Chapter 11 #3
Luckily, there are no more safety incidents and Dietrich’s gap keeps. When he crosses the line in first place, everyone bursts into rapturous applause except for Niels, who sighs like Dietrich finished last.
“He failed to get the extra point for the fastest lap.” Judging from the expression on Niels’s face, you’d think he just bit into an anchovy sandwich, not watched his son drive a near-flawless grand prix. I’m not sure what to say, so I shrug noncommittally.
The entire garage sprints toward the podium, whooping and yelling at the top of their lungs. I wish I could join in, but Niels insists on walking alongside me with the mother of all stink faces on.
In parc fermé, Dietrich parks his car behind the first-place signboard, shakes hands with Thompson, and then comes for a round of celebratory high fives and hugs with the team. He manages to look dashing even with his golden hair soaked and sweat streaming down his nose.
“You were incredible!” I shout.
After a two-hour race, Dietrich is too exhausted to say anything, but he smiles at me, sending my insides tap dancing.
Niels, next to me, grips his son’s shoulder and leans in.
I can’t hear anything over the deafening roar of the grandstands, but I see the grim look on Niels’s face.
Dietrich’s smile fades, just for one second, but then it’s plastered back on like he’s a pageant contestant, and he turns and waves for the TV cameras.
Mom is giving herself a mani-pedi when I return to our apartment that night. My skin is still sticky from hours of celebrating in a crowded and under-ventilated pub.
“Hey, Mom,” I croak. It was so loud in there no one could hear unless you yelled. I hope Mom can’t smell the vodka cranberry on my breath.
“How was it?” she asks eagerly, waving her hand back and forth to air her nails out.
“It was awesome. The garage was exactly like all the behind-the-scenes YouTubes. The ten zillion telemetry screens, Dietrich pushing to the limit.”
Mom nods along, her eyes glassing over as I go on and on. I always forget how much she doesn’t care about actual racing. It’s the winning and accomplishing she loves.
When I wrap up, she sits up straighter and beams. “I’m so happy you enjoyed your day, Gougou. Now I have some news: Your last post got ten times the amount of likes as your previous most-liked post! We already have DMs from three new companies wanting to talk.”
“Do you think it’ll help with my chances at the F2 seat?” I practically yell in excitement.
“It certainly can’t hurt.”
Mom hands me her phone with Instagram open.
It’s a photo of Dietrich and me entering the paddock this afternoon.
I look as cool in the photo as I’d felt in the moment.
My sunglasses and loose hair whipping in the wind make me look carefree and unbothered.
Dietrich’s hand rests gently on my back.
We look like—my pulse quickens—a real power couple.
“Half a million likes.” Mom cackles. “Anything that boy touches goes viral.”
My attention jumps to the comments underneath the post.
HERE FOR THIS PAIRING.
The racing romance I didn’t know I needed!!!
I stan this!
A blush creeps up my neck; I’m fluttery all over. Clearly I’m not the only one who felt the potential, if the hundreds of likes on the top comment is anything to go by.
I throw myself down on the couch next to Mom and scroll through the rest. To my surprise and delight, most of them are all along the same vein as the first few.
Until I get to: have you SEEN her F3 teammate? I’m shipping THAT
There’s only a handful of likes on this comment, but it’s enough to dump icy reality on my jittery brain. I’m here to race. To win. That’s what I want people talking about, even if, fine, I also—like so many girlies out there—enjoy mooning over dreamy drivers.
“Have you been drinking?” Mom sniffs. “You know I don’t—”
“Mateo Bianchi said hi to me today,” I divert quickly.
“Of Marino?” Mom gasps, as if there’s another Mateo Bianchi. “Do you think there’s interest there after all?”
“I wish.” I sink deeper back into the couch. “He was probably just being polite because I was with Dietrich.”
My eyes drift to the Marino model car on top of our decorative glass bookshelf.
For a second, I let myself imagine. Wearing the iconic Marino red, hoisting the first-place trophy high at Monza while red, white, and green confetti rains down on the sea of fans below.
Mom and Roz jumping up and down, crying and shrieking with joy and pride.
Dietrich standing in a cordoned-off section, his blue eyes shining and that slow, drowsy smile on his face as he claps.
Last year, Mom tried using my Orbital offer to see if Marino wanted to talk.
They finally responded, on her third follow-up email, politely letting us know their roster was full at the moment and they wanted to be respectful of our time, but they looked forward to touching base next year.
(Translation: We’re stacked with talent already, but let’s talk if you perform.)
They’re so iconic, every driver champs at the bit to drive for them. Dad’s old office walls were plastered in posters of Marino cars.
Someday, some way, I’ll get there. But first, the Orbital F2 seat.