Chapter 8
Zaid
@LIGHTS_OUT_GOSSIP
We need to talk about how ridiculously hot Stella Margaux Maxwell-Brown looked walking into the Miami paddock this morning. This is the first race she’s attended since Jeddah, likely because she’s been busy opening new locations of her famous patisserie chain.
Hopefully she’ll be a good-luck charm for her husband, because the man needs it after the terrible race he had in China two weeks ago, finishing outside the points after suffering a tire puncture not once but *twice* during the grand prix.
It’s not like Thomas was ever going to be a championship contender, but still, what a disaster.
Back to what really matters: How much do you want to bet that all the other WAGs hate Stella? Hot, successful in her own right, married to one of the sexiest drivers on the grid . . . Yeah, we’d hate her too.
Miami
Miami is a fucking nightmare.
Each of the American races is its own special, themed hell – cowboys and football in Austin, gambling and Elvis in Las Vegas – but Miami is a horror movie combination of celebrity worship, blinding eighties neon colors, and the worst humidity outside of Singapore.
‘Fucking hell,’ Adnan grumbles, holding up a hand to keep another zealous group of fans at a distance. ‘They let just anyone in here these days.’
Anyone with money is the more accurate answer, but my bodyguard isn’t wrong.
Still, I smile and wave and put a hand over my heart to show my gratitude as we walk on through the paddock.
It’s not until Adnan safely delivers me to my private driver room that I let the smile drop away and massage the tension from my jaw.
I’ve been faking a good mood since Wednesday, tackling another week of mandated interviews and sponsor events and filming ridiculous social media clips with Dev.
It all required me to be on and present, and now I’m so drained that it’ll be a miracle if I don’t fall asleep on the grid in a few hours.
Dev is starting tenth after a qualifying session cut short by a red flag, and while I’m faring a little better in P3, Axel’s starting P2.
Shockingly, Reid Coleman outqualified us both and took pole.
I’m hanging on to the top spot of the championship, ahead of Axel after five races by a measly four points, so I’ll either expand that gap today or lose it.
Starting third isn’t the worst outcome, even on a track like Miami’s, where overtaking isn’t easy. Besides, I won in Jeddah from P3. Doesn’t that prove I still have what it takes?
I wish I could look back on that win with fonder feelings – wish I could use it as fuel to keep driving hard and rediscover my passion for racing.
But the truth is, there was no joy in it, only relief.
I thought it might be a fluke, something I could brush away and move on from with my next win, but taking the top step at the Chinese Grand Prix after a duet of second-place finishes in Australia and Japan proved it wasn’t a one-off thing.
I thought winning again would feel better than that. It didn’t feel much different from losing. And yet I’m still here, because the idea of walking away is more intimidating than staying.
Today, I put on my fireproof suit and go through my pre-race rituals with my trainer in near silence.
I keep my chats with our team principal and engineers short.
I linger in the corners of the garage, avoiding cameras and eye contact with the celebrities in the VIP box.
I’m sure I’ll wake up tomorrow to another call from my manager gently pressuring me to be more social next time.
But really, who fucking cares? I’m finally doing what so many people demanded of me in years past as a public figure who dared to speak his mind – shut up and drive.
On the starting grid, I flex my fingers one at a time as I grip the wheel, reassured when my wrists only give the tiniest of protesting twinges, and watch my mirrors as the rest of the cars file in.
Surviving turn one and not getting taken out by anyone is the goal.
Last season my own teammate nearly drove me into the barriers when he locked up, coming mere inches from clipping my rear wheels as he sailed across the track.
With Dev in the midfield, I won’t have to worry about him repeating Otto’s mistake, but it also means I’m on my own to defend my position.
When all the cars are in their boxes, I take a deep breath, holding it as the five red lights flick on one by one. And then it’s lights out.
I’m off the line right behind Reid, and for a split second I’m certain I can stay there, but the right-hander of turn one gives Axel the chance to swoop back in and keep P2, especially when I have to lift off the throttle to avoid the McMorris from P4 that streaks in front of me, heading straight for the runoff area.
I push again when I’m clear, keeping tight on Axel’s rear wing, following him into turn after turn.
There’s a little understeer that I have to fight, enough that I complain to my engineer about it on the radio with less-than-family-friendly language.
I’m forced to fall back when Axel’s dirty air in the corners starts to hinder me, though I do my best to make it up in the straights.
Still, he pulls away, because that car is a rocket ship.
It only takes three laps before Axel makes a tricky move on Reid at the hairpin of turn seventeen, diving down the inside, cutting it so close that I swear their wheels touch. And then he’s ahead, taking the lead and wasting no time running off with it, while I’m left to contend with the D’Ambrosi.
I have to hand it to Reid – kid’s good. Last season, he stuck close in the points behind Axel and me, never letting us get too complacent or absorbed in our battle.
And while luck played a major role in his championship win, his grit and determination were the main contributors. You don’t win without the work.
But I’m not letting him win again.
By lap seven, after being forced to back out of several overtake attempts, I’m fed the fuck up with being stuck behind Reid as Axel pulls farther ahead.
Reid’s defending hard, but he’s not faultless.
Nor is he as ruthless as he should be. At his age, I was a goddamn nuisance on-track, and even Axel in his rookie season was bolder than this.
Then again, I might be cautious too if I witnessed my teammate’s hubris almost get him killed.
I’m not proud of the move I make on the D’Ambrosi in the next turn. It’s dickish and risky and if it was done to me I’d be whinging for a penalty. But nudging him slightly wide gets the job done, and I can finally get on with catching up to Axel.
‘Zaid,’ my engineer warns over the radio when I’ve safely exited the corner ahead of Reid. ‘What have we talked about?’
What haven’t I been scolded for lately is the real question. Top of the list is how I’ve made rash decisions and pushed the car too hard. How I’m racking up penalty points and could get slapped with a race ban if I continue. How I no longer seem to have any regard for the rules – or my life.
‘You’re being reckless,’ Basil, our team principal, snapped at me in the aftermath of the Japanese Grand Prix, where I’d been given a time penalty for said recklessness. ‘You’re driving like you have nothing to live for.’
‘I have a record-breaking championship to live for,’ I boredly told him, even while resentment burned behind my ribs because those daredevil moments were the only thing keeping my heart beating. ‘I think that’s something.’
‘You won’t be alive to see that championship if you keep this up, Zaid.’
I’ve always loved taking risks. Always loved seeing just how far I could push the limits.
But he’s right that I’ve been toying with the edge of what I can get away with, safely or otherwise.
I didn’t admit it then, and even now, with my engineer waiting for an answer, all I’m tempted to do is act out again like a petulant toddler.
‘What’s the gap to Axel?’ I demand instead.
I sense more than hear his sigh. ‘Two point—’ He cuts short, announcing what’s just flashed across the screen of my steering wheel. ‘Safety car. Incident in sector one.’
I’m making my way through sector three now, forced to slow thanks to the double yellow flags being waved, and it’s not long before the reason for it comes into view. There’s a ruined Argonaut in the wall, its front wing and front right tire ripped off – and an unmoving driver still inside.
My heart creeps into my throat at the sight. It’s not the first crash I’ve seen since the start of the season and it won’t be the last, but each one churns my stomach, acid eating away at the steel walls I keep trying to rebuild.
‘Is he okay?’ I ask my engineer, surprised my voice doesn’t crack.
‘Trying to find out.’
I want to snap at him to be quick about it but keep my mouth shut.
Instead, I pass by the car as slowly as I reasonably can, spotting the colors of Nathaniel Decker’s helmet, holding my breath until I see him detach the steering wheel.
Only then do I exhale and keep on, catching up to Axel as the safety car guides the bunching convoy around the track.
‘Decker’s okay,’ my engineer says, confirming what I’ve seen. ‘Lots of debris, so be careful. It’ll be a few laps behind the safety car before they can get this cleaned up.’
I have my issues with Argonaut Racing, their Texas billionaire owner, and their nationalistic All American, all the time slogan and way of life, but I feel for Nathaniel, even though he only has his seat because his father owns the team.
Nepo baby or not, crashing in your home race is a huge disappointment.
I’ve done it once, at Silverstone, and I’d prefer to never do it again.