Chapter 7
Max
“Alright, gentleman,” Drake starts, arms folded, glancing between Travis and me.
We’re on day one of our three-day pre-season test in Bahrain. I arrived last night, and Drake insisted that Travis and I be at the track first thing in the morning to have a discussion, just the three of us, before we drive our cars for the first time.
I barely slept last night, which is always the case for me when it comes to pre-season testing. The excitement and fervor to finally get to sit in the car I’ll drive over the next ten months was doubled by the fact that it’s my first car with a new team.
After months of anticipation, drives in the simulator, and weighing and measuring to ensure the correct fit of my seat, I often am like a child the night before Christmas, preparing to open my most anticipated gift.
Now, however, I’m standing in front of my team principal, next to my teammate who continues to throw side glares my way.
“Thought it was a good idea to bring you together before testing so that the two of you can get whatever you need off of your respective chests.”
Travis, who’d been leaning against the windowsill, unfolds and stands to his full height, which is an inch shorter than me. A fact that brings me pleasure.
“Drake, what is this?” Travis asks, sounding as disbelieving as I feel.
“Is something wrong with your hearing?” Drake tosses back. He looks over at me. “It’s this sport’s worst kept secret that you two aren’t exactly friends. Even when you try to fake it for the cameras.”
“I don’t fake anything,” Travis says.
I sniff. “It’s true. Some of us are simply better media trained than others,” I toss out casually.
Travis immediately comes back at me with, “You’re better than me at complaining about losing. I wouldn’t know what that’s like … the losing, I mean.” He gives me a smile that’s full of venom.
“Oh, right … like the time at this track two years ago where you lost the lead position and ultimately lost the race and lost the championship trophy.” I strongly emphasize the word ‘lost’ every time I use it.
He drops the smile, his face taking on a mask of unfiltered anger. “Fuck you,” he lobs my way. “Made up for it last year. Maybe you noticed the championship trophy with my name on it at Amato’s headquarters. It’s the one right next to your father’s winning trophy.”
“You fucker,” I growl, lunging at him before I can control myself.
Drake jumps between the two of us, using considerable effort to stop me from bulldozing through him to get to Travis.
“This is what I’m talking about,” our team principal says while holding his arms out on either side of his body to keep the two of us apart. “We cannot go through the season with you guys ready to rip each other’s faces off.”
“Tell him to stay out of my way then,” Travis says.
“Stay the hell out of mine.” Travis thinks because he won last year and has been the top driver at Amato for a few years it’ll always be that way, but things can change in an instant.
I’m going to be the impetus for that change this season.
“You have to have a way first,” Travis says. “You don’t even have your own direction. All you do is ride coattails and live off of a legacy you didn’t build.”
A noise I don’t recognize comes out of my throat. Never in my ten plus year career in racing, from go-karting to Formula 1, have I ever gone after a teammate like this. All I see is a red haze of anger in front of me.
“Stop it, dammit!” Drake bellows. “Cut this shit out,” he seethes.
Travis and I cease trying to rip through our team principal to get to one another, but we continue to glare dangerously at each other. If looks could kill, I’d be Jack the Ripper right now.
“This is the first and last time that you two will let out this type of aggression toward one another,” Drake insists, his voice just shy of yelling. “We’ll get this bullshit settled right now because we will not be going into the rest of this season at each other’s throats.”
“Bullshit,” Travis shoots back. He takes a couple of steps without taking his eyes off of me. “What did you expect when you signed him? You knew I didn’t like him and never would.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” I assure him. I’ve worked hard over the years to get along with Townsend. The motherfucker hasn’t made it easy ever since the incident that occurred almost seven years ago.
Admittedly, I’d be pissed too if I’d sustained the injury he did, but he healed. And no matter how many times I’ve said it, he refuses to believe that I didn’t cause the accident on purpose.
But I lost two years of my career due to the suspension I received. I barely made it into Formula 1 two years later as most teams were scared to touch me.
One team, Kr?mer, couldn’t refuse the lore of having Severino Ferreira’s son on their lineup.
Yes, my name attached to the brand brought in more fans.
Some of whom were genuine fans of the sport, some were fans of my father’s, while others were more fans of the macabre, as if I was some sort of fucking disaster waiting to happen and they wanted a front row seat to watch me self-destruct.
That thought brings up long buried memories. I turn away from Drake and Travis, squeezing my eyes before opening them again.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Drake says after a few pulses of silence.
“We have a really great shot at winning the Constructor’s Championship this year.
That’s not something I say lightly. Amato hasn’t brought home a team championship in over two decades.
With the car we’ve got this year and the drivers … ”
He pauses pointedly, looking between Travis and me.
“This company has poured millions into this, hundreds of employees have labored thousands of hours to bring us this far. We have a real shot. Don’t let your egos fuck it all up,” he finishes.
Travis grunts. “It’s not ego when I have the record to back up my confidence.” He gives me a pointed stare. “Can you say the same, Ferreira?”
My hands ball into fists.
He doesn’t say another word before he walks out of the room.
Drake looks at me. A beat passes before he opens his mouth. “I asked you to come over to Amato because I thought it would be good for you, working beside Townsend.”
I snort. That makes no fucking sense. Townsend isn’t some coach savant ready to step in and guide me and I damn sure don’t need any crumbs of advice he might be inclined to toss my way—not that he would.
Drake juts his head toward the door. “You need to get ready to test your car.”
There’s nothing left to say. Drake probably realizes whatever ploy he cooked up about me and Travis becoming friends is nothing more than a dream.
Summoning all of those hours of media training and coaching I referred to earlier, I prepare to get through the pre-testing interviews.
An array of sports’ journalists jockey to get a quick interview with me and the other drivers.
They all ask the same questions year after year, so none of it is new.
Except for everyone’s need to point out my obvious shift. While no one mentions my father by name, they all give me the same wide, plastic smile as they thrust the microphone in my face directly after asking how excited I am to be starting with my new team.
I know what they want.
They would love for me to bring up my father’s name. To confirm for their vulture arses that it was his legacy that prompted my decision as an excuse to jump into the grim memories of that day.
The day he was killed right in front of me in the middle of a race.
I won’t give them that satisfaction.
Instead, I smile and talk about the need for a change, how great the team at Amato has been, and how much I’m looking forward to this season. It brings me pleasure to watch the look in their eyes deflate, knowing they didn’t get the soundbite they were looking for.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Drakes says sometime later, directing Travis and I to take our places beside our cars.
Travis will do his laps first, testing out the car before doing a full-on run. It’s the last lap that will count toward our times to show not only what the cars can do but how well we handle all of the power and millions that have been poured into these rockets on wheels.
I watch on the same monitors that the rest of our team have their eyes glued to.
Travis’ car glides like melted ice on the corners and moves lightning quick on the straightaways.
Almost everyone collectively holds their breaths during the final lap.
Their hopes and dreams for a record book season weigh down the air.
Once Travis passes the finish line of his final lap, a few of the engineers whistle, high fiving one another.
“And he was holding back,” someone behind me says.
“Your turn, Ferreira,” Drake encourages, still grinning at the stopwatch in his hands.
I intentionally force my mind to go blank. This is what I do at the beginning of every test drive. I rid my mind of all expectations or past experiences. Nothing matters now more than me and the car.
Once I rev the engine and pull out of the pit, the adrenaline starts to kick in. I think back to the time Travis just put up but try to push it aside. My first task is to get a feel for the car.
I haven’t yet memorized where all of the buttons on the steering are. I should add that to my to-do list. However, all that keeps coming back to mind is that timed lap from Travis. It was fast.
“And he was holding back,” an engineer had said.
If I don’t perform the same or close to it, they’ll think I let them down.
This is the prevailing thought in my mind as I complete my first lap. It’s slow. I can feel it, but my engineer, Nico, confirms it when he reads out the time.
“Final lap,” he tells me as I come up to the starting line. “Time to push it.”
I acknowledge him as I hit the pedal to see what this car has. Something goes wrong.
The back tires spin out—not enough to make the actual car spin out, but it throws me off. From that point on, I struggle to get my head back on track.
All I can think of is Travis’ timed lap, the argument we had before our test drives, and my mother’s parting words before I left for Bahrain.
“Try not to embarrass the family name too much.”
She sighed solemnly after she told me those words as if it was a foregone conclusion that I wouldn’t perform to expectations. Like it was the truth that I was the failure … underachiever that she called me for most of my life.
Another miscalculation on my part during one of the turns, and again the car gets away from me. I barely manage to keep it on the track.
By the time I cross the finish line, I’m almost a full second off of Travis’ finishing time. In Formula 1, one second is the difference between first place and dead last.
I barely pull myself out of my car once I reach the garage. The celebrations and pats on the back that welcome me back are more contained than the celebratory applause Travis received upon his return.
After I’ve pulled off my helmet, spoken briefly with my main engineer and Drake, I start for the cool off room … only to come face to face with my smirking teammate.
“Enjoy catching all of my dirty air this season,” he says before turning his back and leaving.
Son of a bitch.