Chapter 22 #3
And sportsmanship. As if I’m the first driver to disobey team orders. Caleb literally walked off the podium in a fit after being edged out of first place in Jeddah, and everyone skated over it by way of “passion.”
Frank’s eyes tell me he agrees, but outwardly he only coughs. “I’m sorry. Our title sponsor feels strongly about this, apparently. They’re trying to make a push in the US and having an underage American driver photographed in a nightclub that sells their product has made them rather upset.”
I narrow my eyes. “Was it the drinking that bothered them? Or the fact that I wasn’t enjoying their drink?”
“It’s not personal, Justine. You know we think the world of you.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” I snap. “If you’re going to fire me, you might as well call it what it is.”
Frank heaves a deep sigh. “HR will be in contact to sort through exit logistics.” Then he scoots around me and scrambles out of the office.
My momentary triumph from Frank running off with his tail between his legs fades away as quickly as his escape. None of this changes the fact that I’m still fired.
That I’m no longer an F3 driver. And no longer on the path to my dreams.
Roz is waiting for me outside.
“Did you see the article?”
I close my eyes and nod once. I don’t trust myself to tell her about what’s transpired without breaking down sobbing.
“They’re awful,” she hisses. “What were the names of those girls Pat invited to the after-party? I bet one of ’em’s the leaker. It’s the randos. It’s always the randos.”
It’s hard to imagine Chloe or Savannah being the leaker. They’ve been nothing but kind since we met. A part of me can’t help being annoyed with Roz for putting the thought in my head, especially when Lou’s bodyguard literally confiscated their phones in front of her.
“What are we going to do?” Roz wails. “This is such a disaster! Uncle Lou is furious. I told him it wasn’t our fault; the tabloids are always taking things out of context and spinning them in the worst light. But he won’t return my voice messages.”
My head hurts thinking about the discussion with Mom I’ll have waiting for me when I get back to the hotel. I’d rather have a repeat of the cooldown-room drama.
“Omigod, d’you think we should call The Weekly Mail? Demand a retraction?”
A spark of irritation shoots through me. Roz is crying like it’s her life that’s been ruined just because the article mentioned her twice, when, as far as I can tell, she’s still gainfully employed.
“It’s already out there. What will that even do?”
“We should at least respond with something. What about that Motor Sport article?”
I appreciate Roz’s concern, I really do, but I just need some time to think. To breathe. To figure things out. “Why are you so stressed? You’re only in two lines; you’ll be fine.”
Roz sniffs. “You’re not the only one affected by this. My family chat has been blowing up. Daddy is livid—this is exactly why he didn’t want me to go into motorsport.”
“Look,” I say, desperate to get her off my back so I can go cry in peace. My shot at F1 has collapsed like a supermassive black hole and Roz is worried about her family group chat. “It’s gonna be okay for you. You’re going to have a job no matter what. It’s not like your uncle will fire you.”
“Are you saying I only have my job because I’m a nepo baby?”
“No! You’re so talented. I’m just saying you don’t need to stress this much. You’ll still have your spot on the team.”
“Because it’s Uncle Lou’s team. So, a nepo baby.”
My temper flares. It’s like she’s misinterpreting me on purpose. “If you’re going to insist on twisting what I say, then sure. Fine. Nepo baby.”
Roz’s face falls. “I don’t even know how we got onto this.
But for what it’s worth, it’s not just about you.
Or me, for that matter.” She draws a breath, her lips a thin line.
“That article used us to make women in motorsport sound like a ridiculous idea. Partying in short skirts at clubs, incestuous paddock dating—like that’s all any of us are good for.
There was zero mention of the races we’ve run.
Anything we’ve accomplished. There are girls looking up to us who might try to race or study engineering, so pardon me if I’m keen to right the narrative. ”
Her words make me want to curl into a ball on the ground.
“There’s no way Motor Sport wants to interview a former F3 driver.” Saying it out loud makes it feel so much more real, a gut punch that’s worse than any high-speed collision I’ve been in.
“What?” The color drains out of Roz’s face. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish,” I say, my voice breaking.
Then I turn and run.
If I’d stood there looking at Roz another second longer, I would’ve burst into tears, and the last thing I want is for the entire paddock to see me cry. I dash for the exit, slowing down to go through the turnstiles, and break my way into the parking lot.
Luckily, there’s no one in the cab line. The traffic is all one way, with everyone coming in for the F1 race. If the taxi driver is surprised at a grimy, smelly driver still wearing a full race suit diving into his back seat, he doesn’t show it. “Où aller?”
I take a deep breath. “The airport, please.”