Chapter 3
ALARIC
“The telemetry data shows the internal combustion engine can and will take on too much throttle when pushed. We need to be prepared for the car to feel too punchy when the battery is fully charged. It’ll take some getting used to, especially when our strategy calls for changing to hards.”
On screen, Ferris and Heath are nodding along and taking notes. My drivers don’t need my oversight to understand the importance of this issue. They’re exceptional at what they do. Veterans with proven records.
I trust this team. I hired many of them myself in the fourteen years I’ve been with Granata. And now I’ve been given the honor of leading them.
Sandro, Heath’s performance coach, speaks up. “Can we get a list of the races where this is likely to be an issue? Monaco, Monza, and Baku are a given. Where else do we need to be concerned?”
Monique, head of race strategy, clears her throat, so I settle back, letting her reply. She doesn’t need my input or interference anyway.
I have plenty of other issues to worry about.
Like what sort of shenanigans my son has been up to lately, moving someone else’s possessions into my garage without even mentioning it to me.
Then there’s the more pressing issue of the petite blonde hovering at the entrance of my garage, shifting her weight from one hip to the other and making those loose animal-print shorts she’s wearing swoosh in the most alluring of ways.
My home office grants me a perfect view of the large garage behind the house.
And for the first time, that’s become a huge distraction.
As terrible as I feel about her admission, I, shamefully, can’t say I’m surprised.
I’ll be giving my son a call this afternoon, that’s for damn sure. That girl was clearly humiliated. She deserves so much more than how he allegedly treated her. And on top of that, he sent her over here this morning without giving me so much as a heads-up?
I’m a shit father, I know. But having to confront the reality that my son is a shit human being has stirred up a deep sense of self-loathing I don’t have time to unpack right now.
I’ve spent the last several years biding my time, giving Luca all the space he wants and says he needs as he establishes himself in the world of Formula 1.
He resents me for my role in this sport, especially now that I’m team principal of a competitor.
Our shared love of motorsport used to be the most vibrant part of our father-son connection.
We’ve never been on rockier terms than we are right now. Maybe that’s the reason he didn’t think to mention to me that he’s using the garage for storage.
Shaking my head, I force my attention away from the woman standing in my driveway and refocus on the meeting.
Our second round of testing wrapped up three weeks ago in Bahrain. This is one of our last virtual all-hands meetings of the year. Starting next week, I’ll be reunited with the full team at the Australian Grand Prix for the first time as team principal.
Pride swells inside me. Granata Racing has so much to look forward to. There’s so much talent in the ranks of this legacy team. This season is ripe with promise, the year ahead brimming with potential.
The job title may be new, but I’ve played a crucial role at Granata over the years.
I make a point to get to know everyone from the designers and engineers at headquarters to the crews in the garage and the culinary staff.
We may not have the best machine on the grid right now, but we’ve slowly pulled ourselves up to the front of the mid-grid pack.
Last year we placed fifth in the Constructor’s Championship—our highest ranking since 1958.
That’s the other thing we have going for us.
Legacy.
Granata has existed since the sport’s inception in 1950.
And it’s always had a strong reputation.
Though it was dragged through the mud last fall when my predecessor, Bolton Reynold, was discovered sexually harassing employees.
After further investigation, it was determined he’d been doing it for years.
Proof of his attempts to solicit inappropriate pictures and coerce subordinates into staying late at the office came to light in the most garish of ways.
Our team owner, Mitchum Russo, booted him without notice or severance.
Good riddance. If anything, Bolton got off too easy.
He deserved far more extreme consequences from Granata and from the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile, the governing body of Formula 1.
It kills me knowing that I worked alongside Bolton for several years and had no idea he was wielding his power so inappropriately.
Leslie, my director of operations and right-hand, speaks next.
“One final reminder before we wrap this up. All directors should submit their complete rosters to me by end of business tomorrow. Badges will be issued before you arrive in Australia. We need complete and final lists of all personnel so we can coordinate accommodations for the first leg of the season.” She backs away from the screen a few inches. “Anything to add, Ric?”
Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter and give the team my full focus.
“The start of a new year always carries a buzz of excitement with it. I feel it, you all feel it, and the fans feel it, too. But this isn’t just any season.”
I pause, taking in a deep breath and galvanizing myself.
This is it.
The goals I’ve worked toward for more than two decades are finally coming to fruition. As the team principal of Granata Racing, I have the opportunity to push and motivate and inspire and, most importantly, win.
“I’m a realist,” I say, though that isn’t news to anyone in this meeting. “I like numbers. I love statistically probable assurances and hard data.”
A few people laugh in acknowledgment. It’s no secret I don’t do hopes and dreams.
Which is why I’m confident that what I’m about to say will have a great impact.
“But it’s not the numbers that make a team great.
It’s not only data that determines starting position on the grid and it doesn’t all come down to strategy.
At the end of the day, the people are what make Granata special.
You and your teams make up the heart and soul of this experience.
” I pause, looking at each one of them. “We have a massive opportunity ahead of us. A real shot of placing higher than we ever have.”
Each one of them is silent and focused completely on me. Good.
“Numbers matter. But numbers mean nothing without the human-driven heart and soul of this organization. Yes, we’ve endured morale-crushing blows over the last year.
And there’s work to be done; trust that must be restored.
But we’re still here. We’re still in it.
We’re embarking on an ambitious, record-breaking season.
I’m honored to work alongside you, and I want to take this opportunity to thank you in advance for all we’ll achieve together.
I believe in us. We’re going to show the grid who we really are.
As important as our legacy is, this team is so much more.
So many brilliant accomplishments still lie ahead.
We are Granata, and we’re here to stay.”
Murmurs of agreement come from the directors on the call.
“That’s it from me,” I say quickly, rather than letting the moment linger. “Please enjoy your friends and family over the next few days. Take advantage of your time at home. I look forward to seeing each of you in Australia.”
A chorus of farewells goes up, then the names listed on the side of the conference call drop off one by one.
Still logged into the meeting, I sit back in my chair, hands folded patiently, and wait like I do at the end of every in-person meeting, ensuring that I’m available if someone needs me.
I’m unwavering in my commitment to this team, and that includes being the last to leave each meeting. One of my many goals is to be present and available in a way that garners constant assurance. Especially after so many people endured the quiet, insidious harassment of my predecessor.
Changing the company’s culture is priority number one. It’s my sincere belief that when people feel respected and cared for, results follow.
Typically, meetings like this are held at headquarters, when the administrative personnel would be working. Instead, we broke tradition and encouraged them to work from home between testing and the first race of the season. My hope is that the quality time galvanizes them for the long season ahead.
While I wait for the last few stragglers to sign off, I glance out the window. I turn back quickly, only to do a double take when my brain registers the sight.
Evangeline is in the middle of my driveway now, talking animatedly to the movers.
She has both arms held out, and everything about her posture is off.
Something is wrong.
She needs help.
The urge to go out there and assist is strong. This is my property, so I have a responsibility, don’t I? She’s here because of a fallout caused by my son.
I grind my molars and tap my fingers on my thighs, focusing on the three names still left on the screen.
Another minute passes.
I check my calendar, confirming my next meeting isn’t for another hour. Then I scroll through my emails, but there’s nothing of urgency there. Despite every attempt to concentrate on work, my focus keeps drifting.
Another look out the window confirms that Evangeline is still out there, now with her hands clasped and on top of her head. Her whole body is shaking back and forth in an action that from here looks like a very definite “no,” and I think her arms might be trembling.
A ball of lead forms in my gut as I take in her distress.
On screen, Leslie asks if Mauricio has filled the positions needed for the reputation assessment team. The question piques my interest and pulls me back into business.
The reputation assessment team is a new initiative I’m spearheading. The idea is to have dedicated personnel monitoring social media, traditional media, influencer opinion, and blogs in an effort to capture Granata’s precarious reputation within the industry.
Though hiring isn’t going well, according to Mauricio. There are still two openings on the team. From what I understand, most applicants haven’t been a good fit because they’re eager to make content, which is very different from what we’re trying to achieve with the rep assess team.
Leslie and Mauricio agree to repost the job description for twenty-four hours. It’s all the time we have left, considering we’re flying to Australia next week.
I mull over options. I could pull employees from other departments or start the season with a two-person cohort, then scale as we go, but I hate to water down the impact of what we’re aiming to do.
I swore I’d turn this team’s reputation around, and I fully intend to deliver on that promise.
But dammit, meaningful change needs to be measured and tracked.
Collecting qualitative data in addition to the quantitative polls we have in place is essential.
I can’t simply assume our reputation is improving without any metrics.
With my pen between my teeth, I lean back in my chair, thinking. This time when I look out the window, I find the driveway vacant.
I press out a sigh, my muscles relaxing, but an instant later, my relief vanishes. Because my first observation was incorrect. As it turns out, the woman I was so transfixed by hasn’t left the driveway.
She is, however, lying flat on her back, arms and legs stretched wide like a starfish.
My pulse stutters. Fuck it.
“I have another commitment that needs attention, so I’ll be signing off now.
” Without waiting for Leslie to acknowledge my abrupt departure, I click the exit button and leave the meeting.
I push to my feet with more force than I mean to, sending my chair toppling to the ground. Then I take off toward the driveway.