Chapter 22
Zaid
I’ve always loved Silverstone.
When a white Brit outperforms me, they’re almost always viewed as the righteous bearer of our nationality, while I’m only celebrated as British when I’m winning.
I’m used to it, and I won’t deny I have some complicated feelings about it, but the truth they all hate is that it will be a long time before any other British racing driver will come near all the records I’ve set.
I take comfort in that as the rest of the grid lines up behind us, though it does nothing to quell the adrenaline rush when the first red light flashes on overhead. I want to win. I want to give Ava exactly what she asked for. But more than anything, I want to make it back to her.
My heart pounds as the rest of the lights come on one by one, lingering for the briefest of moments before going out.
I cut the wheel to the left and head off Axel going into the first turn, slotting in behind Thomas.
My getaway off the line was good, but Thomas’s was just slightly better, leaving me to stick tight to his rear wing as we twist our way around the track on the first lap.
I search for gaps, a chance to surge down the inside and take the lead, and yet I’m denied each time by Thomas shutting the door.
I fall back as we go on, seeking clean air and attempting to preserve my tires for what could potentially be a long first stint. But with the sky steadily darkening, that could all change in an instant. The strategists are going to have to fight for their lives trying to figure this out.
‘There will be rain in about twenty minutes,’ my engineer reports over the radio after giving me updates on Thomas’s and Axel’s lap times. ‘It’s the first of two cells we’re tracking.’
And as if he were an oracle with the best meteorological knowledge, the first drops hit my visor on lap fifteen.
It’s not quite a deluge in the following minutes, but it’s not a gentle mist either, and it doesn’t take long for the asphalt to darken with wetness.
I see Thomas fight a snap ahead of me when he hits a damp patch, though he recovers and pushes on.
If I want to get around him soon – and I desperately do – I have to either pressure him into making a mistake or bide my time and wait for him to make it himself. With the rain getting heavier, I’m almost certain I won’t need to do a single thing.
He starts to struggle around lap eighteen, finding no grip on the wet surface.
The car slides and wiggles, and he has a few issues in the lower-speed corners, giving me a chance to easily make up some distance and start closing the gap between us.
I hunt him down, then wait for the right place to overtake, and when the moment presents itself at Stowe corner, I swoop through on the inside to take the lead while he fights to keep the car on the track.
He’s a damn good driver, but he’s still young, lacking confidence in conditions like this, and he’s all but handed me this gift.
‘Be cautious in the wet,’ my engineer warns instead of praising me for the overtake. ‘This cell should only last a few more minutes before clearing. Let us know what you think of these tires.’
I can make these tires work if the rain doesn’t last too much longer, and according to the constant stream of information I’m getting now, I should be able to hold out.
‘They’re fine,’ I reply – and then immediately have to battle my way through nearly losing the back end.
My heart surges up into my throat, another rush of adrenaline hitting me. That was too close of a call, undoubtedly, and I can taste the bitterness of it at the back of my throat.
My engineer comes back on the radio a few moments later. ‘We think it might be time to switch to inters.’
Yes, it’s slippery and the car keeps wanting to wander to the outside, but I can survive this cell of rain without the much slower wet-weather tires.
If I’m on those when the clouds clear and the track dries out even a little, the rest of my race will be fucked.
I have to survive this. I have to push my way through this and the upcoming dry laps, then come in for intermediate tires when the next cell rolls in.
Nothing sooner than that. I can handle this.
‘No.’ I don’t explain myself further because I don’t need to. He’ll either trust my judgment or nudge me to elaborate if absolutely necessary, because while making the wrong strategy choice is always a risk, indecision can cost you just as much.
‘Okay, then. Copy,’ he says.
I’m thankful to have an engineer who trusts me and strategists who are willing to take my informed opinions into account.
They know me, know what I’m capable of, know that all my knowledge and experience and time on-track have made me into nothing short of an expert.
It’s an inherent trust that I’m going to miss more than anything when I give this up.
I know I’ve made the right call about the tires when the skies lighten again, the sun warms the surface of the track, and more dry patches appear along the racing line.
Had I put on the intermediates – like my engineer is reporting several other drivers in the back of the pack did – I’d be struggling right now.
As is, I have just enough grip to expand my lead from Thomas and Axel, who’s not far behind him.
‘Thirty minutes of rain starting soon,’ my engineer says. ‘Expected to last until lap forty.’
The rain is heavier this time, my tires kicking up spray behind me.
Axel pits on lap twenty-seven for inters, likely trying for the undercut, which means I’ll need to come in as soon as possible to keep him from getting it.
A few seconds later, I get the call to box on the next lap, an order I finally agree with.
But it’s imperative that we make this pit stop quick.
If we don’t, the win is going to slip through my fingers.
Thomas dives into the pit right behind me, playing the same game. But in a stroke of luck, his stop is slow.
‘He was held in the box to prevent an unsafe release,’ my engineer reports as I rejoin on the track with fresh tires.
Thomas comes out behind Axel, who I know will do everything in his power to hold Thomas up. He doesn’t do it for as long as I hoped for, though, and Thomas is back in my mirrors far too soon.
When there are just fifteen of the fifty-two laps left to go, the rain eases and the sun begins to stream through the remaining clouds, warm and bright. It feels like a good omen. I can do this if I just stay focused – and stay out of Thomas’s reach.
I’m called into the pits on lap thirty-nine to get rid of the intermediate tires and switch back to slicks now that things are drying out.
I come out behind Dev, who hasn’t pitted yet, so he isn’t going to be an issue.
Thomas, however, is still proving to be a problem, so close on my rear tires that it’s amazing he doesn’t clip me as I exit the pit lane.
‘Fucking hell,’ I mumble, glancing at him in my mirrors, taking in the way he darts across the track to find the dry line.
Thomas is driving angry, like he’s trying to prove something and getting frustrated that he can’t. But the only thing driving angry will do is put you into the wall, especially in conditions like this. The track is drying out, yes, but if you find that one wet patch? Your race is done.
I manage to put some space between us with ten laps to go, but my wrists are feeling the toll.
The pain starts in the joints of my thumbs and radiates up, occasionally zinging into my shoulders.
Despite the intensity, I can ignore it for the most part, though my grip is faltering and every press of a button on the steering wheel is a game of Russian roulette as to how bad it’ll hurt.
‘Gap to Maxwell-Brown is—’
‘Just leave me to it, mate,’ I interrupt, because that information isn’t going to help me now. I need to keep my head down and drive.
I’m flat out at this point, giving everything I have left in me.
The team has done the same, from my mechanics to my engineers to the strategists.
They want this win as much as I do. Mascort may technically operate as Swiss team, but our factory has been in the UK for decades and the majority of the employees are British.
This win will be one of the last gifts I can give them if I just hold on.
Five more laps. Four. Three, plus a few back marker cars to get around before I’m in the clear. Two laps. One.
And then there’s the checkered flag and my mechanics hanging over the fence to cheer me across the line and the Union Jack clutched in the fist of a marshal I pass by. The grandstands are a blur as I start my cooldown lap, waving to them all as my team congratulates me over the radio.
‘Absolutely brilliant drive,’ my engineer commends, with the shouts and applause from the rest of the garage audible in the background. ‘You’ve done it again.’
Any lingering tension from the drive leaves me in a rush of exhausted laughter. It’s not quite a joyful thing, but it’s heavy with relief, the dominant emotion I feel after a race win these days.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I tell him, and I can hear how tired I sound, despite this being a relatively straightforward race. I’d never call any of them easy, but in the grand scheme, this shouldn’t have been as hard as it felt.
‘I’m grateful for all the hard work everyone has put in. Thank you to everyone back at the factory. And thank you to all the fans. I couldn’t do this without you all.’
Basil comes on next. ‘Beautiful work, Zaid. Enjoy this one.’
I guide the car to parc fermé, coming to a halt in the winner’s spot.
Even through my helmet and ear pieces I can hear the roar of the crowd.
They chant my name and scream their joy, and I simply sit there for a moment to take it all in.
My last home race. My last British Grand Prix, and a win at that.
I could lose the championship and still feel at peace with what I’ve accomplished, because this .
. . this satisfies the high I’ve been chasing year after year.
I have to swallow past the growing lump in my throat as I free myself from the cockpit, climbing up to stand on top of the car, throwing my fists in the air in celebration as the noise of the crowd surges to a new high.
When I jump down, Thomas is waiting for me, his visor flipped up so I can see the way the corners of his blue eyes crease with a smile.
All his anger has been left on-track, as it should be.
He throws his arms around my shoulders and tugs me close. ‘A British one-two,’ he says, so posh and so delighted. ‘If I had to lose to anyone, I’m glad it was you. Congratulations, mate.’
‘Your time will come,’ I promise him as I slap his back. ‘Sooner than you think.’
I don’t miss the question in his eyes as I pull away and start toward the barricade holding back my family and the steadily increasing number of Mascort team members who’ve come down to celebrate.
I don’t bother taking off my helmet or knee pads before jogging toward them, nodding to Axel when we briefly cross paths, getting a nearly imperceptible nod back.
I spot my mother first, who blows me exaggerated kisses as she laughs.
My brother stands next to her, bouncing a squealing Noah on his hip while Emiko claps and Sami wolf-whistles.
Adnan stands behind them all, making sure people are keeping a respectful distance, but he’s grinning along with everyone else.
For a brief second, I search for my father’s face in the crowd, and my heart twists when my memory catches up to my mindless habit.
For so long, he was the first person I looked for when I climbed out of the car.
It doesn’t matter how many days and months and years have gone by without him – I’ll always look.
But in my search for him, my eyes land on Ava.
She stands at the front of the barricade on my mother’s other side, hair damp and curling at her temples from the fine mist of rain that’s steadily picking up again, fingers brushing the base of her throat where the familiar silver 45 charm rests.
I’m drawn to her like there’s a string between us, tugging me forward until I’m close enough for her to reach out and cradle my helmet between her palms. Now I’m wishing I’d taken it off, but with adoration in her eyes and a smile I’m desperate to feel, it’s probably for the best that I’ve left it on.
I want to kiss her – I want to taste her happiness and drink it down.
I want to show her what she and this moment mean to me in a way I’ve been dying to do for months.
But I don’t want anyone sharing in that moment with us. I want it just for us.
‘You did it!’ she shouts, more excited for me than I am for myself.
‘You told me to win,’ I tease her. ‘I was only following orders.’
She laughs, and it drowns out the sound of everything else in my head. ‘Does that mean you’ll do everything I say?’
She gazes up at me like there’s no one else around, eyes only for me, and for a blissful moment I don’t belong to the world. No one else can consume me. I’m hers and hers alone.
‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Ava.’
Her smile falters and her lips part, searching for words.
But before she can say anything, the world rushes back in and I’m tugged away by more hands, thrown back into a universe that’s more than just me and her.
I go with little resistance, only because I know she’ll be waiting for me when the whirlwind spits me back out.
And when I find her again, when it’s just the two of us – when the world has narrowed back down to me and her – I’m going to make good on all my promises.