Chapter 28
Zaid
Thursday. Media day, the worst day of the week. And as luck would have it, it’s my turn to join the drivers’ press conference.
Today’s interview lineup consists of me, Axel, Thomas, and Reid.
I’m sure if Lorenzo Castellucci were still racing, he would have been here instead of Reid, his ex-teammate, but I guess they wanted at least one guy in red.
To round out the group of five, they’ve thrown in Theo, fresh-faced and wide-eyed in comparison to the rest of us grizzled veterans who barely walked away with our lives – or reputations, in Thomas’s case – here last year.
Steven Watters, our interviewer, is practically vibrating with excitement as he surveys us all squeezed together on the couch.
Axel and I are on the ends like two Titans who have to be kept apart for everyone’s safety, with Thomas next to him and Reid next to me.
Poor Theo is in the middle like a deer caught in headlights, microphone clutched against his chest like he’s afraid someone might snatch it away and tell him he’s not supposed to be here. I think he might even be hoping for it.
‘A very warm welcome, everybody, to the drivers’ press conference ahead of the Formula 1 Singapore Grand Prix,’ Steven announces grandly to camera, eyes briefly flicking to all the journalists in the room.
‘We have the first group joining us now. Welcome to you all. Let’s start with who’s closest to me: Zaid Yousef. ’
Fucking great.
‘Zaid,’ Steven says like this is a reality show reunion, shifting in his leather armchair to face me. ‘We all remember what happened here last year. How are you feeling about returning to the track where your career – and life – nearly ended?’
Well, he’s not going light on the dramatics today.
It takes an effort to remember my decades of media training and keep my expression neutral as I lift my microphone.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I lie. ‘Singapore has always been one of my favorite tracks, nothing has changed that. And with our latest upgrade package on the car, I think we can expect a good result this weekend.’
We could expect that if I thought I could drive more than sixty miles an hour around the circuit, but right now, the idea of going flat out makes me queasy.
Judging from the scoff that comes from the other end of the couch, Axel doesn’t believe a word of what I’m saying, probably because he feels the same.
Steven nods like I’ve given an incredibly insightful answer when it was really all just bullshit. ‘And how would you describe your mental state?’ he goes on. ‘Are you locked in or are there . . . distractions keeping you from focusing?’
The coded language and unnecessary emphasis have shown up, but I do my best to take it all in stride. ‘I’m focused on the weekend ahead, yes.’
He waits for more, but when I don’t give it to him, he shuffles the note cards in his hand and clears his throat.
‘Of course. But there are things outside Formula 1 taking up your attention. Namely, the baby you have on the way with Ava Farahani, daughter of Specter Energy’s team principal.
’ He pauses, giving me space to butt in if I so choose, but I stay quiet and hold out for him to actually ask a question.
‘Do you feel your performance is going to suffer the closer you get to becoming a father? Considering how tight the championship battle is between you and Axel, do you feel it’s already declining? ’
I’ve gotten this same question a thousand times already in other interviews, and every reporter finds a way to rephrase and re-ask it every week. This time, Steven’s put it in a way that bristles, and my fingers squeeze tighter around the microphone to temper my annoyance.
‘You act like I’m the only driver who’s ever had a child,’ I say, doing my best to infuse humor into my voice, and based on the scattered chuckles throughout the audience, it works.
‘There are two people currently on the grid with seven kids between them. Are you going to ask them about how their children affect their performance the next time they’re in here? ’
‘So you really don’t think having a baby is going to interfere with your racing?’ Steven shoots back at me, sidestepping my question.
I’m so close to telling this guy to fuck off when I spot Axel leaning forward, microphone lifted to say something.
‘Speaking of babies,’ he cuts in before I can answer, his attention locked on Steven. ‘Were you dropped on your head as one?’
There’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd of journalists and the telltale groan of his press officer in the back of the room.
‘No, really,’ Axel continues as Steven splutters. ‘You must have been to ask a question like that. Shall we call your mother and confirm? What’s her number? I really do think we should have a chat about how she raised you.’
Down the couch, Thomas has his face in his hands as he shakes with silent laughter and Reid is pinching the bridge of his nose, but I’m just staring in awe because underneath all the insults . . . Axel Bergmüller is defending me.
‘You all need to fuck off’ – there’s another pained press officer groan – ‘with those kinds of questions and stick to talking about racing. You’re shit enough at that, but at least it’s in your job descriptions. Stay out of our personal lives.’
This time it’s a nearly sobbed ‘Oh, Christ almighty’ from the back of the room, but Axel pays it no mind and leans back against the couch cushions, completely unfazed. I, however, have to wonder if I’m dreaming.
‘Right, I think we’ll move on now,’ Steven announces nervously. ‘Theo, coming over to you. Your performance has been . . .’
I tune out the rest of the press conference until it’s time for audience questions, but everyone is cautious with what they ask after Axel’s outburst.
When it ends, I don’t waste a second getting up from the couch and off the stage. I linger in the back hallway until Axel steps out, then fall into step with him as we head for the team motorhomes.
‘How much trouble do you think you’re going to be in for that?’ I murmur to him as we walk, knowing once any photographers spot us they’re going to have a field day, but I can’t ignore what he did for me.
Axel shrugs. ‘Who cares. Let them come after me. They can fine me, give me a race ban . . . But maybe it will finally stop these leeches from treating us like we aren’t human.’
I’ve had similar conversations with other drivers in private, of how the strain of having no privacy and people prying into our lives can be enough to make us want to quit. The love of motorsport keeps us here, but after a while, it’s no longer enough.
Not many drivers have dared fight back, though, not like Axel just has. Sure, we put out bland PR statements asking for privacy and minorly scold some reporters for pushing too hard, but never like that. And it seems like this is just the start for Axel.
‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘better me saying something than you.’
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We both know they’ll go easier on me than if you’d said it. I’ve watched you try and they always ripped you to pieces, even though you were right to call them out and did it so gently. So, fuck it, I’ll do it.’
He takes a casual sip from the Specter Energy drink can he’s almost always clutching when wandering the paddock, like he hasn’t realized the weight of what he’s declared. Or maybe he has. Maybe this has been in the making for a while now, and he’s finally found the moment to let it shine.
‘You were never like this before,’ I comment, still watching him.
He was quiet in his rookie season, mostly keeping to himself, nothing like Dev and Thomas, who followed me around like lost puppies, or even like Reid, who became a media darling with his honeyed American drawl at a storied Italian team.
In press conferences, Axel never said more than he had to and pushed journalists to the edge of their sanity to get a decent quote.
He opened up a little once he started winning races, and a little bit more once he won a championship, but he wasn’t interested in the press or making friends.
Hell, he was barely interested in talking. So this outburst? It’s unexpected.
‘What’s changed?’ I ask.
‘Remember that time we almost died here?’ Sarcasm drips from every word as he rolls his eyes, but when his gaze lands on me again, he’s serious.
‘I’m done shutting up to keep people happy.
I get why you had to – why you put your money where your mouth is instead.
They never listened to what you had to say, so you made it so that they couldn’t ignore you. ’
He’s right. I had to go through different channels than most to have my voice heard, simply because I’d be labeled as angry, uncivilized, and ungrateful for simply pointing out the negatives of this sport, including the inequality.
So I started my foundation to encourage more girls and marginalized kids to study STEM and introduce them to motorsport.
I donated millions to organizations that support similar initiatives and acted as a brand ambassador for companies that aligned with my values.
All because money speaks louder than words in this sphere of ours, especially if you look like me.
But Axel is clearly ready to scream it from the rooftops, and I hope, for all our sakes, that people will start to listen.
‘Me, though?’ he says loudly, drawing attention as he climbs the steps of the Specter Energy motorhome. ‘I’m going to do what I do best – be a fucking nightmare.’
——
Friday. The first free practice session, and the first time back out on this circuit.
I’m not as sick to my stomach as I was when pre-season testing began, and I’m giving all the credit to Ava. She pressed a kiss to my jaw before it was time to climb into the car, whispering to me to show the world what a champion is capable of.