Chapter Sixteen
Victoria
Asher shows up to take over the simulator first thing in the morning. I’m barely settling down at my desk when he strolls into the analyst’s cave, points at me, and demands I come with him. He’s not nice about it, but I’m so impressed he’s here early that I don’t call him on it.
“What bullshit data do you need today?” he snaps as soon as I’ve relocated to sim control.
“First, I need you to lose the attitude.”
“No. What else?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s another aero and X-mode day. Attack, defend, and free drive. Run it in dirty air, clean air, on straights and turns—”
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. “You’re going to make me do the same thing for fifty laps in a row, aren’t you?”
“To accurately predict outcomes and give you actionable advice?” I nod. “Yup. I need at least ten laps for each iteration, so you’ll be in there for a while.”
“Fine,” he snaps. His gaze sweeps the room, and his typical frown deepens into a scowl. “We need headsets. Give me instructions as I go.”
A misplaced sense of giddy excitement lights up my chest. Being the engineer in a driver’s ear during a race has always been one of my dreams. Even though this isn’t a race, just a sim run, this fulfills one of my fantasies for F1.
I get Asher set up in the sim suite, put us both on headsets, and program today’s simulator to run Suzuka.
Once I’ve set up my laptop in front of the telemetry screens, which hang on the wall right next to the window into the sim suite, I flip on the headset. “First iteration. Free drive and clean air. Run ten laps without changes, please.”
For once, Asher doesn’t complain or talk back. He powers on the car, grips the wheel, and finally listens.
50 laps turn out to be too little—I have Asher in the sim for closer to 100. By the end, Asher’s decent mood has dissipated. He’s cursing at me with each new set of instructions I give him, but he doesn’t resort to calling me incompetent or dismissing me, which I take as a sign of progress.
“Hope you got what you needed,” he says the moment he steps out. He takes off his earpiece and tosses it next to my computer. “That sucked.”
“I did get what I needed,” I nod. “Other sim runs should be more enjoyable. But, I’ll remind you, this is technical stuff. I need a lot of data to make accurate projections.”
“Why can’t I just drive?” Asher demands. There’s almost… boyish confusion on his features. As if he genuinely can’t comprehend the importance of a well thought out, data-backed strategy.
“You can,” I say simply. “But that won’t keep you in F1.”
“And what you’re doing will?”
Maybe. I fucking hope so. But if I express anything other than confidence, Asher’s confidence will falter—and I can’t afford that. “Yes.”
He examines me for several beats, then nods. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
For the next two weeks, that’s exactly what he does. Each day, he runs at least 100 laps, and he never fails to tell me how boring or ridiculous it is. Despite his complaints, he shows up and gets work done—and I cautiously begin to gain hope.
If he can optimize and implement just a handful of strategies, he can improve his lap time by close to a second. That’ll be the difference between him placing last, and him potentially breaking the top ten.
I’m not the only one who takes notice of Asher’s newfound motivation. After the first few days, other members of the team start dropping in to check Asher’s times.
Declan’s unimpressed with the progress, but when Ilya stops by just a few days before we’re set to head out and set up the next race, he pays much closer attention.
“Why is he only practicing attack maneuvers for the third day in a row?” he queries, standing between my desk and the monitors showing Asher’s progress.
“Because that’s what I’m gathering data for right now,” I respond, fidgeting in my seat.
Ilya’s scrutiny is far more pointed than Declan’s, Thomas’s, or anyone else’s.
Short of the technical director and team principal, he’s the big boss and calls most of the shots.
If he doesn’t like what I’m doing, he can put a stop to it.
“And what purpose has this… data collection served so far?” he asks.
“It gives me the baseline information to build a list of strategies and their projected outcomes," I reply, trying to keep my tone even. “When his race engineer gives Asher instructions over his headset, I’ll be able to tell you approximately how those instructions will affect his position and lap time. You’ll be able to make decisions based on what my model tells you. Eventually, it’ll be able to track races itself and generate suggestions. ”
Ilya spins around to examine me. His eyes are narrowed; his lips pursed; his posture’s tense.
“I see,” he says after a long moment. “I’d like you to send the documentation to your model and what you have so far over to me. We’ll discuss it after the race.”
My heart leaps into my throat. This is the first time Ilya’s given me the time of day this season. “Okay.”
He pauses for a beat. “You’ll be in the pit wall for the race. I want you next to Ethan Okoye—have you met him?”
“No.” But I know that he’s the voice in Asher’s ear during races. He takes split-second instructions from Declan and Ilya, processes live race data and gives Asher directives.
Asher just isn’t particularly prone to listening.
“He’ll be on the team plane on our way over. As will you.” A pregnant pause. “Sit with him. Discuss strategies with him. And advise him during the race.”
He turns back to Asher, giving a slow nod. “We’ll see if I made the right decision hiring you.”
No pressure or anything.
He strolls out with the same careless air he had when he strolled in.
I take a few deep breaths, trying to compose myself.
Ilya just gave me enough rope to hang myself with—if my suggestions during the race prove useful, I could get a strong foothold with team leadership.
If they fail, however, I doubt I’ll get another chance.
I power on the headset. “That’s all I need for the day, thank you,” I murmur.
“Thank fuck,” Asher grumbles. I watch through the window as he powers down the simulator.
He steps out of the car, pushes his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, and glances at the mirror.
It’s one-way to avoid distracting him during simulations, but he manages to catch my gaze and capture it nonetheless.
He’s dating. He has a special She in his life. Stop staring at him.
I don’t listen to the voice of reason. I can’t.
Asher stretches his arms, his legs, and rolls his head around. The way his muscles ripples and flex… it’s almost like watching porn.
By the time he steps out of the room, there’s a pulsing ache in my core, and I’m pointedly gazing at my laptop to avoid Asher.
“We leave day after tomorrow,” he says for a beat. “What’s your grand plan for tomorrow’s work in the simulator?”
“Elio has it booked until 6pm,” I say after a few beats. “Tomorrow I want to do a test rerun. I’ll put you back in the last race and give you instructions based on a few strategies I’ve put together. We’ll have to stay late if you’re up for it.”
Asher pauses for a few beats. “I’m up for it.”
I close my laptop and stand up, still looking anywhere but at him. “I’ll spend tonight fine-tuning my ideas and making projections. So, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Another pause. It seems like he wants to say something, but is holding himself back. “Right. Tomorrow.”