Chapter 2
Every molecule of air whooshes out of my lungs. I grab Roz’s arm for support. “Is that really Dietrich Lange?”
She giggles. “I knew you would lose it.”
“Big fan?” Cameron arches a single eyebrow, a trick I’ve never been able to master.
I’m not surprised to see other heads swiveling toward Dietrich as he enters the party.
Britt Perkins swoops toward him like a VIP vulture, trailed by a bevy of our sponsors, identifiable by the fact they’re all well-dressed men in their mid-fifties who look like they can’t tell petro fuel from axel grease.
“He’s kind of cute, no?” Roz says.
“What do you mean, ‘kind of’?” The blond-haired, blue-eyed Orbital driver is drool worthy in an all-American boy-next-door kind of way. If all-American boys next door were German F1 champions, but that’s beside the point.
If I play my cards like Dietrich, I could kill it in F3 this season, prove myself to Orbital, and get a seat for F2, then F1 the year after… maybe even win a championship before twenty, like he did.
My breath hitches. So many years of junior karting and dreaming about the future, and now it’s here staring me right in the face. It’s exciting and frightening and overwhelming all at once.
“Right, ladies, I reckon this is my cue.” Cameron downs the cup of beer in his hand. He’s technically underage, too, but no one on this side of the ocean seems to care about young people drinking. “I’ll see you at testing this weekend?”
I acknowledge him with a perfunctory nod, too focused on figuring out how I’m going to worm my way into the wall of people around Dietrich to introduce myself.
“Rosalyn, there you are.” A voice booms over us.
Lou Wilson, Roz’s uncle. He’s the owner of Orbital Racing, as well as the entire parent conglomerate. He’s someone who, when it comes to cards that determine my future, holds a royal flush.
I stand up straighter. I’ve only met Lou Wilson once, for about ten seconds, to pose for a cheesy staged photo showing him welcoming Orbital’s first female driver.
I really would’ve rather just done the regular photo shoot like all the other drivers, but PR it was supposed to scream “up-and-coming driver with lots of potential.”
Clearly not.
“Mmm.” Lou nods blandly, looking like he’d rather sample the caviar blinis than meet me halfway in my attempt to resuscitate our conversation.
Before we can verbally limp on, Britt Perkins pops up to his right. “Lou, it’s time.”
“Be right there.” He stuffs a lamb lollipop into his mouth. “Enjoy yourself, Rosalyn,” he says, then walks away without a second glance at me.
I sigh and take an extra-large sip of my watermelon seltzer. So much for impressing him. It’s bad enough Lou Wilson can’t tell me apart from a cocktail server; it’s downright devastating he didn’t bother apologizing for his mistake. I’m that much of a nonentity to Orbital.
“Excuse me, everyone, may I have your attention?” Lou taps into a handheld mic.
The hubbub dries to whispers, dregs of conversation wrapping up as all eyes pivot to the Big Boss.
Lou clears his throat. “We’re pleased to welcome everyone to Orbital’s kickoff for the racing season.
Today we have with us our F1 drivers, as well as our junior drivers.
We’re proud that among this group we not only have the reigning F1 champion, who came up through Orbital’s very own academy”—Lou pauses as cheers and claps burst from the guests—“but we also have a diverse group of young drivers in the pipeline.”
At the D-word Cameron, along with countless others, gives me the side-eye. The afternoon sun filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling steel-reinforced windows suddenly feels stifling. I tug at the edge of my starchy collar.
Lou continues on, “At Orbital, we fashion talent for the future. As part of this initiative, I’m happy to announce the launch of our mentorship program.
Each of our young drivers in F2 and F3 will be paired with one of our two F1 drivers for individual coaching.
We hope this will provide hands-on guidance to our juniors as they seek success. ”
“Did Lou seriously say I’ll be getting an F1 mentor?” I turn to Roz.
She nods eagerly. “Brilliant, right?”
“I’m pleased to announce…”
I cross my fingers. Please let me get Dietrich. Please let me get Dietrich. Not that Jack, Orbital’s other F1 driver, isn’t also a respected talent. He’s just not Dietrich “Golden Boy” Lange, who controls his car like it’s an extension of himself.
A few feet away from me, Cameron stiffens and stares intently at Lou. He doesn’t notice me watching him, and I know he’s silently manifesting Dietrich too.
“Cameron Evans, Pat McCombe, and Caleb Reid will be paired with Jack Florent. Justine Kwong and Grayson Holmes will be paired with Dietrich Lange.”
Yes.
Yes, yes, and yes. Lou Wilson can’t tell me apart from a server and my own teammate thinks I’m a PR intern, but someone somewhere in the Orbital behemoth has decided I’m worth investing in, at least a little.
When they film my future biopic, this is going to be the turning point of the movie, followed by an epic training montage set to an inspirational rah-rah instrumental by Brian Tyler.
I give Roz’s hand an excited squeeze, eliciting a disgruntled “Ow!”
Lou hands off the mic, and the hum of conversation slowly resumes.
“This is so awesome.” I look over to where Dietrich is standing. The circle around him has grown five deep, and I wonder how many sponsors I’m going to have to elbow aside to ask about our first meetup.
“Congrats!” Roz squeals. “Is this a dream or what?”
“A dream. Definitely a dream.”
Her eyes lock on to something behind my shoulder. “Oh my god, Grayson’s waving at me.”
I start to turn, but she grabs my shoulder. “Don’t look,” she hisses. “Or he’ll know we’re talking about him. Omigod, what do I do?”
“Go congratulate him,” I say, grinning. She’s harbored a crush on the F2 driver ever since she bumped into him and his “miraculous, life-changing” abs at the gym. “He got Dietrich too.”
“You’re right.” Roz takes a deep breath. “Calm, cool, collected,” she mutters, then waltzes off into the crowd faster than you can say “puppy love.”
I’m left standing by myself between the car displays, next to a glossy banner about the history of Orbital’s Young Driver Program.
My right hand, the one not holding my drink, feels lame hanging there by itself.
I place it on my hip. No, that’s what Britt would call “too confrontational.” I can hear it in her peppy accent now.
I fold my hand across my stomach and tuck it in the crook of my left elbow. Too slouchy and insecure.
As I’m debating using my free hand to hold my phone—I can pretend I’m answering texts to seem busy and important and not awkward—Cameron walks by with Georgios Kallergis, our reserve driver.
“… crazy she was assigned to Dietrich,” Georgios is saying.
“Has she driven outside of the States?” Cameron replies.
“It’s all some tick-the-box publicity exercise. Her last category was FR Americas; that barely has competition.”
I don’t catch the rest of their words as they drift farther away, but their muttering leaves me with no doubt about what they’re chuckling over.
Heat spreads across my face. It’s one thing to read biting social media posts about how you’re the obligatory diversity hire from faceless strangers on the internet.
It’s another entirely when the sentiment comes from your own team.
Georgios isn’t wrong that the junior series in Europe is much tougher than the US equivalent, like making valedictorian at Harvard versus Illinois State.
But still, beating out twenty-five other drivers—even though none were what any talent scouts on either side of the Atlantic would call “highly promising”—counts for something, doesn’t it?
“Hello. Justine, right?”
I whirl around.
Dietrich Lange is standing two feet away. Up close, his eyes are ten times bluer than they look on TV.
“H-hi!” I choke out. “I’m your new mentee!”
The corner of his mouth twists into a half smile. “I know. Are you enjoying the party?”
“Yes,” I say automatically. “Mingling and networking are so much fun.”
The truth is, as much as I love racing, I feel the opposite about the off-track obligations.
Schmoozing with sponsors, charming the press—all the stuff that’s strenuously exhausting when you have the charisma of an unsalted potato, like me.
I grin and bear it because I have to (as Mom makes clear every time I try to get out of an event), but I’d rather listen to three hours of my Uncle Jun’s dad jokes than make small talk with sponsors like a used car salesman.
Dietrich chuckles. The way he lights up makes me feel like he can see right through my lie. And I know instantly that behind all the glitz and talent and blue eyes, there’s a person I could really like too.
Unlike someone else I met today.
As if summoned, Cameron materializes along with Georgios and Pat McCombe, the third driver on our F3 team. They squeeze in between Dietrich and me, jostling to get closer to him.
“How’s the car feeling this year, Dietrich?” Cameron asks. He stands at his full six foot one, chest puffed out like Dietrich is some girl he’s trying to impress.
“Good so far, I guess.” Dietrich shrugs. “But you never know until the first race.”
“Of course, one never knows. Absolutely,” Cameron says. Next to him, Pat and Georgios nod like those bobblehead toys people stick on their car dashboards. “How was your offseason? Frank mentioned you were mostly back in Heidelberg. That’s where you grew up, right?”
“Good memory.”
Cameron shrugs in an aw, shucks way. “Well, I reckon we should know the basics about each other. We’re all part of the Orbital family, after all.”
Ick. Regurgitating HR catchphrases is so corny.
I can’t believe I was almost into him for five minutes.
It also does not escape me that knowing every inch of Dietrich Lange’s personal life but not being able to identify me when I’m literally standing in front of an F3 car shows just how part of the “Orbital family” I am to Cameron Evans.
“Did you get to spend time with your girlfriend?” I jump in, eager not to be boxed out of airtime. “She’s from there too, right?” Take that, Cameron—you’re not the only one well versed in Dietrich Lange’s personal life. Thank you, F1 TikTok.
Dietrich stares at me, a crinkle on his forehead. “You mean Hannie? We’re not together anymore.”
Damn you, F1 TikTok.
An awkward silence ensues, broken only by the sound of Pat slurping on his pina colada. Before I can pretend Roz is waving at me to escape this humiliation, Britt saves me. “Dietrich, the vice president of Jump Media is looking for a word.”
Dietrich gives a resigned sigh, then nods at the four of us. “If you’ll excuse me.”
We watch as he leaves with Britt, turning heads the entire way. I take an extra-large sip of my fizzy drink. That’s 0 for 2 today when it comes to important industry people I should be impressing and not embarrassing myself in front of. Not the most promising start.
“If it makes you feel better,” Pat says, “I heard it was a pretty tame split.”
“Nah, mate.” Georgios shakes his head. “Carolina told me she showed up in the lobby and had to be escorted out by security.”
“Way to bring the mood down, Kwong.” Cameron snickers.
I can’t believe I ever thought this guy was attractive.
“Come on, let’s get another drink,” Georgios says.
The boys saunter off, leaving me standing alone. I watch as Cameron orders his drink, leaning into the bar. The model-gorgeous bartender, who’s at least two years older than us, preens under his attention.
I sigh. Cameron looks like what everyone expects an F1 driver to be: glamorous, dashing, just as at ease at a fancy cocktail party as at a circuit. Meanwhile, no one would pick me out of a lineup for snowplow drivers, much less F1.
But that’s the thing about expectations: They can be broken. Today was definitely not the most auspicious start, but we’ll be hitting the track soon, and I’ll get a chance to prove I can keep up. That I can go toe-to-toe with the big boys.
That I’m not just some “tick-the-box” diversity hire.