow back something metallic and harsh. “No. Of course not.”
“You”—his voice drops—“seem jealous.”
“I’m not jealous that you called another woman gorgeous.”
“I called her name gorgeous.”
“Katie? Was she the first Katie you’d ever met?”
Arthur laughs. “It doesn’t mean any—”
“Save it. You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” I interject. “Go apologize to whoever she is.”
He exhales, a sudden gust of air, as I grab the door handle. “Lilah. You were listening to the radio? Hey, Graywood. Stop.”
I nearly do. Then I wrench the door open, step through, and let it go.