Chapter 2
Zaid
I’m standing in front of a crowd and I’m about to have a panic attack.
Cameras flash, catching this moment for posterity, all while I calculate whether I’d break any bones if I jumped off the stage. Maybe shattering an ankle would make Mascort want to end my contract early. Not like two broken wrists was enough.
‘We’re so excited for pre-season testing in Bahrain next week,’ Dev Anderson announces beside me, wielding the mic like a natural showman.
‘Zaid and I can’t wait to see everything this car is capable of.
We got a taste a couple days ago during the shakedown, and I’ll just say .
. . it’s going to be a season you won’t want to miss a second of. ’
The crowd murmurs appreciatively, with a few enthusiastic smatterings of applause thrown in, but I barely hear it over my pounding heart.
‘Anything you’d like to add, Zaid?’ the host asks, watching me with the starry-eyed enthusiasm that once would have warmed me. Now it only makes cold sweat drip down my spine.
I force myself to lift the microphone, the plastic so slick from my damp palm that it nearly slides out of my grasp.
‘My teammate’s said it all – and more,’ I say, drawing a laugh from the blur of bodies below.
‘Looking forward to the season starting. Thank you to everyone back at the factory for giving us such a promising car.’
I only get the words out because of how many times I’ve said them in the past. It’s rote recitation at this point.
‘And how are you feeling about your return after that terrible crash in Singapore?’ he pushes on. ‘Are you back in winning shape? Ready to fight for another title?’
Ready to fight? Christ, the only thing I’m ready for is to run away.
It’s been five months of hell battling my way back into shape, back into a version of myself that I didn’t want to return to.
I was done with racing the second Lorenzo Castellucci forced Axel and me into the barriers, nearly killing all three of us in the process.
Seventeen years – more, if you count my time in karting and the junior formulae – of putting my life on the line has been plenty.
I’m already in the history books as a seven-time world champion, tied with a record-breaking driver from an era long past. I don’t need to prove myself any more.
I could walk away right now and no one could say I haven’t given it my all.
Except I have a multiyear contract that my team is desperate to see to completion and the chance at a record-shattering eighth title.
How am I supposed to run from that? How could I live with myself if I let down the people who have been loyal to me for all these years and expect me back on the grid?
People who want me to not just return, but win for them.
To show the world that a working-class Iraqi kid from North London could be the greatest of all time in a sport that’s always been for the most privileged.
How could I stand to disappoint them? How could I walk away from that kind of responsibility?
How could I abandon a chance at that level of glory?
This is the dream I fought to live. What my parents sacrificed so much for.
What my father wanted for me more than anything.
With him gone, this sport is the strongest connection to him that I still have.
What would he say if I left it all behind?
Even though he’s dead, I couldn’t bear disappointing him like that.
‘I’m ready to fight for another title,’ I lie. ‘Going to give it my all.’
It’s the answer the crowd wants to hear, even if the words scrape my throat like jagged shards of glass. The host wants more, though. It shows in the way he leans in, an awed sparkle in his eyes. I’ve seen it enough times that it’s hard to miss.
Apparently Dev can recognize it too, because he shifts in front of me and waves to the packed room, all bright light and big personality, everything I haven’t been in a long time.
‘Can’t wait to see you all taking advantage of our hospitality suite this season,’ he teases, striding toward the stage exit. ‘Enjoy the party!’
I’m left nodding my thanks to the crowd and following behind him, a united front, and I’ve never been so thankful for a teammate in my life.
‘You good?’ he murmurs when we’re down the steps and off in the small backstage area.
‘Having the time of my life,’ I answer, but at least my chest has stopped constricting.
His smile turns knowing. We belong to a small club of people who inherently understand one another in ways the grand majority never will.
Dev is young, more than a decade younger than me, but he’s faced his fair share of unwanted attention over the years.
He knows, on some level, how miserable it can make you, yet we have to smile and wave and be nothing but gracious through the worst of it.
Not to mention we both have the added pressure of being brown – Indian American in his case – in a predominately white sport.
When it comes to teammates, Mascort could have saddled me with someone much worse. He’s the one who kept my seat warm post-Singapore last year and helped the team fight for important points in the Constructors’ Championship while I was recovering.
They brought him over from Argonaut Racing, a lower-midfield team known for its fully American crew and drivers – and for a history of rarely winning.
But Dev somehow hauled Argonaut’s tractor of a car to P1 at the Hungarian Grand Prix after some excellent strategic calls made by the kid himself.
Not to mention he consistently outqualified and outpaced his teammate by an alarming margin.
He’s always been a talent to watch, even won Rookie of the Year when he came into F1 six seasons ago. And while I’ll never admit it publicly, in private I’d go so far as to say he might even be a better driver than me one day.
Our respective managers are waiting for us after we hand our mics to a waiting tech. Reggie nods to me, while Dev’s manager is quick to grip his elbow, looking less than pleased with his client’s behavior.
‘I need you out there circulating,’ the gray-haired man tells him, more a command than a request. ‘Just because you’re up here with the big boys now doesn’t mean you can sit back and wait for everyone to come to you.’
Dev deflates, his smile waning, but he nods nonetheless.
I’m reminded of my early days in the sport, when Reggie and I had to hustle hard for sponsorship deals, snatching up whatever we could until I started making a name for myself.
It took winning two championships for the major names to finally get behind me.
‘You should do the same,’ Reggie suggests, keeping his voice low as he moves up beside me. ‘Put in some face time. Show people you’re doing well and excited for the year ahead.’
The last time the public saw me, back in December for my charity’s annual gala, I gave my speech, said hello to a handful of people, and then left early under the guise of a family emergency.
It was more of a sighting than a proper outing, so this is my chance to be seen again in a relatively controlled environment.
It’s in my best interest to socialize and act like I’m not hating every bloody second of it.
I’m about to ask Reggie to stick with me when his phone rings, and his apologetic glance says I won’t have an ally tonight.
‘I’ll catch you out there,’ he says before turning away to answer.
And then I’m on my own.
Fine. It’s fine. I’ve done this a thousand times before, in worse places, with arguably worse people.
I can paint on a smile and lie through my teeth about how well I’m doing.
If I can convince the sports psychologist involved in clearing me to drive again, I can convince a bunch of wealthy windbags that my team is deserving of their money and support.
I take a deep breath and shake out the pins and needles in my fingers before ducking out of the backstage area. For a brief, blissful moment, I’m swept up by the crowd, just another body in the wave of partygoers. But like Moses and the Red Sea, the waters part and I’m the center of it all.
I’ve barely moved a couple of feet before the first group descends, hands patting my arms and shoulders and back like we’re old mates.
Or worse, like I’m their toy to touch and play with.
But I don’t recognize a single face. They talk at me more than with me, recounting stories about my career that I can hardly recall and asking questions they have no business inquiring about.
As soon as one group’s done, another takes their place, and I’m stuck repeating the process for the journey across the room.
There’s a circle of Mascort team members who will shield me if I ask, but I have to reach them first. It all makes me wish I hadn’t told my assistant to take the night off and my bodyguard to wait in the car, thinking I’d be safe enough with my manager and half the team in attendance. Live and fucking learn.
Sweat prickles on the back of my neck as more people press in, and I clasp my hands behind my back to keep from shoving them away.
It’s no mob scene – these are rich people with some tact – but it’s too much attention.
Not even our car launch event two days ago was this chaotic, and that included a few hundred screaming fans in the audience.
Businessmen are pushy in a different way, though, a unique entitlement coating their moves and words.
‘We should set up a meeting,’ one of them says, and I think I recognize him from a Forbes article I read while in hospital. ‘It could be a very lucrative partnership for us both – especially once you win that eighth title.’