37. TIAGO
TIAGO
MONZA
‘Have a good race, Tiago.’
‘Thanks, Minnie.’
‘And cut,’ calls the producer.
That was sick. The Italian Grand Prix is Martinelli and Leone’s home race, and the biggest sports broadcaster in France chose me – over Tom and étienne – to feature. Sure, it helps the presenter is Jules’ best friend, but hopefully few people will make the connection.
Minnie’s a great journalist, asking insightful questions about Leone and how smoothly we’re climbing the leaderboard (sixth place, baby!) Jules looks proud as hell from the far corner of Martinelli’s hospitality suite. It’s a good look on her.
My team have turned up in force, from Leone’s principal to Martinelli board members, but do you know who’s not here?
My brother. You know, my manager, my head of finance, the architect of my career.
I know we’re in a fight and all but he’s still on my payroll.
If he doesn’t want to work for me then why’d he take a free trip to Italy? Asshole.
‘Great interview,’ Isa remarks as I de-mic. ‘Also, not to burst your bubble but Espy and Marcela called me halfway through.’
‘Tell them to mind their fucking business.’
‘They say turn your phone on.’ She throws her hands up in surrender. ‘I’m just relaying the message.’
I run my fingers through my hair. ‘Ay, no.’
My family have realised I’ve muted their WhatsApp chats so are stooping to new lows. Next, I’ll be flattened by an army of carrier pigeons. I wonder if JC’s being bombarded too.
The paddock’s a wholehearted celebration of Italy with so much vivid patriotism they rival Mexicans at their own grand prix.
It feels like a national holiday. Flags hang from balconies and faces are painted in tricolore.
Martinelli’s in the very fabric of this race, and a win isn’t just a team win, but an Italian victory.
As I’m leaving Martinelli’s hospitality suite, someone calls my name.
A short, thickly spectacled man with greying chin-length hair swept back.
It takes me a minute to recognise him as Volare’s Sporting Director.
He looks different without his official team apparel.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in jeans.
‘C-Carmine,’ I stammer.
‘Santiago, funny running into you like this. How are you?’
‘Er… good.’ Better when I know why you’re chilling outside a rival’s motorhome.
‘Excellent. Let’s catch up. Walk with me?’
I had hoped to get some sim time in before Belgian media in a couple of hours, but this feels premeditated and important so I don’t argue.
The paddock’s pretty quiet, even for a Thursday, but I’m still balls deep in sweat, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon heat.
What if someone from Leone catches me speaking with my old team?
I mean, he doesn’t look part of Volare, and the general public don’t know who he is, but my team principal sure does.
And I’m not exactly subtle in my bright orange polo.
Martinelli aren’t the only home team here – Volare are too, but you wouldn’t know that by looking around.
Even Leone’s in the mix, with more orange shirts and smoke flares than I’ve ever seen.
Volare purple’s barely visible. Impossibly quiet.
It’s sad, really. I don’t know if I’m noticing it because I’m not part of the team anymore, but they’ve never had this kind of reception before. Like their fans are embarrassed.
We talk pleasantries as we head into the park attached to the circuit. It’s beautiful – a crazy contrast to the paddock behind us. Chatter and engines give over to cicadas and rustling leaves.
‘Let’s get down to it,’ Carmine says as a runner passes by like there’s not some multi-million-dollar car race going on fifty metres away.
‘Us parting ways was for reasons out of both of our control. A great shame, of course, but inevitable. It was the wrong fit.’ He adds something vague about ‘commercial pressures’ and ‘a question of timing’ that didn’t make sense last December and still don’t make sense now.
‘But we’ve been watching you closely at Leone,’ he goes on.
They have? Really?
Wait.
Do they…?
Could they…?
Is he…?
‘That’s very good to hear, sir,’ I say, mouth going dry.
‘Your feedback is very technical; you’re polished to the press; your driving has reached new heights – even though I don’t know how in that rusty old Leone.’ He scoffs a laugh, but I don’t. ‘You drive with passion and ferocity. You bring energy and identity. You’re an asset to any Formula 1 team.’
If I had long hair, I’d be flicking it right now. I mean, it hasn’t been by accident, we’ve all worked our tangerine butts off. I’m just glad it’s finally paying off.
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘It is time our paths realigned,’ he’s saying. ‘A glorious homecoming. Returning where it all began. Do you remember the first time you stood on the podium, in Singapore last year?’
Do I remember? It was the best day of my life.
Singapore’s the most physically taxing circuit on the whole calendar.
High humidity, a near two-hour race time, and a relentless street track lined with concrete walls.
Volare’s cars are good with low-speed traction so I expected to do well, but after a wicked qualifying and three solid overtakes, I finished in P3 behind Jack Bowden.
I’ve never tasted victory like it. My whole body tingles at the memory.
‘You can feel the charge in this hallowed circuit,’ Carmine continues, oblivious to me reliving every detail of Singapore. ‘This land was made for champions, Tiago, and you are a future World Champion.’
Future World Champion.
Tiago Cabrera, World Champion.
I’ve missed the podium. I’ve missed guaranteed points. I’ve missed the press actually caring how we perform. I’ve missed not being an underdog.
My old team. A fresh seat for next year. A real Championship bid.
Oh my god, I’ve waited so long for this. I can’t believe it’s finally happening.
‘Leone can’t give you that,’ Carmine says while I picture myself on Jack’s podium, the Colombian national anthem echoing around me. ‘But we can.’
They can’t right now, obviously, but they’re a hell of a lot better placed than my current team.
I think back to my time at Volare – the slick technology, the established garage, the world-class engineers, the mainstream sponsors.
Then I think about the mechanics in Leone’s garage, all laughing together over lunch today, and I feel a twinge of guilt just being here.
I mean, I haven’t agreed to anything, but even entertaining it feels like letting them down.
What does that make me after all we’ve been through together?
‘We were never truly finished, were we? You were always one of ours,’ finishes Carmine.
This is everything I’ve wanted for months, so why is there a gnawing in my gut? A dull pressure low in my stomach, tugging me backward every time I try to envision a future at Volare.
I want to tell it to shut up but when I look back at Carmine, my gaze lingers on his linen shirt. It’s a race weekend; we came from the paddock. Wearing team apparel is a contractual obligation. You think I wear this polo for funsies?
I’m definitely overthinking this, but also… why can I see a deer right now? Like, why are we in a park and not having a real meeting? I get they want privacy, but we’re in Volare’s homeland. Why didn’t he invite me to their HQ next week? Or, you know, call me?
And where’s the rest of senior leadership? It’s not like I don’t know them.
And why was JC not invited?
As much as I hate to admit it, this is all weird. Is he feeling me out? Do they want me back? Is a seat available? Are we talking about this season or next season, or the season after that?
And underneath it all, like always, is Jules. Her comments about how Volare treated me and how they’ve distanced themselves all season have been humming in the background since Miami, and now the volume’s been turned up all the way.
But she’s coming at it with facts, and you can’t make decisions like this based on facts alone. Dreams aren’t data, they’re emotion and connection.
I don’t want to confront Carmine too directly in case I snuff something out before it’s even warm.
I’m actually grateful JC’s not here; he’d be all timelines and guarantees and leverage and why did you fire my client?
Then Volare might get defensive and drop the whole thing.
I’ve wanted this for so long, I have to handle it carefully.
This might be how high-level driver transactions happen. After all, it’s not like I’ve done a ton of them. Last time, I was on the open market. JC made a call, and that was it.
This is exhausting. We’re in the latter half of the season, the thing with Jules is still raw, my brother’s playing on my mind, and my family are on my case 24/7.
I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with my brain going round in circles.
A stabbing pain’s growing at my temple, and I look forward to battling a tension headache through Belgian media.
‘So… what’s next?’ I ask.
Carmine’s smile is placatory. ‘Let’s keep talking.’
We don’t have a lot of time to talk. If I’m leaving Leone at the end of the season, I need to give them notice so they can fill their seat. It’s the very least I can do – if, of course, I choose to leave. ‘What kind of timeline are we talking about?’
He shrugs vaguely. ‘There’s no rush.’
Riiiight.