48. TIAGO
TIAGO
S?O PAULO
Three laps to go. That’s all that’s left of the Brazilian Grand Prix. Three laps to complete one overtake. Three laps between sixth and fifth.
As I put pressure on the throttle, my car groans, and I don’t blame it. The track feels hand-built – it’s bumpy as shit, rising and dropping like no other. The car hasn’t settled for the past sixty-eight laps. My forearms are burning from gripping a relentlessly vibrating wheel.
But we have to hold a little bit longer.
Brake. Rotate. Power. That’s all there is to it. I’m an apex predator, stalking a little Swedish dude.
0.82s. That’s more like it. We’re approaching the long, downhill run from Junc?o to the start-finish straight. Perfect.
Sweat pools at the base of my spine as I pick up the slipstream, his rear wing open.
Henriksson lurches to cover his inside, but I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter which side he chooses, I’m flexible.
The outside line has better grip anyway.
The crowd roars as I scoot around him, momentum inching me ahead, boxing Henriksson in at a shallow angle.
I’m already ahead before Turn 2 finishes.
I don’t let myself celebrate – the finish is rapidly closing in, and he’s going to do everything in his power to win that place back. It’s not a simple game of Cabrera vs Henriksson. It’s bigger, more expensive. If we beat Volare for fifth, we can beat RaceX for fourth one day.
There’s no way I’ll reach any of the top five – most have already finished, and they’re all from top three constructors anyway. P6 is it for me, but it’s enough.
The gap between me and the RaceX is widening. My guess, his tyres are spent. They were probably worn before, but after a little defending, they’re dead. Suits me.
The sky sits heavy overhead as I cruise across the finish.
‘YES!’ I yell, tears stinging my eyes as I let out airy laughter. ‘Sixth, baby!’
‘Excellent work, Tiago,’ says my race engineer, and I can hear our garage celebrating behind him.
‘We’re fifth in the Championship.’ I can barely believe it.
‘We are.’
From fireballs to brake failure, who’d have thought we’d finish the season in fifth?
I mean, the season’s not over yet – there are still three races to go – but I’m not worried.
Our garage is full of competitor analysis, and RaceX’s trajectory is down, while ours is steeply up.
We just need to maintain, which is sure as hell easier than clawing tooth and nail.
Fifth. Fuck me. We’re the best of the mid-pack. A dangerous wild card. And next year, with our extra funding, we’ll be shooting even higher. The fact that we’ve stolen the spot Volare’s held for two years makes it all sweeter. Oh how the tables have turned.
I’ll be a permanent feature in the media pen.
The press can stop treating us like a lucky underdog.
We deserve to be here. We’ve gone from joint tenth to fifth in the space of eight months.
What can we do over the winter break? I really do believe the sky’s the limit.
I can’t help beaming knowing I’ll be around next season to see it.
By the time I get to the garage, it’s a full-blown party.
My family are dressed in branded polos, dancing to a boombox playing ‘Fireball’.
Being the only race in South America, all my extended Colombian relatives are here too.
Most importantly, Jules is here. She’s been commandeered by my abuelita who speaks no English but is talking animatedly to her anyway.
‘Congratulations, big brother,’ says Isa, grinning as she claps me on the back. ‘You did good.’
I ruffle her hair and she squeals. ‘Thanks.’
She leans in close, peeking over her shoulder. ‘Before Jules comes over, I wanted to let you know Damian Reisner’s here.’
My eyes almost bug out. ‘What?’
‘He’s a guest of Ackland. I think there’s some kind of tennis tournament in town.’
‘Where is he now? He’s not going to cross paths with Jules, is he?’
‘I don’t think so. Espy says he hasn’t left Ackland hospitality for the whole race.’
Ok, good. That’s something. It’s miles from here.
The humidity’s been close all weekend but now it feels stifling. How dare he so casually enjoy Ackland’s VIP treatment after everything he’s done. If he kept up with anything about Jules, he’d know she’s here. She wants him out of her life, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
This is my turf, and I’m not letting him get away with shit.
‘Yo, Tio Tavo, Tio César,’ I call to my uncles, who stick out with their exposed heavily tattooed chests. Thank God they didn’t bring the snake.
They come in for a pound hug.
‘Congratulations, man, that was incredible,’ Tio Tavo says in Spanish.
‘You made us rich, man,’ echoes Tio César. ‘We bet six million pesos you’d get in the top ten!’
That’s equivalent to around two thousand US dollars, but I don’t want to know how much they made. Or what they’ll spend it on.
‘Thanks, guys. Listen, I need you to do something for me.’
I can feel Isa’s confusion without even looking at her.
Tio César nods once, solemnly. ‘Anything for family, kid.’
‘There’s this dude, Damian Reisner. He’s in Ackland hospitality right now. He…’ How do I put this in words that’ll make them instantly understand? ‘Disrespected my girl.’
They both blow out emphatically, and I know I’ve struck a nerve.
‘Can you, like, shake him up?’ I ask. ‘No real damage, just scare him. Subtly.’
Tio Tavo slaps my back so hard I suppress a cough. ‘You got it, homie.’
They make to leave and I grab the closest by the shoulder. ‘Oh, and he’s a tennis player. Right-handed.’
Another nod and they sink into the crowd. They didn’t ask for directions, and thinking about two beefed-up, illustrated neros consulting a paddock map is weirdly amusing.
I don’t envy Damian. I know those two, and I definitely don’t want them coming after me. They’re the kind of guys Chicano rappers think they are. Shame the nicest one’s in jail for armed robbery.
‘That was cold,’ Isa remarks in English.
‘You know he deserves it.’
She tilts her head toward me. ‘Did I stop you?’
I smile. ‘Don’t tell Jules.’
‘Wasn’t gonna.’ She stalks off to join our mom.
I scan the clusters of people for Jules – thinking she’d be easy to spot in a sea of Hispanics and engineers – but I can’t see her.
‘Looking for someone?’
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. She looks insane in a skin-tight black dress and Leone cap. I pull her close to me, sweaty as I am. ‘Didn’t feel like wearing a polo?’
‘I’m your WAG now,’ she says, arms winding around my torso, clearly not caring that I smell like I’ve spent the last three hours frying in a race car. ‘I have to look the part.’
My WAG. My Jules. ‘Looking the part suits you.’
‘Winning suits you,’ she fires back.
‘I won back in London. This is a bonus.’
She grabs my face and squeezes. ‘Such a flirt.’
‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ laughs Marcela.
‘Fuck off,’ I growl, refusing to release Jules.
Marcela rests the mouth of her Appia against her chin. ‘Now you’ve officially soft launched, how do you both feel?’
‘Good so far.’ Jules’ smile is tentative. ‘Some negativity in my comments, but mostly appreciating the authenticity. Let’s see how it progresses. I don’t know how it’ll be at the start of next season, without all the Easter eggs and reveals. I think that’s the only part I’ll miss, to be honest.’
‘I’m sure we can keep ’em occupied,’ I say into her hair and kiss it.
My sister makes a disgusted noise and stalks away.
Laughing, I take Jules’ other hand. ‘No regrets though?’
‘None. I think I look good in orange.’
‘I always knew you were with me for my colour scheme.’
She tilts her head up to me. ‘You make me really happy,’ she whispers.
I smooth the hair around her face. ‘Good. I intend to keep you that way for a very long time.’
‘Is that a promise?’
I snort. ‘My promises apparently mean nothing, but I swear on your life,’ I boop her nose, ‘which means more to me than anything I have to give.’
Amusement dances in her eyes. ‘You’re so corny.’
‘You love it.’