Chapter Five #2
The Circuit of the Americas baked under the relentless Texas sun, the air thick with BBQ, hot asphalt, and high-octane fuel that clung to everything like a second skin.
Race weekend had started promisingly—P7 in qualifying after a blistering lap where the car felt alive, glued to the track, responding to every twitch of the wheel like an extension of his body.
He’d felt the machine during practice, hungry and precise, the engine growling as he pushed through the iconic esses, elevation changes pulling G-forces that made his blood sing and his vision tunnel.
This was why he raced: the edge, the purity, the adrenaline of threading a needle at 200 mph amid a field of rivals all gunning for the same apex.
But as he sat on the grid for the formation lap, helmet visor down, gloves gripping the wheel, he knew the real test was ahead.
The crowd’s roar filtered through—American flags waving in the packed stands, the atmosphere electric with home-soil energy, chants of “USA” mixing with the revving engines.
Lights out.
He nailed the start, launching cleanly and holding position into the chaotic Turn 1 bottleneck.
Lucas rocketed away from pole, untouchable as ever.
Jax battled wheel-to-wheel with a determined McLaren through the flowing esses, defending hard on the outside line, tires screaming in protest. Engineer’s voice crackled: “Good job, Jax. Pace strong. Box lap 18—undercut.”
He pushed relentlessly—spotting a gap on the back straight, DRS open, overtaking a slower car with a bold move that had commentators buzzing. The car felt good, real, like the old fire was reigniting after months of frustration.
Then it unravelled.
Pit stop dragged—a sticky front-left wheel gun cost half-seconds, crew apologies crackling as he peeled out.
Traffic on the out-lap bottled him behind midfielders, seconds bleeding.
Lap 42, diving into tight Turn 12 on a lapped backmarker—he saw the gap, committed halfway, then lifted at the apex.
Conservative. Safe. Wrong call. A Williams undercut him cleanly on the next straight. Position gone.
Final stint was a grind: tires degrading faster than predicted, oversteer biting on every curb, car sliding wide. He nursed it home—P12. Out of the points. Bitter taste of missed opportunity as the checkered flag waved.
Jax sat in parc fermé, helmet off, sweat stinging his eyes. Garage noise swelled—cheers for Lucas’s dominant win, championship inching closer. He stared at the wheel, replaying every hesitation.
He climbed out, waved for cameras, forced a grin in the media pen. Cooldown room: Lucas clapped his back. “Solid drive, mate. Wheel-to-wheel was epic. We’ll get ’em next.”
“Yeah. Congrats—masterclass again.”
The team debrief the next morning in the motorhome was clinical at first—data screens glowing with telemetry graphs, engineers dissecting sector times, fuel loads, and aero balances in minute detail.
Jax contributed, pointing out tire degradation patterns and suggesting setup tweaks for Mexico.
But the mood shifted when Claire Whitman stepped in.
Claire was in her late-forties, sharp-featured and immaculately put together, her blunt bob never a strand out of place, dark-framed glasses perched on her nose like a permanent fixture.
She wore her usual uniform of tailored navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, slim trousers, and low heels that clicked with authority across every floor she walked.
As Ashworth Racing’s Head of Media and Communications, Claire ran the team’s public image with military precision—press releases, sponsor obligations, crisis management, social strategy—all of it filtered through her no-nonsense lens.
She had been Mia Brookes’ boss back when Mia was still at Ashworth, handling comms before Mia left for Ascari Racing.
Claire had always called it like she saw it, never sugar-coating, never pulling punches, whether it was coaching a driver through a difficult interview or telling the boardroom exactly why a viral moment was damaging.
Drivers respected her (or feared her, depending on the day), because she didn’t play favourites and she didn’t bullshit.
She slid a tablet across the polished table toward Jax.
The screen lit up with videos from two nights ago: him in a lively downtown Austin bar, cowboy hat tilted back jauntily, standing on a wooden table dancing with a group of enthusiastic fans—mostly young women, all laughing uproariously, phones out capturing the moment.
The images had gone viral overnight, memes already circulating.
“Jax,” Claire said, her voice calm but edged with steel.
“This played well when you were consistently scoring podiums. The fun-loving Aussie charm—the laid-back guy who embodies the spirit of the sport—sold merch, filled hospitality suites, drew in casual fans. But this season? P12 yesterday after starting strong. The owners are tired of the narrative. Sponsors too. You’re still the same guy—joking, easy-going, quick with a quip in press conferences—but people want a driver they can root for on track.
Someone who projects seriousness, commitment. Not just the party icon.”
Jax stared at the video, a harmless night of blowing off steam after a tough practice day. Good fun, nothing reckless. But optics in F1 were everything—sponsors demanded role models, owners craved results. “I get it,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “I’ll clean it up. Focus on the driving.”
Claire nodded once, her gaze steady behind the glasses. “Show them the fire, Jax. Not just the smile. You’ve got the talent—prove it’s matched by the dedication.”
He escaped to the physio room, the quiet sanctuary a welcome reprieve.
Dana Reyes waited there, her domain scented with liniment, eucalyptus, and the faint metallic tang of massage oil.
Dana had warm brown skin that glowed under the soft overhead lights, her dark hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail that never budged no matter how hard she worked.
Mid-thirties, athletic build honed from years of hands-on work in the high-pressure world of F1 physio—she’d been in the paddock for ages, starting out in the lower formulas before Ashworth snapped her up—and had become a fixture: no-nonsense, quick with a laugh, quicker with a swear.
She and Jax had been great friends almost from day one, trading banter like siblings.
More importantly, she was Mia’s best friend—the two had bonded during Mia’s Ashworth days, and Dana had been the steady shoulder Mia leaned on through the chaos of last season.
Dana was the team’s unofficial confidante: drivers spilled their guts on her table, knowing nothing left the room.
“Get your arse on the table, Callaghan,” Dana greeted with her trademark grin, already gloving up. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”
Jax chuckled, stripping off his team polo and lying face-down. “Rough one, Dana.”
She started on his shoulders, thumbs digging into the knots with expert precision. “Fucking understatement. You’re tense—more than usual. Spill it.”
He grunted as she hit a particularly stubborn spot. “Rough weekend. Started strong, ended shit. Shoulders feel like concrete from the G-forces and the frustration.”
She worked in silence for a moment, then: “Claire just read you the riot act, didn’t she? Saw the videos. Bloody hell, Jax—cowboy hat and table dancing? You trying to give the PR team a heart attack?”
He huffed a laugh, wincing as she hit a deep knot. “Was just letting off steam. Thought I’d test the structural integrity of a bar top. Turns out it’s sturdier than my ego right now. Should’ve invited you—could’ve been a two-man show. You’d have killed it in cowboy boots.”
Dana laughed—sharp, genuine. “Mate, I’d have out-danced you no problem. Claire’s face though… I bet she aged ten years watching that clip.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, the humour draining out of his tone. “She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile. Just… looked at me like I was letting everyone down. Again.”
Dana’s hands paused for half a second—enough for him to feel the shift—then resumed, slower, more deliberate.
“She’s not wrong about the optics,” Jax continued, voice lower now, almost to himself.
“I get it. I do. Sponsors want role models, not headlines. Owners want results, not memes. Eighth in Singapore, P12 in Austin… it’s not enough.
And then I go and give them that clip to chew on.
Christ, I’m my own worst enemy sometimes. ”
He exhaled hard, the regret settling heavy in his chest like wet sand.
The easy deflection, the quick quip—it worked on Dana, on Lucas, on most of the paddock.
But it didn’t work on Claire. It didn’t work on the people who signed the cheques.
And it sure as hell didn’t work on the version of himself he was trying to become.
Dana switched to his lower back, elbows digging in. “But seriously—this tension? It’s not just physical. What’s eating you?”
He exhaled deeply as she eased a knot. “Just… figuring out how to prove I’m still hungry for this. That it’s not about the parties or the headlines or the easy charm. I want wins, Dana. Real ones. Championships. Not just being the fun guy who finishes mid-pack.”
“You’ll get there,” she said simply, her voice softening. “You’ve got the heart for it—always have. Trust it. And if you need to vent more, you know where I am. Table’s always open.”
He left the session feeling marginally looser, the knots unravelled, his mind a bit clearer. Stepping into the lingering Austin heat, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
His manager’s name flashed on the screen.
“Jax. Interesting call just came in. From Aria Moon’s team—you met her in Singapore, right? The K-pop star.”
Jax stopped in his tracks, a spark of interest cutting through the post-debrief fog. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Aria wants dinner. She’s heading to Mexico next week for some business gig—endorsements or whatever. Asks if you can meet the week before the race there. Low-key, just the two of you.”
He pictured her vividly now—that emerald dress from Singapore clinging to her like it was painted on, her dark hair cascading in waves, those warm brown eyes that held a mix of vulnerability and fire.
Small next to him, but with a presence that filled the space.
Sexy as hell. Their brief chat had been easy, genuine, a spark of connection amid the chaos.
He found her intriguing, captivating—talented, beautiful, with a depth that hinted at more beneath the superstar facade.
Wouldn’t mind spending more time with her at all, exploring that chemistry, seeing where a dinner could lead.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Tell her yes. I’m in.