Chapter 2
Ronan
The lights overhead are too hot.
White beams blaze down from a metal truss rig in Crown Velocity’s hospitality suite—sleek in theory, blinding in practice.
They’re meant to look good on camera, but all they do is throw glare across the black tablecloth and bleach the color from everything.
The silver-and-green backdrops shimmer with sponsor logos, perfectly aligned at a sloping angle.
Even the water bottles at our seats have branded labels.
This is Crown Velocity’s post-qualifying media conference. I’m seated next to my teammate, Lex Hamilton, with microphones before us from which they’ll pull polished sound bites for the sports news cycles. The room is full of cameras, journalists and team-aligned press staffers.
To Lex’s left, Harley Patrick watches with her usual air of composed command.
She’s Crown’s team principal and the first female ever to hold the role at this level.
I learned hard and fast that she’s sharp as hell and plays the political game better than half the paddock combined.
I underestimated her when she took over this season, but I don’t make that mistake anymore.
As it stands, I’m not on Harley Patrick’s list of favorite people these days—not since I blew up the Lex and Posey situation at the Bahrain race last month.
Posey Evans is a romance author writing swoony formula racing novels. To “research,” she embedded herself inside Crown Velocity as a fake journalist. Apparently, Harley knew exactly who she was and hired her anyway, because fuck if I know why.
At any rate, she and my mate, Lex, fell for each other. I didn’t like it and stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble.
I could’ve kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t. I let my ego off the leash and handed her identity to the press, fully knowing they’d eat it alive. They ambushed Posey like a pack of rabid dogs, Lex nearly broke my jaw because of it, and okay… I deserved it.
It’s safe to say I lost my friendship with Lex, and Posey won’t even look at me if we cross paths.
Luckily, the team can’t fire me for being an asshole. I’m still here because I’m fast and the team needs me, but no one mistakes that for being liked.
At the presser, I smile when expected. Lean forward when prompted.
Wait for the next question politely. I’ve done this a hundred times, and it’s never felt like anything other than a theater performance.
I lean back in my seat, stretching my legs under the table while Lex fields another question with that affable charm of his.
“Lex, how’s the car this weekend? You’re P3 tomorrow. Feeling confident?”
Lex gives a relaxed half grin, his response smooth. “Yeah, it felt great. We’ve got good balance and the guys in the garage have been brilliant. Let’s just survive the launch and keep the car pointed forward. Everything after that is a bonus.”
Polite chuckles ripple through the crowd. Lex is so good at this, although I know he dislikes it as much as I do. But the camera loves him, the sponsors adore him, and even when he’s fuming, he never lets it bleed through to the surface. I could probably take notes if I cared to.
I shift in my seat and glance at the screen showing the starting grid. Nash at Titans Racing is on pole—which is huge, considering the road it took for him to return to FI. His re-entry has been making headlines since the start of the season.
But he’s not the only reason.
New ownership under Brienne Norcross—the American banking heiress and hockey team mogul. People thought it was a PR move, but I suspect that was pure business driving her decision.
Then she dropped the big bombshell by signing Francesca Accardi as Titans’ second driver.
The first woman driver in Formula International history.
She may be the first female to drive at the FI level, but she’s not unknown to me.
Most of us FI drivers grew up together, starting in karting when we were kids.
Those who were good enough worked their way up, edging others out with both sheer talent and lots of money.
Those who were lucky to come from wealthy families had it easy.
Those who didn’t scraped for sponsorships.
Accardi comes from money, as do I. Not the same level, but enough that her parents were able to let her concentrate on her craft rather than salesmanship.
Her story is well known in this sport. She clawed her way up from FI3, then dominated in FI2, and now she’s on the grid at Suzuka in her debut race weekend—starting P7 after the last qualifying round.
As much as I hate to think it, that’s no fluke. That’s pure talent.
The question now isn’t just if she’s ready—it’s if the FI world of racing is ready for a woman.
Personally, I don’t care what’s between your legs, as long as you can drive well and not fuck up my game.
But I doubt she’d have ever been made an offer if it weren’t for Brienne Norcross.
None of the other team owners would have the balls to let a woman in the door and I don’t know if that makes Norcross brilliant or foolish.
Honestly, I’m surprised any of the press even wants to talk to us at Crown Velocity right now.
Nothing exciting about Lex and me being P3 and P4 on the starting grid.
The big news is Nash on pole and Accardi making a solid top ten placement in her debut race.
That’s where the real story is and I’ll be shocked if her name doesn’t come up before this press circus ends.
Especially since I’m the asshole who nearly ran her off the track in Q1.
“Ronan, your thoughts on Q3? Happy with your position?”
I glance toward the reporter, a guy with wireframe glasses and a lanyard that’s twisted sideways. His mic trembles a bit as he holds it up.
“Happy isn’t the word I’d use,” I say, replying evenly. “We didn’t maximize Sector 2, and that cost us. There’s pace in the car and I’ll find it tomorrow.”
He nods, satisfied, already looking down at his tablet. Another voice cuts in.
Fucking Peter Hornsby, a salty veteran journalist in the racing world who likes to bait the drivers.
“During Q1, there was a bit of a moment with Francesca Accardi.” He stares at me with colorless eyes. “Stewards looked at it for impeding, though no penalty was issued. What happened there from your perspective?”
I take a beat. Not because I’m searching for the right thing to say, but because I know he’s looking for the wrong one.
“She came up on me during a compromised section. There was a yellow the lap before. I was on my outlap and she was on a flyer. She pushed the gap, and unfortunately for her, it didn’t work. ”
Hornsby narrows his eyes, pen poised over his notepad. “So you’re saying it was her mistake?”
“I’m saying,” I reply coolly, “she overestimated her exit speed. You’ll have to ask her why.”
There’s a pause. Someone shifts a camera tripod. Lex’s knee bumps the table lightly, but he doesn’t speak.
“Another question about Francesca Accardi, if you’ll indulge me,” Hornsby says, making it clear he’s going to ask it regardless.
“She’s the first woman in Formula International, which is obviously a historic moment for the sport.
Do you believe that adds any extra pressure when competing with her? Or more scrutiny in moments like this?”
The question is bait, and I’ve been around too long not to recognize it.
I curl my lips slightly. “She’s not the only one under scrutiny. That’s part of the job for all of us and personally, I welcome it. But if Accardi wants to be treated the same and play with the big boys, she better learn how to handle it. I’m curious if you’re asking her the same question.”
There’s a visible shift in the room. A few pens stop moving. One of the journalists glances up from her laptop with a flick of surprise.
Lex, to his credit, keeps his face neutral, but he’s quick to add a different perspective. “Accardi’s fast. That’s what matters.”
Harley rises from her seat, holding up an apologetic hand. “That’s all the time we have. Thank you, everyone.”
More questions are hurled, all aimed at me.
“What did you mean by that last statement, Ronan?”
“Do you think women can’t handle the pressure as opposed to men?”
“What do you think of Accardi’s P7 position?”
Mics are cut with audible clicks, and I ignore them all as Lex and I push away from the table.
He turns to me with a chastising look. “You could try not kicking the hornet’s nest every time we sit down in front of cameras.”
“What do you care?” I snap, neither wanting nor needing his opinion.
“Because we’re friends,” he says, and then seems to think better of that. “Or at least we were.”
“Were being the key word.” I turn away from him, but then glance over my shoulder. “Besides, I didn’t say anything untrue.”
“Didn’t say anything useful either,” he points out.
I cock an eyebrow. “Are you my PR advisor now?”
He stares at me thoughtfully but it’s Harley who breaks the tension. “Ronan… a word.”
Fucking great. I exhale and turn her way, prepared to take the punishment for my attitude when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, thumb the screen.
Four missed calls and one text from my dad. Call me. Emergency.
Can this day get any worse?
I quickly weigh the lesser of two evils and decide I’d rather have Harley jump my ass, any day, all day, but the word emergency has my stomach lurching.
I hold up my phone. “I’m sorry… parental emergency.”
I’m not sure if it’s my expression of dread or the disdain in my tone that softens Harley’s face, but she nods. “Come see me after.”
I nod and turn away, ducking out into a side corridor behind the Crown hospitality suite. I roll my shoulders and throw my neck left and then right to pop the tension from my bones before tapping Michael Barnes’s contact.
He answers on the second ring, no greeting. “She’s done it again.” His voice is clipped, like he’s already halfway through the conversation in his mind. “Checked herself out of rehab sometime last night. Drove her car through a garden wall outside of Winchester. Wrecked the front end.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Was she drunk?”
“Drunk, high… what does it matter?” he snaps at me.
My father has a point. “Where is she now?”
“Hospital. Nothing serious, apparently. No one else was hurt. I’m in Vienna for the week.”
“So you called me in Japan.”
“She asked for you,” he says irritably. “I figured you’d want to know.”
I let that sit. I don’t fill the silence.
“You’ve got the resources,” he continues. “Handle it.”
I grit my teeth. “Do you even know what facility she’s in?”
“She mentioned it once. Something with gardens. Or horses. I don’t know, Ronan. Jesus.”
My throat feels tight. I glance down the hallway, see a junior mechanic roll past with a tire trolley. “I’ll make some calls, but obviously I can’t fly back.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
No, you never do. You just drop the grenade and walk away.
The line goes dead and I stare at the phone a moment longer before sliding it back into my pocket.
There’s still the post-qualifying debrief. Data to review. Tires to analyze and compound degradation to assess.
But right now, I need to figure out where my mother is and try to get her some help.