Now
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Jackson
“Do you have it?” I ask Evie. She nods, tightening her grip on her handbag.
This is our third attempt at talking to Wesley Pryce. Our last chance. And she looks as nervous as I feel about it.
For three days now, we’ve come to the entrance of the Bellagio, hoping we could get his attention. We missed him on Friday and Saturday, and now that the convention is over, he’ll likely fly back to his home state of Arizona, and we won’t get another chance.
The problem is, we aren’t the only ones dying for a scrap of his time.
This weekend is the first big motorsport event since the FIA approved his team’s entry application.
And because he hasn’t spoken to the press about it, every sports journalist in town is dying for a scoop.
When we decided to go that route, Evie and I didn’t realize we’d have to fight for his attention along with thirty other people.
But with our luck, we should have expected it …
Still, we both remain alert, ready to jump in as soon as he appears.
About twenty minutes into our wait, I notice two large SUVs making their way toward the entrance. These are the same plates as on the days before. I grab Evie’s arm, and her eyes follow mine before we refocus on the hotel’s double doors.
Sure enough, four bodyguards appear at the same time as the SUVs pull up, and among them is Wesley Pryce and a middle-aged woman who looks like his personal assistant.
“Mr. Pryce!” we both shout, along with thirty other people. We try repeatedly, but the man keeps his head forward, focused on getting into his car.
Evie takes the red spiral binder out of her bag and waves it, hoping to catch his attention, but it also fails.
It’s a more condensed version of the one she has at home, with a detailed account of all my wins, my stats, and the graphs showing my ever-growing successes.
She even made a cover for it, with the title, “A Complete Understanding of Jackson Reyes’ Growth and Wins through the SCCA and FIA Championships.
” As titles go, it’s a bit of a mouthful, but at least it makes the intentions clear.
Pryce’s assistant gets into the car first, and when Mr. Pryce follows her in, an impulse that can only come from desperation and madness claims Evie.
With all her strength, she throws the whole thing in their direction.
I move to stop her too late and watch with unmasked horror as the binder flies through the journalists and bodyguards, pages whooshing in the wind.
It lands right into the open door of the car, hitting Mr. Pryce in the shoulder before falling inside.
A bodyguard slams the door shut while his three colleagues turn around, scanning the crowd in search of the binder-hurling menace.
“Evie, what the hell?!” I whisper, worried she’s gotten us into trouble.
“Sorry, I panicked!”
“You can’t throw binders at people.”
“I know … but it was our last chance. And he definitely knows you exist now.”
The door of the SUV opens, and I grab onto her hand, steeling myself for whatever will come.
“Who threw this?” Mr. Pryce asks, sticking out of the car to wave the binder.
A couple of journalists point at Evie, and I tighten my hold on her hand. “It was me, sorry,” she sheepishly admits, raising her hand.
Mr. Pryce looks down at the binder’s red cover, then at us again. “And you are Jackson Reyes?” he then asks me.
“Uh … yeah.”
He analyzes us for several seconds that feel like an entire minute, then nods. “Get in. Both of you.”
Evie and I exchange a conflicted glance, unsure what this means. Two of the bodyguards approach, and we decide to cooperate without causing more of a scene.
Mr. Pryce and his PA move aside so we can enter, and he motions to the seat facing him. We obey, and once the door is closed again, the car rolls away.
He looks a lot more severe than he did in the pictures we found as we prepared for this. Is throwing a binder at someone a crime? Could Evie go to jail for it?
“So?” he asks, raising a questioning eyebrow at us. “You two clearly wanted my attention. Now you have it. The helipad is ten minutes away. Make the best of it, kids.”
“Uh, I …” Fuck, I’m so nervous I can’t think of a single thing to say.
Evie, who’s definitely bolder than I am in this endeavor, clears her throat and states, “We wanted to offer you an exclusive opportunity, Mr. Pryce. A chance to bid on a driver who’ll win you more trophies than you have room for on your shelves.”
Her assertiveness seems to charm him, and he relaxes a little, leaning back into his seat. “I imagine that driver is the young man sitting beside you?”
“Yes. As you will see in the binder—so sorry for throwing it at you, by the way—in the past four years, Jax has been on a clear path toward an extremely successful career in racing.”
He glances at the binder for a second. “I’ve actually heard of you,” he says, surprising us both. He randomly opens the binder and skims the page he landed on. “My team has looked into you. And we’ve decided to pass.”
“May I ask why?” Evie asks before I can.
“Mr. Reyes has been performing well in Formula 4. Beaten most of our affiliated drivers, even.” He looks up at me, eyes remarkably sharp for a man his age.
“But you’re not built through the usual pipeline.
No karting foundation, no structured junior ladder from childhood, limited open-wheel conditioning before F4.
From what we’ve seen, you’re fast, that’s not in question, but the concern is repeatability.
Discipline across a season. Control when conditions aren’t ideal.
We’re not convinced that your instincts won’t become liabilities when the pressure increases. ”
Silence follows his words. It’s clear that my case has already been considered and weighed by his team. They’ve already made up their mind about me, and it doesn’t sound like we can change it.
Evie, who won’t let anything come in the way of our objective, clears her throat and says, “With respect, Mr. Pryce, you’re wrong. And you’d be making a huge mistake by passing on this opportunity.”
He doesn’t argue or counter, and she takes it as an invitation to keep going.
“People forget what Ayrton Senna was like before McLaren refined him. Same with Schumacher in his early years. Niki Lauda wasn’t safe either before he became precise.
They were all labeled as aggressive, unpolished, and too risky.
What changed wasn’t their instinct. It was that they learned how to use it. ”
She takes a deep breath, as if recharging her lungs.
“Jackson didn’t come through karting. He came through rallycross and touring cars—places where the car doesn’t matter as much as it does in F1.
It’s all about the person behind the wheel.
Your Formula One program won’t be operational for another few years.
You don’t need a finished driver today. You need someone who can be shaped into becoming a world champion.
And Jackson is nothing if not adaptable, thanks to his unusual background. ”
He looks properly intrigued now, gaze oscillating between the two of us. Eventually, it stops on me. “Do you talk, Jackson Reyes?” he asks.
I clear my throat to chase away the knot in the back of it. “I do, sir.”
“Is she right about you?”
“She is, sir. And we thought we’d come to offer you my services while you can still afford me.”
After a second of stupor, he explodes into a fit of laughter. His PA adjusts herself on the seat, holding back a smile. Evie and I patiently wait for him to settle down. “You have some balls on you, kid, I’ll give you that.”
“What he has is raw talent,” Evie cuts in, defending me. “And I guarantee that if you take a chance on him, if you give him the tools to become an F1 driver, he’ll bring back trophies within his first season.”
Her assurance is so unwavering that all traces of humor dissipate from his expression. After another look at the binder, he asks, “Alright, I’m listening. Give me the full pitch.”
“Your F1 team will be ready in three years, right?” she asks first.
“I’m pushing my engineers for two, but they told me it’s unlikely we’ll get it all done in time for the season. So, yes, three years until we have the cars approved is a good estimation.”
“And you’ll be poaching a veteran from one of the existing teams, right?
To bring some prestige to your brand and hopefully win some trophies within the first season.
” When Pryce nods, she continues with, “Then, you’ll complete your team with two rookies, one in reserve, one behind the wheel, because they’re a cheaper way to fit FIA requirements. ”
He nods again.
“If you give Jax a chance now, you can take him into your F4 team for the rest of the season. It’s based in Indianapolis, right?”
“It is.”
“You could have your people prepare him for a move into the F3 team the next season. That gives you almost six months of training and simulations before the preseason testing in February. Which means he’ll be ready by his first season in March.
Then, you can either have him do another year, or if he’s proved himself, he could have two seasons of F2 before the real thing. ”
“I like your passion, but that’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ young lady.”
“The ifs are only conditional on your end, sir. Jackson can—and will—fulfill his part of the deal if you let him.”
He hesitates, his finger tapping on the red cover of the binder.
“All we ask is that you give him one full year to prove himself to you,” Evie insists. “I promise he won’t disappoint.”
When he looks at me again, I know she’s almost won him over. “Are you sure you can do this, kid?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve wanted it my whole life. I’ve been training for it for ten years.”
“You look too young to be able to say that.”
I shrug. “I started early.”
Like the businessman he is, Mr. Pryce weighs the pros and cons for a moment. To him, this is an investment. A gamble. To us, it would be life-changing.