Chapter 9
EVANGELINE
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA
Elation sparks through my every cell as I breeze through the metal detector, then scan my credentials to enter the paddock for the first time this season.
As I go, I trace the thick lanyard hanging around my neck. The red fabric is heavily woven and accented by the red, white, and black pass with my picture and access credentials listed below.
I’m not here on a guest pass or as a WAG today. No, I’m a full-time employee, and for the first time in my life, I’m officially part of a Formula 1 team.
I can’t help but grin as I push through the sleek turnstile.
“Hold up,” Mia calls from behind me.
I turn, searching for her.
She shifts over to the side for a random security screening. A woman in a uniform waves a circular wand across her torso and limbs, then ask her to turn so she can check her back.
Smirking, Shelby breezes past her younger sister.
Mia and Shelby make up one of two sibling pairs racing the grid this season.
We met as kids, with Mia, Shelby, and Auri all rising through the ranks in karting, regional races, Formula 4, and Formula 3.
That’s where Auri’s career ended, much to her chagrin.
She suffers from migraines and POTS, and the downforce of the advanced tiers of this sport were too much for her chronic pain.
She didn’t leave the sport entirely, though. She’s a race engineer for Gwen Ford with Kelly.
Shelby went on to Formula 2 before securing her seat in Formula 1 six years ago. She drives for Pavo, a Swedish team, and has been with them for two years.
“Excited for your first day?” she asks, coming to stand beside me.
“Honestly, yes,” I confess. “I didn’t expect any of this to work out.”
With a knowing smile, she wraps one arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “I’m really glad it did. You belong here with us.”
The sentiment bolsters my flailing confidence, and the nerves dancing through my veins temper a little.
I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours oscillating between excitement and panic, anticipation and dread.
I love this sport, and all my best friends are involved in Formula 1.
Maybe the best part is the chance to be involved in something bigger than myself.
Still.
I loathe the idea of seeing Luca regularly, and I’m dreading the questions from the people who don’t know we’re not together anymore.
I suspect there will also be random comments from acquaintances who don’t possess the tact not to ask about the demise of our relationship.
Thankfully, Luca doesn’t seek out the spotlight like some of the other drivers, and he made a point to keep our relationship out of the media.
I don’t think he ever posted a picture of me or us together on his socials while we were dating.
In retrospect, this discretion screams cheater, cheater pumpkin eater.
Despite my unease about facing Luca, I’m still happy to be here. I’m tired of minimizing myself. Tired of settling for the path of least resistance. I can do hard things, and Shelby isn’t the only one who’s glad I’m here. I’m really happy to be here, too.
Even so, I’m unbelievably anxious about the actual work I’ll be doing.
Mia, Shelby, and Beatrix are the only people who know the truth about how I came to be offered this position.
Or at least they know the simplified version.
We FaceTimed for hours on Saturday as we all packed and prepared for the start of the season.
I told them what happened with the couch.
I explained that Alaric now knows I’m Luca’s ex and that his son owes me a lot of money.
I glossed over a lot of the details, though: like how kind and thoughtful the man is or how deeply I’m attracted to the brachioradialis muscles in his forearms.
I didn’t mention the driveway incident either. Just like I skipped over the meal he cooked for me. I also steered clear of describing the way my belly still does a little flip-flop when I think about how he tenderly cupped my face when I was stalled in his driveway.
Nope. Not going there.
There’s a decent chance I’ll come face to face with Alaric later today. If that happens, the last thing I need is to be daydreaming about his strong grip on my chin or his intense, soulful gaze.
“Finally,” Mia grouses once security has released her.
Shelby and I exchange a look. While I’m anxious about my first day, my nerves have nothing on Mia’s current mental state.
It’s her rookie season. She drives for Abrams-Rhea, a female-owned and led team that came onto the scene two years ago.
While Mia is beloved by her fans and exceptional in everything she does, she’s the only rookie on the grid, and the media’s been having a field day picking her apart and making unkind predictions about the season ahead.
“Hey.” I lace my fingers with hers and squeeze.
With a big breath out, she meets my gaze.
“We’re here. We made it, Mimi.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile despite the trepidation clearly swamping her. “Don’t let anyone around the paddock hear you call me that, please.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But promise me you’ll let yourself be excited about today. You’re on the grid this year, babe. That’s a big fucking deal, and as your bestie, I feel compelled to make sure you soak it in.”
“What she said.” Shelby hops in front of her sister and grips her by the shoulders. “Get excited, sis. You’ll never have another first day in F1 again.”
Mia’s face goes ashen, like she might be sick, but she fakes a smile and squeezes my hand.
“This is me,” she murmurs, releasing me a few moments later. The signature purples and pinks of the Abrams-Rhea suite make a bold statement as the first stop in the paddock.
“Don’t work too hard,” I tease.
“Want me to take your pic for Mom?” Shelby asks.
Mia shakes her head, though her face goes pensive again as she surveys her team’s headquarters.
“I’ll see you at dinner.” She blows out a long breath, squaring her shoulders, and walks toward the front doors.
Once she’s disappeared, Shelby and I continue our stroll.
“You’ll be at dinner, right?” my friend asks.
Our tight-knit group of friends, the “Even Better Eleven,” is meeting up for dinner tonight. We do it at the start of every season, and it’s usually an event I look forward to.
That’s the plan, though I have reservations about it.
I have no idea who knows what about my split from Luca. It’s safe to assume the whole group has been informed, but gauging whose side anyone is on is difficult. And I don’t know whether Luca’s been chirping in people’s ears and shoring up support for himself in our less-than-amicable split.
It shouldn’t be a big deal, yet it weighs on me heavily. The Even Better Eleven are my closest friends, and while Luca isn’t part of our group, he spends a lot of time with the other drivers. The prospect of losing any of them because of my failed relationship tears at my heart.
It’s also causing my brain to war against my desire to spend time with my favorite people. It would hurt less to be unaware of who hates me than it would to have to navigate changes in attitude and opinion among my friend group.
The anticipatory rejection alone makes my stomach hurt.
When I don’t answer right away, Shelby ducks closer. “Ev…”
It isn’t that I don’t want to go. It’s because I’m heartsick over the idea of losing any of the people I care about.
Luca’s part of the “Elite Eight,” as the media dubbed them: the eight drivers who, five years ago, were all new to the grid. It was the largest rookie class in Formula 1 history, and remarkably, all eight drivers are still driving today.
Once the stress and tension of rivalries of that first year passed, the group got into the habit of hanging out before and after races. Most of them, anyway. Luca has always been on the periphery because, for him, everything is a competition. Matty Olsenn from Relic Racing also keeps his distance.
The six other drivers from the Elite Eight make up about half of the Even Better Eleven. There’s Prince Marceaux with Rampage Motor Sport, Saint Lavoy with Lutero, Kenji Diallo with Abrams-Rhea, Flynn Turner with Kelly, Stefan Chapelle from Prismatum Motors, and Lincoln Grant with Helios.
Shelby was a year ahead of the Elite Eight, then Ren Diallo drives for Trinity Elite. Mia is the final driver in the group. Beatrix and I are the only nondrivers included. She’s been by her brother Flynn’s side throughout his whole career.
I consider every member of the Even Better Eleven a close friend.
But they’re also Luca’s colleagues, and most of them have known him since before they met me. I was the drifter of the group… often tagging along with Mia and Shelby, sometimes around the paddock to visit my sister, then most recently at the grand prix to support Luca.
“Shelbs. Evan.”
A streak of pink flies past us, the sight of Stefan on an electric scooter snapping me out of the war raging inside my head.
He circles back, doing a wide loop around us. “I’m late for media.” He doesn’t stop as he explains, the words melodic in his French-inspired Stellatorian accent. “You’ll be at dinner tonight, yes?”
Shelby elbows me in the side in an unspoken “see?” She takes it a step further then, calling out, “I’ll be there for sure, but I can’t speak for Evan.”
Catching the emphasis on that first word, Stefan slows to a crawl and scoots alongside me, scrutiny in his expression. “Evangeline?”
“I plan to be there,” I offer noncommittally.
He brings his scooter to a full stop, scowling.
“It’s tradition,” he reminds me, an out-of-character hardness to his expression.
Stefan won the Driver’s Championship four years ago.
He’s a fan favorite because of his spontaneous acoustic guitar live streams, his perfectly tousled hair, and those dreamy bedroom eyes.
He’s a notorious playboy, but he doesn’t put out harsh, asshole vibes like some of the other drivers.
“I have to get to work,” I tell him, side-stepping him and continuing on my way.
As if anticipating my move, he steers his scooter along with me and turns the handlebars hard, halting me in my tracks.
“Evan, please. Many of us have discussed this scenario, and we are all in agreement: we do not want anything to change among the Eleven. In fact, Prince has offered to dine with Luca tonight to ensure you feel comfortable joining the rest of us as planned.”
Oh.
I guess that answers one of my questions. Looks like everyone already knows.
“You’re sure?” I hedge as the Australian sun shines down on us, causing beads of sweat to gather along my hairline.
“Beyond sure.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You will dine with us tonight. The Even Better Eleven lives for another season.”
Before I can argue, he’s gone, scootering through the paddock.
“Told you.” Shelby elbows me playfully as we continue our trek to our respective headquarters.
The next several hours fly. I spend the afternoon getting acclimated to my new job and all things Granata.
My team is small, consisting of myself, a woman named Marisol, who is in her mid-thirties, a man named Silas, who’s around my age, and our team lead, Mauricio.
Each one of them seems excited to be here and eager to put in the work.
For the first couple of hours, we go over typical first day stuff. From there, we spend an hour recapping the public relations nightmare that was Granata’s last season and the departure of Bolton Reynold.
The way Mauricio speaks of Reynold is eye-opening.
The man was beloved by the media, always hamming it up for the cameras and giving quippy sound bites to reporters.
When all the sexts and inappropriate requests were exposed, the media’s bias caused so much of the vitriol to be aimed at Granata rather than the man behind the offenses.
According to Mauricio, the internal investigation and massive leadership overhaul Granata has gone through have turned things around. Employee safety and satisfaction surveys are trending positively. It’s not perfect yet, but it’s progress.
The new leadership is heavily invested in culture, team morale, and public opinion.
Our team’s job is to collect and analyze insights. How are Formula 1 fans talking about Granata? Where’s their focus? What do they care about, and how do we, as an organization, foster trust and good faith after letting so many people down?
The job seems both easier and more nuanced than I expected.
Mauricio will create templates for us at each race and dole out assignments.
Marisol, Silas, and I will be tasked with collecting data and looking for patterns and trends.
One-off comments on social media aren’t statistically significant, but others’ reactions and responses could be insightful.
Our job isn’t to engage or change opinions; we’re responsible for capturing what’s said, then analyzing and categorizing it.
As a department, we have a weekly data collection quota. One of the collection methods includes in-person listening, which will be done in the grandstands, around the paddock, and even on the pit wall during the race.
Our assignments will rotate each week so that none of us burn out from staring at a screen all day or sitting in the sun surrounded by overly enthusiastic fans. No day will be the same, though the work and goals will be consistent, which tickles my brain in a surprisingly positive way.
By the time we wrap up morning orientation, I’m overwhelmed in the best way.
I can do this. I am doing this. All my self-doubt and trepidation have quieted. Between seeing my friends and learning more about my role, I’m finally excited to be here and to get this season started.