Chapter Thirteen – Shanghai Race Build Up
Aleksandr Volkov – Shanghai, Wednesday
Coffee. Engine oil. And the sour edge of unfinished business. Every person in the room carried Suzuka on their shoulders; no one wanted to say it first.
I sat at one end of the long black table, hands folded, pretending to study the spreadsheet on the screen. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. The weight of Suzuka still clung to me like engine grease—hard to scrub off, even after three days.
Ross stood at the front, laser pointer in one hand, remote in the other. “We’ll start with the numbers,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Then we’ll move on to projections for Shanghai.”
Translation: we’re going to pretend last weekend didn’t happen… until I decide to make it personal.
I braced myself.
“Callum,” Ross said, pointing to the chart. “P12 finish in Japan. Not where we want to be, but you held your own in a tough midfield. Good data. Clean drive. Let’s build on that.”
Callum straightened in his chair. “Thanks. Car felt decent most of the race. I think we could’ve gone for an undercut, on lap thirty five, but I backed off after Turn Eleven. Didn't want to risk contact.”
Ross gave a tight nod. “Smart call. We’ll be more aggressive here. Shanghai allows it. Keep your eye on Vega. You should be beating her.”
Callum’s expression drooped, but he caught himself and swiped his face back to neutral. The screen shifted. My sector times flashed up in stark red and green.
And there it was.
“Aleks.” His voice was cool. Not angry. Worse—controlled. “P8. Four points. One incident. One deviation from strategy. Lost positions, lost composure. You know what happened.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just kept my gaze fixed on the screen.
“You’re still second in the standings,” Ross continued, tone like a scalpel.
“But we can’t afford more races like that.
Not with Moretti driving the way he is. We should anticipate a grilling from the press this week, so spend some time with Heidi going over your responses today and tomorrow.
” Ross nodded to my PR handler at the mention of her name and she and I exchanged nods.
Mac, leaning forward on the table, his hands clasped, said nothing. Just watched me with that unreadable expression he’d perfected over two decades in this sport. He hadn’t spoken to me properly since Monday. I wasn’t sure where we stood.
“Understood,” I said finally.
“Good,” Ross replied. “Then let’s move forward.”
Like that was ever easy.
I still felt her lips on mine. Still saw her eyes in that lobby, pleading with me to cross the line again.
And for one stupid moment, I’d wanted to.
Still did.
Control. Control. Control.
The next fifteen minutes were all tyre strategy, long-run simulations, and pit window timing. I absorbed it all like I always did. My brain was built for this—data, rhythm, split-second decisions. But behind every graph, every number, I could still feel the judgement in the room.
Callum was scribbling notes beside me, nodding along to everything the lead engineer said. He’d be on the simulator all afternoon, trying to find an edge I didn’t need.
Or didn’t normally need.
“…and we’ll run full telemetry comparisons after FP1,” the engineer was saying, eyes flicking between us. “We’re expecting mid-range temps with a strong chance of rain during the race window. If it stays dry, we’ll see moderate degradation—but the hard compound probably won’t be viable either way.”
“Copy that,” Callum said, chipper as ever.
The briefing began to wrap up, final notes ticking off the agenda.
Ross cleared his throat and fixed us both with his sharp stare. “I don’t need to remind either of you—Shanghai is critical. Not just for points. For optics. We need unity. Performance. Control.”
That last word landed like a warning shot.
I nodded once. Silent. Measured. Exactly what he expected.
Callum, all optimism and youth, cracked a grin. “Let’s go give them something to talk about.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
But the truth was, they were already talking.
And no amount of damage control could undo what Suzuka had started.
Heidi had commandeered a corner office near the hospitality suite, all sleek lines and backlit screens. A dozen cue cards lay face-up on the table like we were about to summon spirits. Honestly, I’d have preferred that.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” she said, perched on the edge of the glass desk. “Suzuka.”
“Of course,” I muttered.
Terri sat on the sofa, legs crossed, tablet in her lap. “They’ll want to know what happened. Why you pitted early. What went wrong with the car.”
“Nothing went wrong with the car.”
“Then what went wrong with you?” Heidi’s tone was neutral, professional, but sharp enough to draw blood.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. “You want a soundbite or the truth?”
“I want both,” she said, arms folding. “But outside this room you control the narrative. You’re lucky this isn’t spiralling already.
The only reason it isn’t is because you’re still second in the championship—barely.
But if you tank again in Shanghai, the story becomes that the king’s crown is slipping. And we don’t want that narrative.”
“I know the narrative.”
“Then stick to it.” She picked up the first cue card. “‘It wasn’t our best weekend, but I trust the team and I’m focused on delivering a strong result in Shanghai.’”
I rolled my eyes.
Terri looked up from her screen. “You want something more natural? Say the same thing in your own words.”
“I’d rather say nothing.”
Heidi gave me the look. The one that reminded me she worked with Ross for a reason.
I sighed and sat forward, elbows on my knees. “We had some issues in Suzuka. We’ve reviewed everything, and I’m focused on Shanghai. I’m confident we can bounce back.”
“Better,” Terri said, tapping it out on her tablet. “Use ‘bounce back’ again later. It makes you sound human.”
I gave her a dry look. “How tragic.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome.”
Heidi flipped to another card. “If anyone brings up Elena Archer—”
I stiffened. “They won’t.”
“They might. You walked out of your post-race interviews in Suzuka after three questions. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
I clenched my jaw. “Because they kept asking the same thing. What went wrong, Aleks? Why so off the pace? Was it the strategy, or something else?”
“Exactly,” she said, setting the card down. “And if they start digging again, especially with Archer’s name still floating around, you need to shut it down clean.”
Terri, still typing, didn’t look up. “Just say you’re focused on performance. Deflect. They’ll move on.”
Heidi added, “Unless you give them a reason not to.”
I pressed my thumb and forefinger against my brow, grinding away a headache. “I’ll handle it.”
“Not good enough.” She snapped the card onto the table. “You need a line.”
“Try this,” Terri said. “I respect the media’s role, but I’m here to race. I won’t be distracted by speculation.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “You write for politicians on the side?”
“Just you.”
I leaned back again, folding my arms. “Fine. I’ll play nice. Say the lines. Smile for the cameras.”
“Good.” Heidi’s voice softened just slightly. “Because like it or not, they’re watching. Waiting to see if Suzuka was a fluke or the beginning of a decline.”
Terri stood and passed me a fresh towel. “You need to go sweat it out.”
“For once, we agree.”
I left the room without waiting for a goodbye.
I didn’t go back to the hotel. Not yet.
The Obsidian performance centre at the paddock was sleek and over-lit, mirrors everywhere, like the only way to improve was to confront your own reflection. I tugged off my branded polo and tossed it aside, leaving just compression wear and frustration.
Treadmill first. Sixteen clicks per hour. Steady. Focused.
My feet hit the belt like I was chasing something I couldn’t name. Or maybe running from it.
I didn’t plug in music. I wanted the rhythm of the belt, the slap of soles, the rasp of breath, the thud of my pulse. The hurt.
The voice in my head kept playing the same clips on repeat:
You kissed her.
You walked out of a press pen like a fucking rookie.
You dropped twenty-one points in one race.
You let her in.
I pushed the speed up. Eighteen. Eighteen and a half.
The belt whined beneath me.
I kept running.
The sweat came fast. Chest heaving. Breath burning. The mirrors blurred.
I didn’t stop.
Because if I stopped, I’d start thinking again. About Elena. About Ross. About whether Suzuka was a fluke or the start of a freefall. About how I used to know exactly who I was.
And now?
Now I was the guy who couldn’t stop checking for a woman in every room. Who made excuses to walk her home. Who lied to his team, his engineer, his friends, himself.
I hit twenty.
Pain lanced up my calves, into my thighs.
Good.
I ran until my vision started to shimmer, until the ache in my lungs eclipsed the ache in my chest. Then I hit the emergency stop and flung myself sideways off the treadmill like it had personally offended me.
The silence after was deafening.
I braced both hands on my knees, sweat dripping onto the mat, heartbeat like a war drum in my ears.
I was unravelled. Coming apart, thread by thread, and doing everything in my power not to let anyone see.
Footsteps behind me.
Mac.
Of course.
He stood just out of my eyeline, arms crossed, unreadable. He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
“Don’t,” I muttered, still bent over. “I don’t need a pep talk.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to give one,” he said. “You’d only ignore it.” He paused. Then, softer: “But you’ll need your legs on Saturday, so maybe don’t kill ’em today.”
I straightened, breath still ragged. Our eyes met in the mirror.
Mac gave a slow nod, like he saw exactly what I was trying to exorcise.
And knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
I left the gym and headed for the next stop in my reliable routine.
I stripped down to my underwear, stepped into the full tub, and the ice hit bone.
Not skin, not muscle—bone. Like my skeleton was being flayed by frostbite, every nerve ending screaming as I sank lower. Hips submerged. Then ribs. My hands gripped the rim, white-knuckled. I exhaled hard through my nose.
Focus.
My breath fogged in the air, rising in pale spirals. The locker room was quiet, the low hum of fluorescent lights a steady companion. Fluids dripped somewhere behind me—another tub, another driver.
But in here, in this moment, there was only cold. And breath. And discipline.
The burn gave way to numbness. A full-body hum that wrapped around me like static. My heart slowed. I tipped my head back against the tile wall, stared at the ceiling and let the shivers come.
No thoughts. No voices. No Ross. No Heidi. No Elena.
Just breath in.
Breath out.
Hold.
Repeat.
Control. That was all this sport ever demanded. Every corner, every line, every word in front of a camera. Control your image. Your tone. Your split-second reactions.
But in the ice water, control looked different. It was surrender. Not to the cold—but to stillness.
The pain edged away, leaving behind something quieter. Cleaner.
Aleks Volkov, reduced to his purest form.
Breath.
Heartbeat.
Focus.