Chapter 9
JACK
It’s standard for high-performance athletes to have rituals. It keeps us calm and gives us a feeling of control. Usain Bolt points to the sky before a sprint. Cristiano Ronaldo’s right foot steps on the grass before his left.
I get dressed in a specific order.
I’d argue I’m the calmest driver on the grid before a race. I can talk and laugh and think about other things. I don’t need theatrical focus time and I’m not a short-tempered wanker. But I do need this.
It goes: left sock, right sock, white long pants, white shirt, black race suit, left boot, right boot. Then, in the garage: balaclava, helmet, left glove, right glove, Head and Neck Support (HANS).
It’s partly functional – you can’t put your race suit on before your underwear – but over the years, the order’s become rigid. I once put my gloves on before my helmet, and on lap fourteen, I lost the back end and spun out.
Which is why I’m standing in my upturned driver room wearing only boxers. Qualifying’s in fifteen minutes, the Team Hub’s emptying, and I can’t find my motherfucking right sock.
‘Jack,’ my assistant’s saying, barrelling down the corridor, ‘shall I post that garage photo— WHY ARE YOU STILL IN YOUR PANTS?’ She throws herself back against the door to shut it.
I must look a sight. Hair spiking in a hundred directions, face white as a sheet, and on top of everything else, I feel a lawsuit coming on.
‘I can’t find my right sock,’ I almost whimper. I’m not proud but these are desperate times.
I squeeze my fingers into my eyes and when I reopen them, hers are the size of saucers. She knows what this means to me. Hell, Daily Mail readers know what this means to me.
‘Ok, don’t panic,’ she says kind of like she’s panicking too.
‘Panic? We’re so far beyond panic; I’m on the verge of a breakdown!’
‘There must be another couple of pairs in your wardrobe—’
I run both hands through my hair. ‘They’re gone!’
‘Ok. Ok.’ She furiously scans the room. Like I can check the vent but I’m too stupid to think of the sofa cushion. ‘There are spares downstairs! Yes! We can swap out the whole set. You can wear both new socks. It’s completely fine.’
I roughly wipe the sweat streaming down my face. ‘It’s not fine! Nothing about this is fine. That’s my sock.’ I point to my clothed left foot. ‘I need to wear my socks.’ I know I sound like a petulant toddler but fuck it. This shit’s important.
‘Have you looked—’
‘I’ve looked everywhere. It’s not here!’
Something in her eyes changes. ‘Well, you need to leave now, and that’s your only option. Make peace with it.’
I cover my face with both hands and drag it down.
This is a nightmare. How did it even happen?
Six race suits have been sitting in my driver room since Wednesday.
Six! I used one yesterday; another for the sprint earlier this afternoon.
Four pairs of socks should be left. Where could they be? Think, Jack, think!
‘While you have an existential debate with yourself, I’ll find another pair,’ she mutters, and slips out.
‘Please find Georgie,’ I squeak after her.
I take a deep, measured breath and flop on the couch. I’ve got to calm the fuck down. This is no way to start qualifying. I’m an absolute state. I’ll come plum last.
In the middle of splashing cold water on my face, Georgie bursts in without knocking. I’m about to explain when she hands me a brand new pair of socks, the packaging removed. They look exactly like my old pair.
‘These are your socks,’ she says, and points to my left foot. ‘This is not yours anymore; it’s rubbish. Put it in the bin.’
I do as she says.
‘Now your kit’s exactly like every other race,’ she goes on. ‘I’ll make sure you’re there on time. Just focus on getting ready.’ And with that she turns and closes the door behind her.
I’m still unspooling as we speed-walk to the garage. I’m practicing my count breathing, box breathing, visualising starting on pole. I’m not stressed, I’m pumped. I’m not shaken, I’m excited. I can do this. I’m more than capable. This track is mine.
Fucking hell I’m screwed.
My balaclava, helmet and gloves are exactly where they should be. My sock was a blip; qualifying will go smoothly. I have the power to make it so.
‘Hey Jack,’ Micah says, and I pause putting my balaclava on. What does he want? He never comes over to my side of the garage before a race. In fact, he never comes over period.
‘Yeah? What is it?’ I say, my face searching to find the head hole.
‘I found an extra sock in my room. Figured it might be yours.’
I stiffen.
That little—
‘It’s still there if you need it.’ He shrugs like it’s no big deal, whilst being extremely aware what size of a deal it is. ‘I’ll give it to you later if not. Have a good quali.’ And with that, he returns to his side.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Why didn’t he ever cross my mind? I’m such a flaming idiot.
I’m still staring after him when Georgie returns. ‘Helmet, Jack. It’s time.’ She scrutinises me. Scowling into thin air has that effect on people. ‘Are you ok? Did those visualisations help?’
I don’t know how to tell her without descending into a full-on panic attack, or dragging Micah out the car and beating the living shit out of him. I settle for chugging down electrolyte water. ‘Yeah.’
‘Great. It’s time. Gloves on. Helmet on.’
How could he stoop that low? I’d never do that to him. He’s always been more into mind games than me – a strategic ‘good luck’ here, a casual knock-down during a press conference there – but messing with my ritual?
He thinks a stunt like that will give him a shot at pole.
Not today, pal. Not today.