Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
Bex
T he roar of the engines as the cars idle on the grid sends a vibration through pit lane, the sound somewhat muted by my headset. The Melbourne Global Prix is about to begin, and I’m already sweating—partly because of the tension and partly because of the blazing Australian sun. It’s hotter today than it’s been all week and we’re going to have to watch the data carefully because the track conditions have changed.
The drivers have completed their out-lap—a trip around the track where they weave side to side to warm up their tires and brakes. When they finish, they come onto the grid, lining up in two staggered rows according to their qualifying placements. Every detail matters in these moments… the temperature of the tires, the feel of the car, the mental focus of the driver. They’re all critical pieces of a high-stakes puzzle.
From my position on the pit wall, I glance at the monitors in front of me, showing telemetry and live video feeds. Nash is lined up P3 on the grid, a strong starting position. Matthieu, however, is farther back in P8. While he finished in P6 yesterday, two other drivers had better runs and leapfrogged ahead of him. It’s not where we want him to be, and it’s left me with a tough decision about his strategy.
Taking a big but calculated risk could pay off—or backfire spectacularly.
I’ve decided to split the strategies. Nash will start on the medium tires, the safer and more versatile compound since he’s got a great starting position on the grid. If he can make a clean getaway and defend his position, we can employ other strategies to move him up. Matthieu, however, is going to need a more daring game plan. I will start him on soft tires—the faster but less durable option. It’s a calculated gamble meant to help him gain positions early in the race and we’ll later use a bold undercut strategy to leapfrog the cars ahead.
I glance at Hendrik seated next to me. He’s skeptical—no, outright opposed—to the plan, and he hasn’t been shy about making his opinion known.
“I still think it’s a mistake,” he says, leaning in so only I can hear. “The softs will degrade too quickly on this track, especially given the higher temperature. He’ll lose pace before the first stint is even over.”
“It’s a risk, yes,” I reply, keeping my voice calm and professional, “but the data still supports the idea, even with the hotter temperature. If Matthieu can push early and build a gap, we can bring him in for the undercut before anyone else reacts. It’s his best shot for a top ten finish.”
An undercut is a tactic to gain positions, but it’s all about timing. It’s a method whereby we’ll call Matthieu in to pit earlier than his nearest competitors and put him on a fresher set of tires, which will theoretically make him faster. You get him in and out of the pit fast enough, and he can keep fast pace, he’ll ultimately move farther ahead of the other cars when they pit. It’s always a risky strategy, but when timed right, it can win races.
While it’s probably a long shot to get Matthieu on the podium, I’m confident we can get him higher than his original P8 starting position, and I’ll consider any top ten finish a win since the team will get points for that.
“But if you start him on the mediums, it’s almost assured he’ll stay in the top ten and we’ll get guaranteed points,” Hendrik points out.
Yes, that is the super safe strategy, but I’m tired of Matthieu not seeing my value. I wasn’t hired to be conservative but to get wins, and I want Matthieu to place as high as possible.
It will go a long way toward earning his respect.
“It will work,” I say confidently. “I know how to do my job.”
Hendrik’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “And if it doesn’t work?”
“It will work,” I insist, my stomach twisting despite my confident tone.
He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “Fine. But if this blows up in our faces, it’s on you.”
“Understood,” I say firmly, refusing to let his doubt undermine my resolve, although I feel slightly sick at the fallout if I’m wrong.
On the monitors, the starting grid is now fully lined up. The five red lights slowly blink on one by one. When all of them are lit, there’s a second or two of apprehension. Then they extinguish and the race is on.
Nash’s start is clean, his car surging forward as he holds his position into Turn 1. Matthieu is super aggressive right off the line, and that’s not a bad thing at all. I watch his telemetry closely as he dives into the first corner, gaining two positions in the opening sequence.
“Good start,” Petr relays over the radio. “You’re P6. Keep the pace steady.”
The opening laps are tense but uneventful for Nash. Alex, his engineer, provides him with updates on the cars ahead, while I monitor the gaps between him and the leaders. He’s holding P3 solidly, keeping pressure on Lex and Carlos, but not overextending himself.
For Matthieu, the soft tires are doing their job—his pace is blistering in the early stages, and he moves up to P5. My heart lifts slightly. The gamble will pay off. I’m sure of it.
“Matthieu’s times are strong,” I say to Hendrik, not hiding the hint of vindication in my voice.
“For now,” he mutters, not looking at me.
But only five laps later, it starts to go sideways. The degradation on Matthieu’s tires starts to show. His lap times are creeping upward, and the telemetry confirms the wear on the soft tires. The undercut window is opening, and we need to act fast.
“Petr,” I say, leaning into the mic. “Box Matthieu this lap. We’re going for the undercut.”
Petr relays the message, and Matthieu acknowledges it curtly. He pits smoothly, the crew executing the stop with a change to medium tires in just over two seconds.
“Clean stop,” Petr confirms as Matthieu re-enters the race, now behind his closest competitors. “You’re in P14. Push hard on the out-lap.”
The undercut is a high-risk, high-reward strategy, and if Matthieu can execute a strong out-lap, he has a shot at jumping several cars when they decide to pit.
But almost immediately, the plan starts to unravel.
“Traffic ahead,” Petr reports, his tone tense. “You’ve got three cars on slower compounds.”
My stomach sinks. Matthieu is stuck behind a trio of midfield runners, unable to capitalize on his fresh tires. “Fucking ridiculous,” his voice crackles over the comms. “Why weren’t these cars taken into consideration?”
I glance at all the data. Did I make a mistake somewhere?
I watch as Matthieu finally makes it past the blockage but by the time the other cars enter into their first pit, he hasn’t gained any positions. In fact, he’s lost ground.
“Bex,” Hendrik says sharply, “I told you this was a mistake.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to respond. There’s still time for Matthieu to recover, but the frustration in his voice over the radio is palpable.
“These tires are already going off,” Matthieu snaps. “What’s the plan now?”
Petr relays the concern to me, and I scramble to come up with an adjustment. The gap to get back into the top ten—which is where you get points—is widening, and Matthieu’s lap times are dropping rapidly.
“We’ll have to extend this stint and hope for a safety car,” I say, knowing it’s a long shot. Hendrik gives me a look that says he knows it too.
That means everything is out of my control because there’s not enough race left to adjust to improve his time. We can only take advantage if someone else makes a mistake.
Meanwhile, Nash is running a textbook race. His tires are holding up well, and he’s maintaining P3 while gradually closing the gap to Carlos still in P2.
“Pace is strong, Nash,” Alex says over the radio. “Keep it steady. Box in two laps for hards.”
Nash pits as planned, the stop clean and efficient. He rejoins in P4 but quickly regains P3 as the cars ahead cycle through their stops. His race is calm, controlled and exactly what we need.
Matthieu’s, on the other hand, is a disaster. The gamble on the soft tires and the early pit stop has backfired spectacularly. By lap forty-five, he’s only gained P12, his pace a shadow of what it was in the opening laps.
“I’m sorry, Matthieu,” I say quietly into the comms, my heart sinking. “The strategy didn’t work.”
His response is icy. “And whose fucking fault is that?”
I don’t reply because I know the answer. It’s ultimately my fault because I’m the chief strategy engineer and it was my call.
When the checkered flag falls, Nash crosses the line in P3, securing a podium finish for Titans Racing. It’s the most glorious outcome imaginable, his first race back in formula and he secured a podium win. While I’m nearly bursting with pride in Nash and excitement for his future, I’m dreading the fallout with Matthieu.
?
It’s a beautiful tradition when the top three finishers come into pit lane after the race concludes. They line up in number one, two and three positions and each driver’s crew of mechanics, engineers and tire guys come out for celebration. That usually occurs with the driver running toward them, leaping joyfully into their arms and getting backslaps.
I watch as Nash has that perfect moment of victory. Granted, he got third place, but it is still a massive win for him and for Titans Racing. It’s also proven to the world that he is back in full form and is going to be a strong contender this year for the Driver’s Championship.
Matthieu, on the other hand, flies out of his car, vibrating with menace. He takes off his helmet and slings it away before ripping off his protective balaclava and dropping it to the tarmac. He glances around, his own crew milling about with dejected expressions as they tend to his car.
When he sees me, I brace for the tsunami coming my way. He strides over to me, fists clenched, and towers over me threateningly.
“This is on you!” he yells, his voice echoing through the garage. “Your stupid strategy cost me the race!”
“Matthieu, calm down,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady even as my cheeks burn with humiliation and nausea rolls in my belly.
“Calm down?” he snarls, stepping closer and I shrink back. “I told you those tires wouldn’t work! I told you this was a bad idea! Hendrik told you it was a bad idea. But you think you know everything.”
Nash appears out of nowhere, stepping between us and taking three steps to force Matthieu away from me. “You need to back the fuck off,” he says sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And show some fucking respect.”
“Respect?” Matthieu practically spits the word, as if it’s filthy. “She’s got no business being in that position and she proved that today.”
“Funny,” Nash counters lightly, but his body remains tense. “Her strategy seemed to work well for me. I’ll be thanking her from on top of the podium.”
“Yeah, about that,” Matthieu drawls, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’m guessing you got preferential treatment since you two are fucking.”
I gasp, looking wildly around the garage to see everyone watching this unfold, and all eyes are on us. I want to melt into the floor and die from embarrassment, but there’s no time. Nash’s hands fly out, catching Matthieu in the chest. He doesn’t push him back, rather pulls him in close. “Want to say that again to my face?”
Matthieu is beyond reasoning though and he leers at Nash, only inches apart from one another. “Everyone knows she’s sleeping her way into keeping that top position.”
Nash reacts so brutally fast I can only watch in horror as his fist plants in Matthieu’s face. The impact is so great, Matthieu flies backward over the race car, tumbling to the other side. Nash doesn’t wait to see what happened to him but strides around the side with the obvious intention of giving him another taste of his fists.
“Stop!” I screech, lunging forward and grabbing Nash’s arm. “Don’t. You’ve got everyone watching and it’s making it worse.”
Nash’s head turns back to me, vibrating with fury. “He deserves to get his ass kicked.”
“And you’re making it look like I am sleeping with you to keep my job,” I hiss at him. “This isn’t going to affect you, but people won’t look at me the same.”
I glance over to see Matthieu stand up and rub his jaw as he swivels it back and forth, grimacing. One of the pit crew takes him by the arm and leads him out of the garage, presumably to get some ice.
While that should relieve me that he’s gone, my blood turns cold as Hendrik approaches. I don’t know where he was or if he saw everything, but by the thunderous look on his face, I’m guessing he did.
“Is that true?” Hendrik asks me and doesn’t even bother looking at Nash. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“We’re seeing each other,” Nash says, but Hendrik doesn’t look at him.
“If you’re having an intimate relationship with a driver, that is a severe conflict of interest. I have to wonder why you gave Nash the easy strategy and Matthieu the riskier one.”
“To help propel Matthieu upward,” I rush to assure him. “He was too far back, and we needed a big move. Nash’s position was secure from the start.”
“But you could have had Matthieu run on the same strategy as Nash,” Hendrik says, his voice icy and cold. “And he would have stayed in the top ten and gotten us points.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” I say lamely. “But yes… it was a risk I had to take.”
“What I do know is that you fucked it up, and there’s a question of integrity in your strategy since you’ve got a relationship with a driver. I’m going to have to talk to Luca, but my recommendation is that we dismiss you.”
“Now wait a minute,” Nash tries to intervene.
Hendrik rounds on him with a glare. “You stay out of it. It has nothing to do with you.”
Nash’s lips press into a flat line, and he holds his tongue, for which I’m grateful. Any interference by him is only going to make me look bad. I’ve got to salvage this myself. “Hendrik… I made a call that many other race strategists would have made. You take calculated risks to move people up. The timing didn’t work out and we failed, but you can’t judge my abilities on that one call.”
“Can’t I?” he replies ominously.
“If you did, it wouldn’t be fair.”
Hendrik leans toward me, his voice stone-cold. “There’s nothing fair about racing. It’s only about the win. And you lost here today.”
A wave of anxiety hits me so hard, my knees wobble. In a flash, I see my entire career disintegrate. Hendrik turns and storms off, barking orders at the mechanics that send them scrambling away from his wrath.
“Look,” Nash says, touching my wrist, but I pull it away. People are still watching. “I’ve got to get into the post-race interview and the podium ceremony will be soon. Are you okay?”
It’s a struggle but I keep my voice steady. “Yeah, I’m fine. Hendrik’s just getting his anger out. He’ll calm down.”
Nash’s expression says everything. This issue isn’t over and it’s going to get worse.
“We’ll talk about it tonight after dinner with my parents,” he says, and then before I can stop him, he leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “And I don’t give a fuck who saw that.”
Shit. I forgot that Nash’s parents flew in for the race. I haven’t seen them yet as I haven’t had any spare time between practice rounds, qualifying and the race. I’ve barely even slept. They were in the VIP suite for the race and Nash had invited me to join them for dinner tonight as they’re flying home to the States tomorrow while we head back to Guildford.
“Sinclair!” Alex yells and we look his way. “Get your ass over here. They’re ready for your interview.”
Nash squeezes my shoulder. “Got to go. See you at the podium ceremony.”
“Of course.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder back at our pit wall stations. “I’m going to shut down my stuff.”
Nash grins and rushes away, and I take the moment to shake off my despair over my failure with Matthieu to be happy for Nash’s success. His dreams are coming true.