Chapter 1 #2
“Head in the game?” Dad’s voice is measured in the radio, but I catch the hint of pride in his brown eyes—the same color as mine.
“One hundred ten percent.” I stop beside him.
“Car’s looking good.” He nods at it.
“Because we have the best crew in the business.”
“Yes, we do.” He pauses. “P3 is a good position for you. Clean line into turn 1. Barring any nonsense, this race is yours to take, Pet.”
That’s Dad—no flowery encouragement, just practical assessment and unwavering certainty. It’s all I need.
“I know.” I’m confident but I don’t want to be too cocky. That’s how I get into trouble. Starting third suits me. I like a good chase, but I’ve been here before. Racing is unpredictable, which is what makes it thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
“Petra, let’s talk strategy.” Bowie Lucassen, my race engineer, interrupts our moment. He’s been the voice in my helmet for ten years, ever since I was sixteen and competing in F3, when Dad poached him from Jove Morrison Racing to be my engineer. There’s no one I trust more during a race.
“Talk to me.” I follow him to the opposite side of the bank of monitors that divides the two bays in Nitro’s garage. Reece and his race engineer, Misho Leroy, are already on their side.
Reece is tall for an F1 driver with the same lean, athletic build as his brother, Wyn, who races for our competition.
The guy’s short dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, even in racing conditions.
I blame his wife for that. Beside him, I look like a storm with my wild pink-streaked brunette locks pulled into a short ponytail, but our dynamic works.
Reece is a cool alpine lake. I’m a raging sea.
The sponsors and fans love that about our team.
He nods as I approach. “‘Bout time you showed up, your highness.” Technically, Reece is a Yank, but he and Wyn grew up in Motorsport Valley within spitting distance of Silverstone in the U.K. Same as me.
“Yeah, well, I had to make the rabbit sweat a little extra.”
Reece laughs.
He knows who I mean because we’ve all known each other since we were teens, competing first in karting, then F4, F3, F2, and now F1. Formula racing is an international sport but a small world in many ways, and in many instances, it’s literally a family affair.
Bowie pulls up a simulation at his station. “We’re looking at standing water on several parts of the track, and the radar shows intermittent showers continuing for at least thirty laps.”
“Perfect.” I grin. “I love a wet track.” I’ve always excelled in rainy conditions—they’re a blessing for a British driver.
Misho taps his screen. He’s compact, French-Moroccan, and sports a perpetual five o’clock shadow. “This could work in our favor. Both Telco and WolfBett are struggling with wet setups this season.”
“It’ll be a challenge to transition to dry,” Reece says. Singapore’s humidity means the track might stay damp in patches even after the rain stops.
“Let’s focus on the start and what we know.
” Zara Devi, one of the team’s race strategists, joins the conversation.
She’s younger than me and a mathematical genius who, I swear, calculates pit strategies in her head faster than our computers.
It’s a bit terrifying, and her blunt New York manners don’t lessen the impression.
“Wet or dry, the WolfBett cars are gonna be aggressive off the line.”
I nod. “We need to get past Nico, keep Wyn behind, and overtake Lynch.”
Reece crosses his arms, an evil glint in his eyes as he meets my gaze. “You clear Nico. I’m happy to block Wyn.” This is his younger brother we’re discussing, mind you. Not that I’m complaining. Wyn’s a fucking wanker on the track, and he’s run me wide more than once.
Hans Fischer, Zara’s German co-strategist, nods. “Just don’t sacrifice your tires fighting your brother, like at Monaco.”
My counterpart shrugs. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for beating the guy. Nothing better than knocking him and Graham down a notch when it counts.”
Graham is the Pritchard brothers’ father and a right piece of shit, in my opinion. And Reece’s. And ninety percent of the paddock. The brothers used to get along when they were younger, but their father playing favorites has eroded that relationship. Sad, really.
I tip my chin at Reece. “How’s your car then?”
Misho glances at him before answering, always a little cagey. We’re teammates, but we’re also rivals. It’s a weird thing about F1. “Down on power by about two percent. Nothing we can’t handle, but it’ll make a difference in the straights.”
“It’s fine.” Reece shrugs. “I’ll make it up in the corners.”
“Absolutely.” Misho nods. “No one faster.”
I file that information away and turn to the strategists. “What about tire deg?” That’s F1 speak for degradation.
“Starting on inters,” Zara says. Meaning intermediate compound tires.
With standing water on track, we need wet grip, but the intermittent rainfall means we could encounter dry areas too.
The treads on the green-marked inters are designed to disperse water at full speed and handle these varying conditions.
They have less traction in heavy wet conditions, but if it’s wet enough for wet compounds, it’s usually too wet to race.
So much of race strategy comes down to managing tire wear. The sport’s not nearly as sexy as most people think.
“We anticipate a one-stop strategy,” Hans adds. “Intermediates to softs.”
Zara nods. “Unless a safety car turns everything upside down.”
Which is more than likely in Singapore in the rain.
“Alright then.” I mentally calculate potential overtaking opportunities. “All eyes on the tires and the sky.”
My father, who’s been listening, chimes in. “Right, you two, trust your instincts. You both know how to drive in the rain.” He nods at Reece and me. “Good hunting.”
“Right.” Reece gives the same respect everyone shows Coy Hayter.
We’re interrupted by a message from Race Control—the pit lane is opening. That means forty minutes until race start.
Reece bumps his fist against mine. “See you on the podium, Hayter.”
“Mind the top step for me.” I wink, then we head to our respective cars.
I thread my earpieces up through my race suit and pop them into my ears, then Cin hands me my fireproof balaclava.
Next comes my helmet. It’s white with hot pink and silver streaks swirling around my sponsors’ logos.
I pull it on, leaving the visor up. The world immediately narrows, sounds become muffled, and my focus sharpens like a laser.
Finally, I add my HANS device—a horseshoe-shaped head and neck support.
It sits over my shoulders and its tethers connect to my helmet.
Held in place by my six-point harness in the car, it’ll keep my head on my shoulders, literally, should I crash. G-forces are not to be fucked with.
Athol Kilpatrick, my number one mechanic, helps me into the car. A skinny Scotsman with a face only a mother could love, Athol has been with me for three years, since my first Formula One race with Nitro. This man knows his shit and I respect the bloody hell out of him.
“She’s purring like a kitten today, Petra.” He always talks like a Scottish grandfather, even though he’s only forty-one and has never even been married. “Give her some love, and she’ll fly for you.”
I settle into the carbon fiber cocoon, the seat molded perfectly to my body, and pull on my gloves, ignoring the wall of photographers and videographers surrounding the front of the car, all lenses trained on me.
The team helps me strap in, harness tight against my chest, legs, and hips.
The steering wheel—a complicated array of buttons, toggles, and paddles—is fitted into place with a satisfying click.
Then the team wedges into place the padded surround that protects my shoulders in a crash.
“Radio check, Petra.” Bowie’s voice comes through my earpieces.
“Yep. Loud and clear.” Every step of our familiar pre-race ritual settles me deeper into the focus I need to race and win.
Athol starts his final inspection. It’s his job to decide when and if my car is ready to leave the garage. He has the final say.
I close my eyes, centering and focusing. When I open them, I’m no longer Petra Hayter, Coy Hayter’s daughter, or the only woman in F1. I’m just a driver, the fastest one on the grid today, and I’m ready to prove it.
The engine rumbles behind me, vibrating through my entire body. My crew unplugs the external starter and warming systems, and Athol appears in front of me, guiding me forward as the media clear off.
“Let’s make history.” I ease the car out of the garage and into the pit’s fast lane. Ahead and behind, nineteen other Formula One cars accelerate onto the track.
Singapore is a street circuit and we race at night.
The track is tight without a lot of run-off areas.
It’s bumpy and demanding, with a lot of hard turns, coupled with high humidity that has us sweating buckets.
Truthfully, that’s another reason I welcome the rain. It’ll keep the cockpit a bit cooler.
The installation lap is a chance to check all systems and get a feel for the soggy conditions.
The crowd in the Honey Hive—a section in the main grandstand where my fans have congregated—rises as I accelerate down the starting straight.
It’s a waving sea of pink and green flags and banners plastered with my name and face.
“How’s the balance?” Bowie asks through the radio.
“Good. Bit tight in the turns, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Copy that. Rain expected for the first hour. Track temperature twenty-nine degrees.”
I complete the lap and return to the grid, where the team does final checks.
Reece’s car sits a few spots back, the bright pink airbox on his power unit marking him as my teammate.
To my left, in P2, Nico’s dark blue WolfBett car gleams under the floodlights.
He raises a gloved hand in my direction—wave, warning, or insult.
I respond with a Queen’s wave, the pink tip of my glove’s middle finger sending a familiar message, and I know he’s laughing. The FIA hates when I do this, but they’ve given up on asking me to change my gloves.
The formation lap begins, and the twenty most sophisticated racing machines on the planet snake around the track in a choreographed dance.
I weave back and forth, pushing heat into the tires, feeling every vibration through the chassis and trying not to drown in the spray Nico and Lynch are throwing my way.
“All systems go,” Bowie confirms. “Remember, protect the inside through the first three turns. Wyn will dive-bomb you.”
“Let him try.”
As we approach the starting line, I position the car precisely in my grid box and wait as the rest of the cars line up behind me.
Five red lights appear one by one above the track. My heart pounds, but my hands are steady on the wheel.
The dark blue and gold of Wyn’s car is in my mirror. Ahead are the matching colors of his teammate, Nico, and Lynch’s red and white Telco leads the pack.
“Focus, Petra.” It’s what Bowie always says right before…
The lights go out.
I stomp on the accelerator, and the world explodes into motion. Sixty-two laps, twenty cars, one winner.
And tonight, that will be me.