Chapter 6
Zaid
@LIGHTS_OUT_GOSSIP
Anyway, for those of you who care more about the actual sport than the interpersonal drama (we’re not sure why you’re following us in that case), pre-season testing in Bahrain begins today, and there’s just over one week to go before the first grand prix of the season.
Until then, let’s all enjoy the last moments of silly season and the look-at-me-shirtless-on-a-yacht photos these rich (and incredibly ripped) men love to post.
Leave your season predictions in the comments!
We think Axel Bergmüller is going to come back raging and Zaid Yousef will match him blow for blow, but we’re not counting out last year’s champion, Reid Coleman, just yet.
Reid could have a shot at a second title, especially if his homeboy Dev Anderson continues his streak of giving up his lead to Reid in the last few laps.
More importantly, Reid’s going to need his team at D’Ambrosi to not be an absolute clown show for once, but we’re not sure they’re capable of anything but pure fuckery.
COMMENTS
no1_axel_berg_fan Axel’s taking the championship this year no doubt
no1_axel_berg_fan then again Zaid won the year he was supposedly fucking Farahani’s daughter so maybe good pussy is the way to a championship idk
Bahrain
Dev Anderson is, in short, a fucking muppet.
Fortunately, he’s the most competent muppet I’ve ever met, a talented driver with a good head on his shoulders.
It was a smart move on Mascort’s behalf not only to sign him to be my teammate this season, but to have him replace me in the grands prix I missed last year.
His impressive string of podium finishes was the only reason Mascort won the Constructors’ Championship instead of giving it up to Specter Energy, making him our team’s savior.
Shame all that doesn’t make him any less annoying.
‘Still can’t believe they’re letting two brown people be on a team,’ Dev says, practically bouncing in the passenger seat as I drive us from our hotel to the Sakhir circuit, the sights of Bahrain flashing by out the window. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if the FIA finds a rule against it.’
I try to tune out Dev’s blathering, wishing the team hadn’t insisted on us carpooling for the sake of teammate bonding. Or, really, they want it to look like we’re one big happy racing family to everyone on the outside, because friendship is marketable.
Dev makes a decent point, though. This isn’t a very diverse sport, and while he and I represent some of the progress made, there’s still so far to go.
‘You excited to be back at it?’ he asks. ‘Bet you missed all this shit while you were gone.’
I keep my eyes on the road at his question, avoiding his curiosity.
Dev doesn’t need to see the unease that lingers in my gaze or the fear I keep having to swallow back.
I’m sure it already shows in my tense shoulders and the terse answers I’ve been giving him and everyone else.
How I haven’t been called on it or been taken aside for a private conversation by a higher-up is a mystery, because how has no one noticed this seismic shift? Am I the only one who feels it?
‘Yeah,’ I answer once I crush the dread back into its too-small box.
Dev waits for me to elaborate, but there’s nothing else I want to say about the start of pre-season testing today.
I used to like testing and the build-up to the season.
After months of simulator work and the shakedown a week before the official testing days to see if the new car would even drive, I’d have a taste of what was to come.
But there was always more to be discovered, more to push for, and it would become clear during those three exhilarating days on-track.
Now, though? I’m trying to keep down the muesli my trainer shoved at me this morning, because the idea of racing again makes me sick.
I still don’t know how I survived the shakedown.
I don’t know how I climbed into the car for the first time without having a panic attack, all while being watched and filmed and photographed by everyone imaginable for marketing material.
I don’t know how I did lap after lap at Silverstone – albeit slow ones compared to typical race pace – without hyperventilating inside my helmet.
Was it muscle memory? Do something enough times and you’ll never forget, right? Like riding a bike.
Except this proverbial bike is an eight-hundred-kilo race car going two hundred miles an hour.
‘The car felt pretty good in the shakedown,’ Dev goes on when I don’t fill the silence. ‘I mean, I know it was only a few laps around the track, but hey, at least it didn’t explode or anything, so that’s a plus. I guess we won’t know for sure what we’re working with until we do a full run.’
‘Right.’
‘And we won’t really know how we stack up until next week’s race. You ready for it, buddy?’
‘Sure.’
I don’t want to be an asshole, but this is all I can manage. I need to get my shit together because Dev doesn’t deserve to face the brunt of my anxiety spiral. I don’t dislike the guy. He’s ridiculous, sure, but he has an edge I respect, plus a sharpness that can’t and shouldn’t be ignored.
But I don’t foresee us being more than teammates and acquaintances, and him calling me buddy in his charming California-boy accent only sets my teeth further on edge.
My last teammate and I had a slightly better relationship by simple virtue of being paired together for five years – and his knowing he was always going to be the number-two driver.
But I get the vibe that Dev’s hungry to do more than just support me, and it’s easier to be friends with someone when they’re not your direct competition. But in Formula 1, your teammate is the one person you’re always looking to beat.
‘Are you nervous for today?’ I ask him before he can ramble on, even though the answer is obvious.
Dev tucks a finger under the neck of his black Mascort T-shirt, tugging the fabric away from his throat, then glances at me from the corner of his eye. ‘Will you judge me if I say yes?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then yes,’ he blurts. ‘I’m so excited I could scream, but I’m also shitting myself.
I never felt anxious at Argonaut, not since my rookie season.
They barely developed the car from year to year unless there were major regulation changes.
I knew it like it was part of me. But filling in for you last season .
. .’ He trails off before blowing out a heavy breath.
‘I did well enough, but I was fighting for my fucking life the whole time. It’s like I’d been driving in easy mode for five years and suddenly someone turned the difficulty up to extra hard. ’
Some of the pressure in my chest eases with his confession because I understand that feeling all too well.
I’ve had nearly two decades to hone my craft, and ten of those years have been spent at Mascort as their number-one driver.
I can’t definitively say the cars were designed around my tastes, but they were built with my input and preferences at front of mind.
Anyone who can’t fit the standards I’ve set has to either cope the best they can or pack it up.
But before that? When I was still young and green and paired with veterans who were in the same privileged position I am now? Shit was rough.
‘I’ve always been in awe of you,’ Dev goes on, ‘but driving your car, it . . . changed things for me. I’ve never been scared behind the wheel before, but that experience took years off my life. You make it look easy, and no one realizes how hard you work for it to seem that way.’
I appreciate the recognition of my labor, but I’m hung up on his vulnerability.
I’ve never admitted anything to a teammate like he’s confessing to me now, even though I’ve felt it before, all because they would have used it against me.
His ability to let it out so easily is enviable and shows some of the progress this sport has seen over the years.
The only people I’ve ever been able to be so open with are my therapist, my father, and . . . Ava.
Both times with her were a mistake – a wrong-place, wrong-time situation that she happened to stumble upon. But when it happened last week, I wanted her to see beneath the mask, to let her prod at the parts of me that have yet to heal. Because, for some reason, I knew she’d understand.
I’ve lost count of how many times today alone I’ve found my mind drifting toward her, adding to an endless tally in the five days since the party.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise – I’ve always struggled to keep her out of my head, starting from the first time I saw her in the paddock fifteen years ago.
It must be a trend with her, because she made me laugh on that day too.
It was back before she started working for Specter Energy, still in university and traveling with her father over her summer break.
She was fresh-faced and beaming, like the behind-the-scenes chaos was the most amazing thing she’d ever experienced, and her teasing smile stole my attention.
She was walking beside Omid, ribbing him after a contentious qualifying session that had resulted in one of their drivers being slapped with a ten-place grid penalty.
When we passed each other as I was on my way back to Deschamp’s motorhome, I overheard her innocently offer to speak to the FIA – the governing body of our sport – to get the penalty reduced, suggesting increasingly outrageous solutions at a rapid-fire pace every time the man exhaustedly shot her down.
My snicker caught her attention, and when our eyes met, she didn’t waste a second before shooting me a wink and loudly declaring, ‘Well if you won’t let me go in there and cry, I say we just go with good old-fashioned bribery.’