Chapter 4 #2
“I’m on comms for today,” she says, her voice crackling into my ears. “Just until we get your team reassembled.”
“One way to finally talk, I guess,” I shoot back.
The radio is open for the whole world to hear—the FIA loves it that way—and I’ve been caught out saying the most unholy shit on the open radio. But if this is the only way I can talk with Chloe, so be it.
“We’ll debrief after,” she says coolly.
If Chloe is simply stressed, she doesn’t sound it. Instead, she sounds scathing.
Well, two can play at that.
“Your place or mine?” I shoot back, baiting her.
There is a long pause as I start to crawl down the pit lane toward my out lap, and I find myself grinning as I imagine her squirming in her seat.
“Let’s focus on the lap, Matthew.”
I exit the pit, picking up the pace a little, swinging the car side to side, getting a feel for the steering, the tires.
In front of me is Ferrari, then farther up, Red Bull, and behind me my teammate Noah.
Farther back in my rearview, I can just make out the silver-and-bloodred flash of Rossini and feel a surge of bullish anger.
I breathe in deeply and glance at the sky, trying to calm myself.
Just fucking focus. Try not to let the thoughts penetrate. I can do this.
“How’s she feel, Matt?” Chloe’s voice crackles in my ears.
“Like a tin can on training wheels.”
I just catch the click of Chloe’s tongue on the roof of her mouth as the radio is cut.
I look up at the stands and spot Rossini shirts and flags from France, the Netherlands, and Mexico.
Orange rises from a stand in the distance.
Arden Racing support is sparse up there, yet I can feel everyone’s eyes on me.
I can almost hear the commentary: “And here comes Matt Warner, his shocking transfer to Arden Racing announced just hours ago, and the talk of the pits here in Singapore today. One thing for sure, if he lacked pace in a Rossini this year, he’s going to struggle in the Arden. ”
“Ready?” Chloe says.
“It seems to have started raining,” I say coolly.
Chloe sighs. “I can see that. Let’s try for one lap on the soft tires, then we can change.”
Her instincts were right and she looked weak in front of that strategist. If she’s going to be the boss here, she’s going to need to assert herself.
I put my foot on the gas and push her a little more, round the hairpin, the g-force light, the car moving better than I expected, and as the out lap draws to a close and I see the starting line ahead, I ready myself just as the first light droplets hit my windscreen.
The adrenaline surges, and my heart rate kicks up as I hit the throttle.
People wonder what it feels like to drive one of these fifteen-million-dollar machines, and you can’t even begin to imagine, honestly.
It’s as different and as hard as flying a fighter jet.
Hundreds, sometimes thousands of people work to get us to this point.
It feels nothing like a normal car. Everything is built for 220-mile-per-hour speed.
So, when your foot hits the floor, your heart is in your mouth, you pray to the racing gods that everything works as promised.
Let’s fucking do this. I cross the starting line and head into turn one.
The force of that first bend hits me like a truck to my rib cage, and I have to fight to stop my vision from blurring as I steel myself against the pressure.
Then my thoughts start to swirl.
I blink away the images of Stavros being pulled from his burning car, but there they are. Again. I feel myself pulling back on the gas, as I gasp for breath out of the turn.
It’s still happening. Everywhere I look, the crash replays over and over, like someone’s trapped me in a virtual reality headset.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and he’s still there.
When I open them, I’ve slid out of bounds.
The guttural vibration of the tires as my car taps the wall rouses me briefly, and I course-correct.
But as soon as I think I’m clear, the images are back.
High-resolution horror, everywhere I look.
I can’t breathe. The muffled sound of the engine begins to seem like white noise.
“Shit.”
“Go ahead, Matt.”
“Car’s all over the place.”
“Understood,” says Chloe. “Come in and pit. Let’s change those tires.”
“Fucking car,” I spit.
“You okay in there?” she says.
My chest tightens further as I round the final turn and cross the line. Slowing immediately, I feel my chest start to expand, the air flowing in suddenly like a valve got switched on.
“Pit. Pit,” I gasp.
“Okay. We’ll switch the wets,” says Chloe.
“No. I’m done.”
“You’re not on pace, Matt. We need another go.”
“No.”
As I hit the next bend, I make room for one of my replacements at Rossini, who barely glances at me as he flies past, likely making the fastest time of Q1.
As the crew rolls me backward into the garage, I avoid their eyes. Eyes that held so much hope a few minutes ago. I climb out, unhooking the steering wheel and tugging off all the various cords between me and the car. Those cords feel like chains right now.
The first face I see as I pull off my black fireproof face mask is Chloe’s.
“Place nineteen, but one of the McLarens was a DNF,” she says calmly. “There’s still time for another hot lap. Please, let us change the tires.”
Outside the rain starts to pour down, the crowd in the stands huddling under ponchos and umbrellas.
“No point, car’s a donkey.” I’m pouring sweat like I just did fifty-six laps, not three, and I wipe at my forehead with the back of my sleeve.
“The team can hear you, Matt,” she warns.
I want to talk to her. I want to explain that when I drive now, I am haunted by visions of my best friend and the near-fatal accident that happened just a few months ago, I want to tell her how I begged Rossini to give me time to recover and to let me visit Stavros but they refused.
Their plan to get me back in the silver wolf as fast as possible, to make me “man up” and move forward, failed.
I want to explain to her that I’m a liability and that Barry hiring me was a huge mistake.
That I’m going to bring her career down with my own.
Chloe steps a little closer, those dark eyes round with a mix of concern and frustration, maybe even a little anger. She drops her voice to a shouty whisper. “What’s going on with you? And stop blaming the car.”
There is the Chloe I remember.
“I . . .” I can’t look at her; if I do, it’s all going to come out right here on the garage floor. I drop my head.
“Yes?” she says, softly now.
I glance back up at those big brown eyes and open my mouth to try and find the words. Our hands are close, and if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch hers. Then suddenly we’re startled by a whoop and a round of applause from the strategy team. Both of us swing our heads.
“News?” Chloe asks.
“Noah. He got sixteenth!” one of them shouts, with a thumbs-up. “Nearly made Q2.”
Chloe turns back to me. She drops her voice to barely a whisper, shifting her stance, trying to shield us from the eyes of the team. “Come on. Let’s talk,” she says.
But I shake my head.
“I need to make a call,” I say firmly, then I turn to one of the pit crew, who is assessing the fuel. “Don’t forget to feed the donkey before the next race,” I say, an attempt at a joke, which, by the looks of that wide-eyed mortification on his young face, I’m pretty sure didn’t land.
I need to get out of here.
“Matt!” Chloe says, her voice sharp now.
I hand him my helmet and stride out of the garage without looking back.