Chapter 4
Travis
Not me.
Here in Abu Dhabi, I’m tied for the lead with Luciano Farina. The next ten laps of this race determine who comes out on top. While it’s Farina’s final season of his career, this will be my first championship.
My mind flashes back to Vegas, the little boy playing with his racing car at the table then to me as an eight-year-old promising my father I’d become a champion.
I ignore the picture of an empty bed when I returned to my suite—devoid of her, that tries to emerge. That memory gets squashed beneath the weight of everything riding on this race.
Nothing short of a win is acceptable.
The urge to press against the throttle of my car and gun it consumes me, but I hold back. Instead, I glance at my side mirror.
My eyes instantly narrow as I take in Farina’s black and green car passing the much slower pink and grey car. The same car I lapped before the safety car came out.
“What’s happening?” I ask into the radio connected to my team principal.
This doesn’t happen when the safety car is out. An accident two laps ago caused the safety procedure to slow all of the drivers down.
“Why are those overlapped cars pulling back?”
Horner doesn’t answer me. No one from my team answers me.
They’re too busy yelling through to the race officials on their radios.
“We’re clearing the debris,” the FIA officiant claims. That doesn’t explain why Farina and another driver who was in third are allowed to pull ahead of the rest of the field.
“That’s not right!” my team principal yells out. “You know that’s not right.”
The tightness starts in my chest, squeezing my muscles and causing my heartbeat to increase. Drake Horner, my principal, rarely displays this much emotion during a race.
“What’s happening?” I ask through gritted teeth, my eyes flashing again over to my mirror. Farina’s coming up behind me fast.
Fuck it.
If cars are being allowed to overtake, safety car or no, I’m not maintaining this slow pace.
I hit the throttle, and my tires slip.
It doesn’t cause me to spin out of control, or even lose much pace. However, it’s a reminder that I chose not to take the last pit stop Drake suggested right before the safety car came out.
With four laps to go, it’s too late to think about a pit stop now.
Another look in the mirror.
Fuck.
Farina’s damn near touching my wing, and he’s on fresh tires. To keep him from slipping past on the next corner, I maneuver to close the hole, but he’s faster on fresher tires.
Another skid of my tires costs me the edge, and I lose the lead position.
“P2,” Drake tells me as if I don’t already know I’ve fucking lost the number one spot.
With two laps to go, I fight like hell to stay on Farina’s ass.
While I manage to hold the second position, even I can’t fight the laws of thermodynamics.
Farina’s black and green car crosses the finish line a second ahead of my fire engine red one. The black and white checkered flag welcomes him home not only the winner, but as the champion.
My chest compresses, hands tighten to the point of pain around the steering wheel, and my mind goes blank beneath the heaviness of my failure.
One different call—the decision to pit when I had the chance could’ve, would’ve made the difference in today’s outcome.
Though that was a bullshit call by the FIA officials, this failure is on my head and mine alone.
The cheering crowd passes by in a blur. In my ear, my team principal says some nonsense about this still being a great season overall. I don’t hear the rest.
All I see flashing before my eyes, in my ears, and in every other part of my body is the word FAILURE.
At this point, muscle memory takes over because I don’t recall pulling into the Amato Racing team garage, or lifting myself out of my car to the claps on the shoulder from the various members that make up my team.
Holding my head up is a chore.
I should go over and congratulate Farina. This is his last season, and any racer worth their helmet wants to go out a champion.
I don’t congratulate him.
Sportsmanship is a quality my father drilled into me from the very first time I sat behind the wheel of a go-kart. “Nobody likes a sore loser,” he’d said all of those years ago.
He’s right.
Yet, the ache of failure in my chest prevents me from conjuring the congratulatory words in my mind, let alone forming them on my lips.
Nor am I given time to lick my wounds in privacy. A well-known sports journalist sticks a microphone in my face.
“Travis, is there anything you’d like to say to Luciano Farina?”
The wide grin on her face grates against the raw edges of my nerves. She’s doing her job, I remind myself.
Words such as fuck off and get out of my face come to mind. The anchor is spared when Drake steps in and gives some reply about how well this season went.
This must not be enough for her because she has the audacity to ask about the call that was made regarding the safety car. That’s when I finally walk away.
The next few hours go by in a haze. My brain clears long enough to watch Farina throw his arms out in victory as he stands on the top podium and the championship medal is placed around his neck.
Once the ceremony is over, I cut out.
Even as I exit the track, noise from the cheers and celebrations chase me down, hauntingly reminding me of how I fell short yet again.