Chapter 7 #2
I don’t know how long I sit there staring off into space, wishing I could take back Lap 16, but it’s long enough I hear what sounds like the entire team—Roz’s merry laugh among them—return from the award ceremony, pack up, and head off for drinks.
By the time I finally trust my body to take a step without crumpling in disappointment, our pop-up garage sounds completely deserted.
“Frank, could I have a word?” I’d recognize that quiet, steely voice anywhere. I drop my hand from the knob of the dressing room door, interest piqued.
“Is this urgent?” Frank sounds tired, but he can’t just tell Dietrich Lange to put a sock in it.
“I don’t know if it’s urgent, really. It’s about your program. I don’t want to mentor that girl anymore.”
The knot that’s been in my stomach since race finish doubles in size.
Frank clears his throat. “I know you’re busy, Dietrich, but it would be great publicity for us, for the entire sport, if Orbital can get a female driver into F1. You know everyone’s keen.”
“I only agreed to mentor because they said there was a real shot.”
A deep, gruff sigh. Frank. “She could’ve had a better first race, but—”
“I’m supportive of increasing driver diversity, but they need to start at younger ages. They keep trying to force in girls who can’t compete at this level and they end up failing. It is a joke.”
And just like that, the giant lump of anxiety disappears. I can’t seem to feel anything at all.
Frank’s chair creaks as he gets to his feet, and I hear him politely escorting Dietrich out. I hold my breath in case they can hear me—the only thing more humiliating than being dropped by Dietrich Lange is getting caught eavesdropping while he’s dropping me.
It is a joke.
My body goes from tingling to burning. I am many things—desperately eager, embarrassingly extra—but I am not someone’s punch line.
I open the dressing room door with a bang.
Still in my driving shoes, I storm down the paddock toward the F1 garages.
The place buzzes with preparations for the coming grand prix—mechanics assembling cars and prepping tires, engineers running last-minute simulations.
No one bats an eye at my presence; it’s not uncommon for junior team members to hang around between races.
I stalk to the back, where Dietrich’s dedicated rest area is. Unlike our makeshift pop-up F3 garage, the F1 facilities have designated private spaces for drivers. I arrive just as Britt and a couple of her interns are walking out.
“Hello, Justine!” She beams. She’s grown to like me, but sometimes I wonder if it’s only because the marketing department loves slapping my image on everything from energy bars to chewing gum in an attempt to expand their female reach.
“Hi, Britt.” I grab the dressing room door before it swings fully closed.
“Sorry—can’t chat. Headed for the TP briefing. I’m sure Dietrich will be thrilled to see his mentee!” she trills, disappearing into the hubbub of the F1 garage without a backward glance.
I wish Britt was as accurate as she was peppy.
I fortify myself with a quick breath, then push my way into Dietrich’s room before I lose my nerve.
He must have been mid-change. The top half of his race jumpsuit is unzipped, hanging around his waist. Despite my hurt, I can’t help but notice the sprinkling of dark blond hair on his perfectly cut lower abs.
Heat comes roaring back into my cheeks.
Dietrich stares. “Can I help you?”
I force my eyes away from his upper body and tap into the fury that fueled my mad dash across the paddock. “I am not a joke.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m not talentless. I’m good. I’m actually really, really good. I’m not here just because the FIA is desperate for more female drivers, even though, yeah, they kind of are.”
Dietrich’s expression is completely blank. If this guy weren’t so busy winning an F1 championship, he could enter a Texas Hold’em tournament.
“I know you dropped me as mentee,” I add.
After a long pause, Dietrich shrugs. “I was right to.”
“What?” I expected denial, or maybe a half-assed apology.
Not bluntness. Not complete lack of the tiniest hint of remorse.
It’s another reminder of my place on the hierarchy of mattering: No one here seems to care if I sink or swim.
I’m a bit of good publicity if I can win, but otherwise I’m discarded like an old tire no one has any use for.
“I didn’t say you weren’t talented. You are, as you would put it, really, really talented.” Dietrich does an American accent to mimic me. It’s surprisingly accurate, albeit insultingly nasal.
“But then why—”
“All bravery and no brains make a poor driver. You have talent, but you need this too.” He taps the side of his head with his finger.
I draw in a breath, trying to come up with something to defend myself. I’m not a genius like my cousin, but I’ve racked up my share of A’s.
“Take the race this morning,” Dietrich continues. “What were you thinking on Lap 16? Why didn’t you pit?”
I flush. “The tires felt fine at the time. I wanted to go for an overcut.”
“Then you should have done your studying. Undercuts are much more powerful at this track.” Dietrich crosses his arms. “You had so much on the line. Why would you take the risk?”
My stomach sinks as his words one-two punch me.
Why did I? Why do I always default to the riskier option?
I’m used to scrabbling for every inch on-track, every sliver of an opening I get.
I was leading the pack—loving it—and wanted to feel the glory of running in front a little more.
To show all the current doubters in the paddock and all the past doubters back home I could do it.
Alarmingly, my throat tightens and my eyes sting. Not again. I can’t be known as the crying girl.
Dietrich stares, his arms still crossed. “Well?”
“You’re right.” I swallow my pride and blink back the crest of tears threatening to break free. “And this is why I need your help. Would you please, please reconsider?”