Chapter 8
PRESSURE DRIVING: FORCING MISTAKES FROM RIVALS
My car is fighting me as I race around the practice track in the Vegas heat.
The readouts tell me I’m not oversteering, nor do I feel like there’s about to be a catastrophic malfunction that will send me into a wall. Instead, it’s subtle lag causing my already piss poor temper to escalate.
I turn again, experiencing a drag that feels a fraction late.
I’m all too aware that my inability to correct something can permanently end it. Just like you did with Christin, I think irately.
Last night, I spent the evening as I have for the last three months: trying to find a way to apologize. I started and saved drafts of texts I know I don’t have the right to send.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean what I said.
I miss you.
If you’d give me a chance, I’d like to explain.
I’ve been doing this every single night since she told me to leave. Sometimes the messages are brief. Other times, they are confessions. One night, I gave in and sent her an email that she never replied to.
It may be too late to say I’m sorry, but nothing can keep her off my mind.
“Again,” I spit into the mouthpiece.
There’s a pause before Dario’s voice reminds me, “We’ve run this leg three times, Leo.”
“And it’s been wrong every bloody time!” I snap, already rolling back the throttle as I bring the car around for another lap.
His sigh is drawn out through the headset built into my helmet. “Fine. But this is the last time. I’m not having you total the car before the consultant we hired can identify the real problems.”
Ignoring Dario’s dramatics, I push the car harder this time. Before braking into Turn Three, I adjust my grip slightly, forcing the twenty-million-dollar monster beneath me to respond the way it’s intended to.
Every time I’m behind the wheel, I’m flabbergasted that I’m trusted to drive a small fortune of complex aerodynamics.
Knowing my team’s incredible maintenance of this machine, I’ve reluctantly come around to believing Dario when he says he thinks he knows the problem.
Yeah, I’m forcing the car to do what I demand of it instead of relying on the usual smooth transitions, but I trust Dario when he suggests the telemetry is off.
Just then, Dario’s voice comes through my headset, “Readings show you’re overcorrecting.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s bollocks.”
“According to the data, you’re good to open…look out!”
I feel the backend slide—enough to throw off the car’s aerodynamic precision. I correct but it costs me precious time. I don’t say anything; I just finish the lap.
By the time I cross the line, I’m frustrated. How am I supposed to compete for the team? The idea that I might not be able to terrifies me. Bringing the car in, I hit my marks perfectly before killing the engine.
Then Dario’s voice is in my ears. “Let’s give Hogan a turn on the track while we talk.”
Hogan Grant is Apex Orion’s rookie race driver. One of the sport’s brightest young prospects, he’s still finding his footing as he learns what it takes to compete at Formula One’s highest level.
While I wait for Dario to approach, the cockpit feels too quiet.
It reminds me of the way I lie in bed at night, unable to get Christin’s face out of my mind.
Shoving aside those thoughts, I yank off my gloves.
Detaching the steering wheel is a must before I climb out.
I’m in the process of removing my helmet to hand off to the crew when Dario sidles up next to me.
“Tell me what you think the problem is.”
“It’s lagging,” I admit, shoving a hand through my drenched hair. “I’m making corrections I shouldn’t have to make.”
Dario watches me, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Telemetry shows a delay in response under load.”
“So, you were right.”
“No shit.”
I mutter, “I thought it was me.”
“It’s not.”
“Christ, Dario. All this from the telemetry? It feels like I’m driving through sludge.”
A couple of the senior engineers hover nearby, trying to avoid my ire because they can’t fix the problem. They don’t even know where to start. Ignoring them, I face Dario. “Now that I’ve confirmed this isn’t on my driving—”
His brow lifts slightly. “I never said it was exclusively the telemetry.”
I flick him off before finishing my sentence, “—I want to understand your point of view.”
He gestures for me to follow him into the garage, where a wall of monitors has been tracking every lap I ran today. “Check this out.”
Grabbing a towel, I drag it across the back of my neck, trying somehow to cool off from the Vegas heat. The team already has the data up—lines and curves that should tell a clean story.
They don’t.
“Here,” he says, pointing. “Your input versus system response.”
“That can’t be right. It’s backward.”
“Which is a problem when you’re driving two hundred miles per hour,” he agrees.
“It’s advising me to compensate too aggressively.” Frustration sharpens my voice. “I’m correcting, but then it’s advising me to overcorrect.”
Dario nods. “Exactly.”
I accept a bottle of water from one of the team members with a quiet thanks. “How do we fix it?”
“I arranged for a full software overhaul from someone reputed to be one of the best in the business. They’ll be here next week.”
In the middle of chugging the water, I wait until I swallow before questioning him. “Who is this person?”
“A software engineer specializing in advanced systems integration. Steering interfaces, predictive modeling.”
“Since when do we outsource this?”
“Since it started costing us track time. Plus, like we’ve discussed, our crew has made all the changes they can. We’re stuck until we can get past this.”
I open my mouth to argue but the words never pass my lips because Dario is rarely wrong. “What are they looking into?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s performing preliminary evaluations of the software at her office in New York. We’ll meet up with her at the charity gala next week.”
“Then what happens?”
“After we onboard her, I’ll give her full access to everything she’ll need. I didn’t want to transmit our live data. You know you’re going to have to cooperate because we only have her exclusively for the season.”
“Before she goes back?”
“Yeah. Back to New York.”
New York. Just hearing the name reminds me how I torched any possibility of a future between Christin and me. Ignoring the ache in my heart, I remark, “I hope she isn’t someone who needs handholding. We don’t have time for that.”
“Trust me. She’s the best at what she does.”
I huff out a breath. “They all are, according to you.”
“This one actually is.”
I look back at the screen, at the data that doesn’t align with what I feel in the car. “Don’t we need it fixed before the first race?” I ask.
“I’m not certain what she’ll have done in that time period. Trust me, I’ll be happy to have a functional prototype. Knowing what I do about this particular individual, even a prototype from her would be an improvement before the start of the season.”
“Then what is she coming out for?” I demand.
“She’ll refine the telemetry with input from the team—especially you.”
“Fine.”
The conversation should end there, but it doesn’t because Dario pulls me away. When we’re far enough out of earshot, he stares at me like he’s able to read everything that just went through my mind. Everything I’m not saying out loud. My voice has a bite to it when I snap, “What?”
He cocks his head slightly. “You’re not just off because of the car.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “That’s all I have the right to be upset about.”
“Should be, but it’s not.”
“Don’t start.”
“Too late.”
I take a long drink—finishing the bottle and tossing it into a bin. I’m trying to buy myself a second. It doesn’t help. “I fucked up. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Yes.”
“I emailed her. She hasn’t responded. End of, right?”
Dario’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that?”
I turn away, bracing my hands on the edge of a table. “I told you what happened. Do you really think I have a right to continue to pester her?”
“You said something you shouldn’t have. Something you didn’t mean. Does she understand that?”
Again, words I try to find get stuck in my throat.
I don’t answer because I can’t. I let out a rough breath, wiping a hand down my face.
“I saw her face, Dario. She looked at me like…” I trail off, the memory hitting too close.
Like I was someone she didn’t recognize.
Like you’d become a clone of your parents.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought.
With finality, I state, “I have to accept she wants nothing to do with me.”
Dario steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re miserable and distracted. Outside of the telemetry issues, it’s bleeding into your driving.”
“My driving is fine.”
“Your driving is suffering,” he says bluntly. “Because you won’t deal with what you did.”
I stare at him, anger flaring before I look back at the car they’ve moved into the garage. It’s sleek, perfect, and not doing what I want it to because my head’s split between being here and Christin’s home in Saratoga Springs. “She threw me out.”
“I would have too. You were an ass.”
The truth of it lands like a punch. My shoulders drop a fraction. “If I tried to reach out again, what would I even say to her?”
“The truth,” he says simply.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Because she wants to hear all about my family issues?”
“Better than leaving her with the idea you thought she would blend into the wallpaper when that’s clearly not the case.”
I flinch.
He notices. “If you miss her, then be prepared to act like she matters. Do something to get her back.”
I stare at the floor for a long moment, the noise of the garage fading into the background.
There’s so much pressure right now—performance, expectations, a car that isn’t responding the way it should.
Adding Christin to the mix doesn’t simplify things.
If anything, it sharpens the edge of the blade hanging over my neck. Finally, I relent. “I’ll consider it.”
“That’s a start.”
I turn my helmet over and over in my hands. Then, I glance back toward the track. Even from here, I can see the waves of heat distorting the clear skies. Right now, I need to feel in control of something, so I inform Dario, “I want another run.”
Dario smirks. “Of course you do, but the rest of us mere mortals want food.”
Barking out a quick laugh, I down another bottle of water. Once lunch is complete, I tug my helmet back on. The moment I do, my world narrows. Simplifies. Reassembling the steering wheel, I start her up and steer in the direction of the track.
In the car, everything makes sense—my past, my current fuckup. I know my focus should be exclusively on the road, inputs, and outputs.
Still, even while I’m doing laps, one thought cuts out everything else, including my steering problems.
Is it even possible to fix things with Christin?