Gridlocked (Driven #1)

Chapter One – Melbourne Race Weekend

MARTY GRAVES: Welcome to a brand new season in Formula One. It’s a bright day here in Melbourne and what a scorcher we’re in for this year. Tara, where do we even begin?

MARTY: Underestimating? They should be afraid. You saw Stratos’s testing times—Vega’s out for blood. And poor Ben Walker, her sunny sidekick, is already sweating over who gets top dog in that garage.

MARTY: Elsewhere, Jax Rivers is now with Nova Dynamics, and it’s already a media circus. At least he’s got Ren Takeda to keep him grounded—ice and fire in that garage, but they’re playing nice. For now.

TARA: And Falcon Edge adds Matteo Ramos to their line-up. He’s loud, he’s fast, and he’s bringing flair to a team better known for its quiet intensity. Whether he lifts them or gets swallowed whole is anyone’s guess.

MARTY: Meanwhile, all eyes are on Hawthorn Racing. With two podium threats in Oliver Kane and Luca Moretti, they’re gunning to dethrone Obsidian. Kane’s been chasing consistency, and Moretti? Well, he’s chasing Aleksandr Volkov.

TARA: Volkov—the reigning world champion three years running, with Obsidian’s engine package and Team Principal, Norton Ross behind him. They’ve ruled the sport with an iron grip. But the regulation changes coming next year have everyone scrambling, and the cracks are already starting to show.

MARTY: You think Volkov’s worried?

TARA: Not outwardly. He’s as frosty as ever. But if that engine doesn’t deliver, or if Hawthorn and Nova start closing the gap, we might see a very different side of him.

MARTY: And I’ll be right there, popcorn in hand. Because this season? New blood, new rivalries, and maybe—just maybe—a new champion.

TARA: Buckle up, folks. The grid’s never looked this hungry.

MARTY: And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aleksandr Volkov – Post Qualifying Press Conference

The room was chilled to within an inch of frostbite, but I still felt the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.

We were perched on a pristine white sofa, the kind that looked modern but somehow still managed to be uncomfortable.

Beside me were drivers from Stratos Racing and Tempest Autosport.

Guys hardly worth my attention. I leant back slightly, race suit unzipped to the waist, hands resting on my thighs, mic cable draped across one knee.

The backdrop behind us flashed through a rotation of sponsor logos and the F1 graphic, as if anyone needed reminding where we were.

“Aleksandr, how does it feel to start the season on top again?”

Boring.

“Any concerns about the new regulations next year?”

No.

“What’s your strategy for tomorrow’s race?”

Win.

I gave them the usual stock answers, my voice flat, my eyes scanning the room for the nearest exit. Movement caught my eye. A woman working her way from the back of the press pack towards the front. She came to a halt at the end of the second full row of seats.

I didn’t know her name yet. Just that she moved like she owned the place, dark hair pulled into a knot that looked one wrong word away from coming undone.

She was all sharp edges and smirking lips, her phone out and ready to record like she was expecting a confession.

A tailored navy blazer hugged her waist, the matching skirt cut just high enough to show off long, toned legs.

Something in my chest tightened.

“Next question,” came the call from the host. “Over here.” He pointed towards her, and she didn’t seem surprised.

“Elena Archer, International Motorsport Review. Aleksandr,” she said, voice smooth as oil on fire. “Rumours are swirling about Obsidian’s engine performance. Care to comment on how you’re really achieving that extra half-second per lap?”

The air shifted. The tension was subtle, but unmistakable. Even the host stiffened slightly in his armchair to the side.

My fingers twitched against the mic.

“Rumours are for people who don’t win,” I said, keeping my voice even. But my pulse wasn’t. It was thudding, just a little too fast.

“And yet, here we are. You do win. A lot. Almost too much.” She bit back, a smirk tugging at the corner of her full lips.

My grip tightened. The mic creaked in my hand. I finally looked at her properly.

She had the kind of eyes that didn’t just see—they dissected. Dark, sharp, knowing. Like she already had the story written and was just waiting for me to confirm it.

“I know what I say,” I said, low and deliberate, leaning forward on my knees. “Next question.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed there, watching me like I was a puzzle she was determined to solve. The reporters around her shifted, uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. She was still smiling, just a little, like she knew something I didn’t.

The press officer called for the next question, but I didn’t look away from her. Not yet.

The rest of the questions barely registered and I gave curt responses when required. I was itching to get out of there and get changed. My gaze kept flicking back to the mysterious newcomer.

Finally it was over and I got to my feet amid the flicker of camera flashes. She moved swiftly across the room to head me off at the exit.

“You’re new,” I said before she could ask me any more awkward questions.

“Observant,” she shot back, tilting her head just enough to make the light catch in her eyes. “And here I thought you only cared about lap times.”

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve ignored her, like I did with every other reporter who thought they could rattle me. But I didn’t.

I paused beside her and peered brazenly at her press pass around her neck. Elena Archer. I dragged my gaze away from the tantalising spot where the top button of her blouse met her golden skin.

She looked up at me, that smirk of hers firmly in place, like she was daring me to do something about it.

“You’re wasting my time,” I said, my voice just for her. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I allowed myself to meet her defiant gaze. Dear god, those eyes. “Oh, Champion,” she said, sweet as poison. “You have no idea what’s coming.”

I walked out. The door shut behind me with a click. And for the first time in years, I didn’t just want to win the race tomorrow.

I wanted to break something.

The door had barely swung shut behind me when Terri, my team assistant, appeared at my side like a damn shadow. She was petite and wore her black hair in a sleek bob. She thrust a fresh bottle of water into my hand, her tablet already open to my schedule.

“You’ve got a debrief in twenty, then the sponsor meet-and-greet at—”

“What rumours?” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended.

Terri blinked, her stylus hovering over the tablet. “Sorry?”

“That woman in there—Archer. What the hell was she talking about?” I twisted the cap off the bottle with more force than necessary. The plastic crackled.

Terri’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. “Oh. Her. I don’t know, I—”

“Find out.”

She hesitated. “I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll ask around. It’s probably just—”

“Not probably,” I snapped. “Find out. Now.”

Terri flinched—just slightly—but recovered quickly. “Of course. Right away.” She tapped furiously at her tablet, already scrolling through contacts. “I’ll have an answer before the race.”

I exhaled through my nose, the bottle crinkling in my grip. The cold water did nothing to cool the heat under my skin.

“And Terri?”

She paused, looking up.

“If anyone else asks about the engine, you don’t know anything.”

She nodded once, sharp and efficient. “Understood.”

I turned on my heel and strode toward the garage, the weight of Elena Archer’s smirk still burning in my chest.

Elena Archer – Melbourne, Saturday Night

The air conditioning in my hotel room was broken. Again.

Warm air pressed against my skin, heavy with the smell of city dust and hotel detergent. I kicked off my heels and leaned back against the head of the bed, laptop balanced on my thighs. Beyond the half-drawn curtains the lights of Melbourne bled into the sky, flickering like restless ghosts.

The glow of the screen painted the walls electric blue as the qualifying replay looped. Volkov’s car. Volkov’s car. Volkov’s—

There.

Pause. Rewind. Play.

The engine note. Just a fraction too smooth in the mid-range. Like it was hiding something.

I leant in, squinting. The revs hung just a beat too long before the shift. Not obviously illegal. But wrong.

My fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the FIA’s technical regs. Fuel flow limits, engine mapping parameters, the works. Cross-referenced with Obsidian’s public data.

Nothing.

But I knew.

I queued up the press conference again. Volkov, all ice and arrogance, dismissing me like I was nothing. “Rumours are for people who don’t win.”

My lips curled.

Oh, champion. You have no idea how much I love proving men like you wrong.

My phone buzzed. A text from my editor:

Heard you ruffled some feathers today. Good. Keep pushing.

I grinned, typing back: Oh, I’m just getting started.

I shut the laptop and let the silence rush in. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded. A gull screamed over the bay. The city didn’t sleep; it just slowed its pulse.

Stories like this didn’t come along often—whispers of a juggernaut team breaking the laws of physics and getting away with it. The kind of story that made reputations. Or ruined them.

I slid off the bed and padded barefoot to the window. Melbourne glittered beyond the glass — towers lit like circuit boards, the streets below glowing with nightlife and neon. I pressed a palm to the glass. It was warm.

Someone had cheated. I could feel it as surely as heat through the window. Maybe it was Volkov. Maybe it was the men in suits who spoke for him. Either way, they thought they were untouchable.

People always did—until someone like me proved otherwise.

My reflection stared back, hair falling loose from its knot, a smear of mascara shadowing one eye. My mother used to say that curiosity was a hunger. Feed it, or it eats you alive.

She wasn’t wrong.

I turned back to the bed, reopened the laptop, and pulled up my notes. There was a pattern hiding in there somewhere. I just needed to find it.

Tomorrow the race would start, and the world would be watching the lights go out.

I’d be watching for the flicker that came after.

Sunday Morning

Sunlight leaked around the hotel curtains long before the alarm. The hum of traffic on the street below was already building—delivery vans, early commuters, the distant thrum of the city waking up.

I’d barely slept. My brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard engines.

I swung my legs off the bed and rubbed grit from my eyes. The air was already warm, sticky. Coffee first. Then war.

By the time I reached the paddock shuttle, the queue was already stacked with team personnel in polos and mirrored sunglasses, talking quietly.

I flashed my press pass and took a window seat.

The short ride from the hotel to the heart of Albert Park passed with chattering voices and the buzz of excitement for the day ahead.

The bus pulled up in the shadow of a grandstand, the air fluttering with sponsor flags, and the faint smell of burnt rubber riding the morning heat.

A few heads turned my way when I climbed down from the bus. Word travelled fast.

Two other journalists from The Racing Post stood by the accreditation gate, lanyards tangled, eyes bright with gossip.

“Archer,” one of them called. “Heard Volkov nearly ripped his press officer’s head off after your question yesterday.”

I smiled. “Good. Maybe he’ll remember me next time.”

“You planning to push it again?”

“Depends if he gives me another reason.”

They laughed, but there was a flicker of wariness there too. They could smell blood. They just weren’t sure whose it would be yet.

Inside the media centre, the air was cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. Rows of desks, screens everywhere, the faint drone of the track feed in the background.

I dropped my bag and opened my laptop. My inbox was a mess of notifications: PR invites, press schedules, half a dozen messages from my editor.

Be careful who you talk to today.

Ross has friends in the FIA.

If Volkov approaches you, record everything.

I smirked and typed back:

Always do.

A flicker of movement on the TV screen caught my attention.

Obsidian’s garage. Volkov stood near his car, fireproof race suit half-zipped, his undershirt clinging to his athletic frame and his head bent toward his race engineer.

He looked calm, but even through a camera lens I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened when the crew brushed past.

The broadcast cut to the commentators—Marty and Tara, already live for the pre-race coverage.

On screen, Tara’s perfectly coiffed curls didn’t move an inch in the Melbourne heat. “—And there’s Volkov, looking as icy as ever. Not a man you want to get in the way of this morning.”

Marty chuckled beside her. “I don’t know, Tara. After yesterday’s fireworks, I’d say he’s got a few distractions already. Let’s hope he drives better than he smiles. Jamie? How’s it looking down in the pit lane?”

The feed switched again, this time to the pit lane where Jamie Kavanagh paced between camera and chaos with his usual practised ease.

“Well, Marty,” Jamie said, flashing that boyish grin of his, “sparks certainly flew during qualifying yesterday and the whole paddock is talking about Vega’s impressive lap time. But all eyes are on Obsidian as Volkov aims for another lights to flag win.”

I turned away from the screen and leaned back, letting the noise of the paddock wash over me.

Somewhere out there, Aleksandr Volkov was preparing to do what he did best: dominate.

And I was preparing to find out what he was hiding.