Chapter 21
Chloe
S?o Paulo (Brazil) Grand Prix
Qualifying
The hum of activity fills our garage—the clackity-clacking of whirring machinery, banging tools, and that constant murmur of a team hard at work as we prepare for this critical Rio qualifying.
Above all, I’m delighted to hear the occasional burst of laughter.
As though our team is enjoying this again.
Our mechanics, decked out in their green-and-black uniforms, dart around the gleaming Arden F1 cars, making those all-important final adjustments. We are almost ready.
I watch a shirtless Matt do bench presses while Noah lazily spots him with one hand wrapped around a green smoothie. I’m trying not to watch, but it’s virtually impossible not to ogle Matt. And now that I’ve touched that chest, run my hands up those arms, I know what it feels like to have him.
I stare up at the ceiling, cursing myself and my shitty self-control and the situation we’ve managed to get ourselves into.
But when I look back at him, my stomach flips.
The way he looks across at me right now, sitting on the bench between sets, towel over his shoulder.
Once upon a time when Matt looked at me like that, I felt as though there was a joke I wasn’t in on.
Now I know the joke—trying to deny what was between us this whole time.
He’s even more attractive to me than before.
That glint in his eye is just enough to send me back to the hill at Silverstone.
He lifts the corner of his mouth into a wicked grin.
I shake my head back at him. Stop it. We are going to get caught if he keeps looking at me like that, let alone constantly putting his hands all over me, every time he thinks no one is looking.
I look away, smiling despite myself.
“Barry, can we talk?” I say, calling him away from Matt’s eyeline. Or maybe I’m mostly getting myself away. “Also, whose idea was it to bring the gym gear into the back of the garage?”
“Matt and Noah’s,” he says, as we walk down the hallway toward the driver quarters.
“I see,” I reply, frowning.
“Feel like we have a new kid out there,” he says. “He’s stopped eating shit, he’s training. He’s climbing up the fucking leaderboard. He can have whatever he wants.”
“It was a good start.”
“Good start? We’re heading to the top!” Barry kisses his finger and points to the sky. Or at least, the roof of the garage.
Climbing up the leaderboard? We have two points in eighteen races! I admire Barry’s belief in his choices and our ability to deliver, but he’s in delulu land if he thinks one good race is going to change things. We have so much work to do.
“Barry,” I say, ushering him to the back of the garage. “How are we doing with sponsors? I need to start thinking about next season.”
“Let me worry about that,” he says evasively.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that it is my job, and not the owner’s, to think about the strategy for next season. “It’s my area to worry about it. To start planning for it. Even if you decide to replace me.”
Barry’s eyes drop to the floor as if he’s looking for Ginger and Roger, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve not seen them by his feet.
“Where are they?”
“Ginger was sick, so she stayed in England, and I couldn’t take Roger alone.”
He looks a little anxious as he says this.
“I’m sorry, Barry, you must be beside yourself,” I say.
“Just don’t take it the wrong way if I stroke your head during the race,” he says.
I cannot help but laugh.
“But yeah, to your question, Chloe, we have some sponsors, some more upmarket sponsors, promising to come to Vegas if we can perform this weekend.”
“Oh, that’s good news. A bit of pressure, but good.”
“If we can secure a really top sponsor . . .” he says, his voice trailing off as he catches himself.
“I know about the money problems, Barry,” I say, hands balling in front of me. I don’t want to embarrass him, but also, I need him to share these things with me.
“You do?” he says, snapping his head round.
I nod. “Just . . . try to share the full picture with me, okay?”
“The press was fucking good last week,” he says, “but it isn’t enough, Chloe. We need big motherfucking headlines. We need something to make people want to be with this damn brand. We will never be Rossini or Red Bull.”
“We won’t. But we can be Arden.”
“Who the fuck is Arden?”
I suddenly hear the crash at the other end of the garage, which catches both our attention.
Noah falls onto Matt after a failed chin-up, causing both of them to break out laughing.
Noah’s green smoothie was knocked over in the process and spilled all over the mat, and in almost comedy sketch fashion, Noah slides on it as he tries to stand, landing him back on Matt.
I see the pit crew laugh together for the first time since I joined, and I see Archie rushing over with paper towels, also slipping and falling to the floor in the process.
Three grown men, a salad of arms and legs, smothered in green goddess smoothie.
“That’s our team,” I say wryly, and Barry giggles. “And we’re a family.”
“You feel like that?” he asks, his big eyes round with delight.
“I do, actually,” I say.
“And not just because you and Matt are, like . . . you know?”
I flame beet red. Holy shit. He’s noticed?
“We’re nothing. We’re old friends,” I say quickly. “Now, who is the sponsor? Shall we plan a night out with them in Vegas?” I hope my speedy deflection moves the conversation on.
Barry grins. “Finally. You got something to wear that isn’t a pair of jeans?”
But before I speak, just behind us, I feel the atmosphere shift.
The sound of footsteps marching across the garage floor and a door shutting firmly.
I spin around to see a group of stern-faced officials filing into the garage, led by the chief inspector—a tall man with terrifying villain energy, who looks like he could part the ocean with one downward glance.
“The Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile,” I whisper to Barry. “The FIA.”
“I know who the governing fucking body of F1 is,” he shoots back.
The hum of activity stops abruptly, and I race over to protectively stand in front of the cars as a tense silence fills the garage. What are the FIA doing here? What is going on? Is this an inspection?
“Hi, all,” the chief inspector says, his voice cutting through the silence, his German accent truly not helping with the villain energy. “We have received a formal complaint and are conducting a surprise inspection. I need all the crew to step back.”
Matt, who is still paper-toweling the green goddess off his bare chest, spins around, eyes blazing with disbelief. “What? Are you serious? Qualifying is in a few hours.”
I feel my blood pressure spike as my outrage matches Matt’s. But I need to remain calm.
“Right, boys, you heard the man,” I say, as they put down their tools and moan. Matt glances sideways at Jasper, who shrugs it all off as if this just ain’t no thing.
As the FIA officials begin methodically disassembling the car, our team of engineers and mechanics watch on, frustration etched on their faces as their hard work is pulled apart piece by piece.
The chief inspector’s expression remains serious but impassive, as measurements and weights are cross-checked.
Matt paces back and forth like a caged tiger, the team behind us, his anger barely contained. He turns to me, his voice low but seething with fury. “This is a joke. Who the fuck complained?”
“We jumped several places. It’s not unreasonable a competitor made the call,” I say, trying to reason with my own nerves. “But it’s fucking annoying.”
Barry wanders over to join us, a broad smile on his chubby cheeks. His jolly presence is the polar opposite of the anxiety that grips the room.
“Well, well, well,” he says, his voice brimming with amusement. “Looks like we’ve got everyone’s attention now.”
Matt and I turn to him.
“If we’ve got the attention of another team, we’ll be getting the attention of sponsors. This is the kind of press I mean, Chloe.” He grins, sweeping a hand across the air as he says, “Arden Under Surprise Fucking Inspection After Complaint About Huge Fucking Improvements.”
“Wordy headline,” Archie mumbles.
“We can edit out the swear words,” I grumble back to him.
“Do you know how much pressure the team will be under to get these cars back and running for qualifying?” Matt seethes. “Fucking Rossini. It’s straight out of their playbook.”
“Relax. This is a good sign,” I say.
Archie’s outrage softens slightly. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“It’s sabotage,” Matt interjects, fists clenched just as Jasper joins us, rolling a cigarette with long, tobacco-stained fingers. “This feels personal, honestly. What if they find something?”
“They won’t,” says Jasper.
I nod in agreement. “Car’s sound. Budget’s tight. Let them look. We’ll come out stronger for it.”
The officials meticulously examine every component of the car, following their precise checklist. They measure the thickness of the car’s floor.
They inspect the front and rear wings. The bargeboards and diffusers are scrutinized for their dimensions and placement.
They check the fuel system, the electronics, and the energy recovery systems to ensure they meet the strict standards set by the governing body.
Meanwhile, Jasper is back outside smoking, Matt is still pacing, Archie sits with arms crossed, poised to appeal any tiny suggestion of illegality.
Our mechanics hover nearby, ready to answer any questions and provide documentation.
I keep a close eye on the process, arms also crossed and expression stern.
“I’ll lodge an objection,” I say quietly to Barry. “We can play the game.”
But Barry is enjoying it. He moves through the garage, offering words of sarcastic encouragement to the officials. “Found nothing? Oh, gee, I’m so sorry. We should do a better job of cheating next time, huh?”
The news of the surprise inspection spreads like wildfire through the paddock, and soon, the press begin to gather outside our pit.
Barry notices it before I do, taking a step toward them. Then he pauses, scratches the back of his head, and turns back to me. “You should probably do this,” he says, nodding. “It’s really your job, right?”
I glance sideways at Matt, who has stopped pacing long enough to nod encouragingly at me. I swallow the bile that rises up in my throat as I head out to the pit, ready to meet the scrum and answer a few questions.
Microphones are thrust forward and questions are shouted. There’s a cacophony of curiosity and speculation, which sounds for all the world like a bunch of hungry yapping puppies.
“Surprise inspection? Anything to hide?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, stone-faced. I spot Jack in the semicircle of microphones and smile at him, but am surprised to see him remain impassive in return. I frown. What is that about? He’s not still smarting because I didn’t go to dinner with him, is he?
“Chloe, is it true you’ve made illegal alterations to the rear wing?” says a reporter, jolting me back to the scene.
“What?” I say, caught off guard, and then I regroup. “Who told you that, Ian?”
Ian laughs. “My source,” he replies, playing along.
“Not true, sorry. While we’re annoyed at the timing of the inspection, we’re confident this is a fishing expedition.” I take a breath. “All I want to know is, who’s afraid enough of Arden to make a complaint?”
Several of the reporters laugh, and I grin in response.
I hope, pray that I’ve given the impression that we’re totally relaxed, have nothing to hide, and are in fact slightly amused by the whole thing.
I spot Jack looking down at his phone among the group of reporters and feel a dark unease.
There is nothing so unpredictable as a man who has been romantically rejected.
Nothing so dangerous, actually.
I make a mental note to send him a text later, and maybe even meet him for a friendly drink. The last thing I need is Jack hurt and turning on me in the press, just as I’m beginning to gain some confidence.
As I return to the garage, the chief inspector straightens up, face giving nothing away. He nods to his team, and they begin reassembling the car. “You’re clear,” he says simply. “We found no violations.”
A collective sigh of relief sweeps through the garage.
The mechanics spring into action, working triple-time to get the car ready for qualifying.
Matt gives Barry a tight-lipped smile, still simmering with anger but relieved.
I allow myself an internal “whoop whoop” of triumph before kicking into high gear for the race.
“See?” Barry says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“I have to admit, you’re right,” I say, grinning. I turn to the bustling garage. “Team, we got them talking,” I say loudly. “Now let’s make them cry.”