Chapter Twenty-One #2
On and on the carousel of racing goes. Attack, defend, manage temperature and power, follow the calls. Victoria directs me throughout, and I can tell she’s growing more and more nervous the longer the race goes.
She started me on hard tyres. The slowest compound, but also the most durable.
I didn’t question it at the time, but now, grinding through midfield with barely enough pace to attack, I’m starting to wonder if she made the wrong call.
The hards are keeping me alive, but they’re not giving me much to work with.
At the two-thirds mark of the race, I’ve managed to crawl my way into P13.
I briefly dropped to P14 when Ulrich decided to get petty, but quickly climbed back up—though the fucker’s staying on my tail.
He’s right behind me in P14, and he seems to have made it his mission to make my life as difficult as possible.
I keep him behind me, but only just… and on the next straight with an X-mode zone—he executes a successful overtake. Motherfucker.
“Keep going.” Victoria’s voice is slightly shrill. “I… you…” She trails off.
I guess her model didn’t compute the old rivalry between me and good ol’ Finn. A few weeks ago, I’d have yelled at Victoria for not anticipating this or reading up on me more thoroughly. Now, I let it slide and trust the process.
She analyzes data in a way I’ve never seen. I don’t think she even needs her model; she can probably make the calculations and projections just fine on her own. I trust her to get the hang of it.
But the undeniable claws of anxiety sink into my skin, making the back of my neck prickle. It makes me sweat even more profusely than driving at inhuman speeds does, and quickens my breathing. What if I drop below my starting place? What if I rocket back into last?
“Defend,” Victoria says. “Cover inside.”
Fuck, I didn’t even see the Prescott second driver, who’s angling to overtake on the next turn.
I move to the inside line upon her suggestion and ease onto the brakes early, my arms burning with exertion to keep the wheel compliant.
Tyres screech against the tarmac, and I just about feel them losing their grip.
Prescott’s car tries to stay on me, but I lose him in the exit—and he gets embroiled in some battle with another backmarker.
“Box,” Victoria says.
Shock blasts through me. She wants me to come to the pit lane for a tyre change? Now? When I risk losing my hard-fought position over it?
“Negative,” I respond flatly.
“Asher. Your hard tyres are gone. Box.” The pit entry is coming up, I have to commit in a few seconds if I’m going to make it.
I don’t fucking want to. I can make the tyres work. I can make the race work. If all I do is hold my place, I’ll still be in much better shape than I have been for a long time.
“Trust me,” Victoria intones.
Goddamnit. I dive into the pit lane, and the late entry costs me precious tenths of seconds.
“We’re giving you softs.” She sounds audibly relieved.
And suddenly, I get it. She kept me out on the hards for as long as she could—slow but steady, saving the pit stop for the final stint. Now I’m getting the fastest tyres on the grid while everyone around me is nursing older, worn-out rubber. She’s been playing the long game the entire time.
Now, if I can do my job well, I have a shot at gaining places.
I pull up into the pit box. No sooner have I stopped than does the crew swarm the car. A loud, mechanical whrr sounds as they change out my tyres; as soon as the car drops off the jacks, I take off again. This time, in P17.
I barely make it onto the track when Victoria starts rapid-firing directives. Attack, defend, overtake, preserve tyres… it’s endless, and it doesn’t help me climb as rapidly as I’d like to.
But the softs are a different animal entirely. Their grip is immediate and visceral. Corners I was struggling through on the hards are now easy to eat up. My car feels like it’s waking up after a long, well-deserved rest.
Since I’m choosing to trust her, even if only temporarily, I listen. I grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles pop, but I do what she says—because I know she sees more than I do.
In the last five laps, carnage ensues. I’ve barely managed to get to P16 when I find myself in another standoff with Ulrich.
The inexplicable urge to accidentally bump his car and send him spinning out grips me, but instead, I use the next X-mode zone to overtake him—and Victoria points out another opportunity immediately ahead.
In the span of one lap, I overtake two cars and climb to P15, and all of my energy goes toward defending that position until the final lap—when I’ve managed to get to P14.
I’m tailing Junior Cub’s second driver, Pavel Novak. He’s done surprisingly well this season despite historically landing somewhere between P15 and P17.
“You…” Victoria cuts off. After a beat, she speaks again, sounding chillingly uncertain. “Attack available on the last corner. Novak’s tyres are softer and 5 laps older.”
I see why she’s nervous. The final corner of this track is notoriously tricky and has a steep curve. It’s been known to cause many accidents in F1, especially when taken quickly by rookies with more pride than sense.
I’m not a rookie, and I know this track. I’ve driven it every season for years.
Novak will probably either close the door on me at the entry of the corner or at the exit. He might try to do both, but that’ll severely sacrifice his stability.
Novak has a wife and two kids. He’s a family-man, through and through. He’s not risk-averse enough to stay out of F1, but he’ll also be reasonably careful.
Which means my best bet is being unreasonably risky.
I hit the overtake button, rapidly gaining on him. Novak’s tyres are his greatest disadvantage right now; he’s probably been told to stay out and defend his position by his engineers.
I manage to pull alongside him at the corner entry. The kerb up ahead rapidly approaches, as do the safety lines painted onto the tarmac. Novak doesn’t waver or slow; he keeps pace with me. My breath stutters. Fear grips my spine, curling around it like a venomous snake.
We’re on a direct collision course. If neither of us slow soon and let the other pass, we’re both liable to crash.
Brake, motherfucker. Brake.
Novak slows, thank fuck. A hundredth of a second later I touch my brakes and turn my steering wheel, rocketing ahead of him. He swerves and recovers, but my tyres skate over the track, no grip.
For a moment, I think I’m completely fucked. That my tyres are beyond finding traction, that I’m going to spin out and crash. I feel myself lose control of the car’s contact with the track.
Then, the breath-stealing fraction of a second ends. My car steadies, downforce winning out and keeping me glued to the concrete.
A shuddering breath of relief seeps out of me. My heart hammers against my ribcage so rapidly I’m certain I’m about to have a heart attack—but not before I finish this race.
“Hold position.” Victoria’s voice is immensely relieved, and I feel a smile tug on my lips.
Less than a minute later, I finish the race in P13.