Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The race has been nip and tuck from the first lap. The field stayed tighter than usual, despite the wet conditions, and I’ve felt them crawling up my arse the whole time.
What’s his game? He has to know I’m here.
Nico’s coming up fast, and I’ll be damned if I’ll lose the podium to a WolfBett. Especially after Wyn I’m-An-Absolute-Prick-chard ran me wide. Fuck that, I'm not letting him get away with it.
So yeah, I’m going for that gap. My car’s got the pace, and we’ve only thirteen laps to the chequered flag. Third place isn’t what I came for, but keeping the podium from that tosser will ease a bit of the sting.
I drop into the gap and pull alongside the dark blue WolfBett.
Will the stewards penalize Wyn for his bullshit maneuver? Maybe. But I’m not waiting. I want justice now, so I’ll make it by beating him today.
I’m braking late into the turn, tight to the track limits and neck-and-neck with Wyn when that piece of shit cuts right, sharp and deliberate.
“Bloody hell!” I stand on the brakes and yank the wheel and hope Nico can dodge as well as he drives because he’s right on my gear box. My car’s back end snaps hard. There’s no track space or grip to fix this. Everything slows down, yet happens too fast to stop.
The G-forces slam me sideways in my seat as the kerb launches my car into the barrier. Metal screams. Carbon fiber shatters. My pink and green Formula One car pirouettes back across the track like a broken ballerina, throwing shit everywhere and finally coming to rest against the opposite barrier.
Fuck.
The brief, heavy silence after a crash always feels long and wrong.
No racing pack. No radio chatter. Then perception returns, my own breathing harsh in my helmet as the race continues without me.
The acrid smell of burnt rubber, fuel, and hot brakes fills the cockpit.
My hands tremble and my mouth tastes of metal, the aftereffects of adrenaline.
“Petra, you okay?” Bowie’s voice breaks through, calm but with a note of concern.
I flex my fingers and do a mental check of all my parts. Nothing’s wounded except my pride. And my championship hopes. Sweat trickles down my spine, suddenly cold. I grit my teeth.
“Petra?”
“Bowie?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing beats a Jet 2 holiday. And right now you can save fifty pounds per person.”
Relief replaces concern in his voice as he adds, “That’s two hundred pounds off for a family of four.”
Yes, I’m fine. But I’m also proper fucking angry because what the hell was Wyn Pritchard thinking?
Red flags wave across the circuit. The race director’s made the right call. There’s too much debris scattered across the racing line for the other drivers to safely continue.
Marshals approach, their orange suits bright under the night circuit’s harsh lighting. I’m already unbuckling, movements sharp with a kind of rage that joking with my engineer can’t ease.
I know what the stewards will say: “Racing incident. No further action.”
Because apparently, that’s what happens when Wyn Pritchard runs you off the track.
That fucking fuck-face. He’s done this to me before, in F2 at Abu Dhabi.
Same move, same bullshit, same bloody outcome.
I yank the surround away from my shoulders and chuck it from the cockpit, climb out, and replace the steering wheel, then I wave off the arriving medical team.
“I’m alright.” The words come out clipped.
Doesn’t matter, though. I’m taking a trip to the medical center whether I like it or not.
So says the flashing blue medical warning light on my car’s chassis. That crash exceeded eighteen G’s.
After a brief stint in the medical facility to confirm that, yes, I’m rather bruised but not broken, the journey back to the Nitro garage feels endless.
Though Cin’s joined me, I keep my mouth shut and my expression neutral.
The cameras will be watching for the woman driver to crack and show emotion.
Not bloody likely.
I manage a wave for the fans who’re cheering and clapping up in the Honey Hive and the larger Nitro Zone, but I can’t really muster a smile.
My race suit feels too tight as I stride through the paddock.
Team members scatter like startled birds.
They know this isn’t my usual post-race demeanor.
No finger guns, no cheeky winks, no victory dance.
Cin has my gloves, helmet, and HANS unit. She says nothing, knowing I’m not ready to talk about what the fuck just happened.
“Petra.” Bowie falls into step beside me, tablet in hand. “The telemetry shows—”
“Save it.” I don’t mean to sound like a cow. Bowie’s been my engineer since I was a teen and knows me better than most. He doesn’t deserve my anger, but he understands it. “We both know what the telemetry shows. Same as F2.”
“Pet.” Dad stands in the garage entrance. He looks more worried than angry, and that makes everything worse somehow. “Let’s handle this the right way.”
“The right way?” I meet his gaze so he can see exactly how I’m feeling. “Like last time? When the ‘right way’ meant watching that wanker take the championship after running me into a wall?”
The garage falls silent except for the distant roar of engines. My pink hair streaks—usually a statement of rebellion and joy in this male-dominated sport—seem like a joke now.
I glance up at the monitors in time to see the race restart. Of course the red flag helps Wyn. He’s got fresh softs now, when he should’ve been struggling on worn tires for the final laps. I had the fastest lap. I had the podium and that bastard knew it.
Wyn battles for position with Nico. Their dark cars dance around each other, but Nico gives space. He’s always professional, always precise. Unlike his bloody fucking teammate.
The PNW Nitro logo on my chest weighs a ton tonight, a constant reminder of the corporate image I’m supposed to maintain.
My cell phone buzzes. Cin gave it to me in the medical center. I glance at the message and immediately wish I hadn’t. Cripes, I don’t need this shit right now.
Darling, the crash footage is already viral! It’s a perfect opportunity to discuss women’s safety in motorsport. I’ve confirmed the BBC Brekkie show for tomorrow morning. They’re so excited to get the mother’s perspective! Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything. xx
“You alright?” Cin reads over my shoulder. The noise she makes answers for me. “Block the number.”
“She’ll just get another one.” I delete the text instead. “Claudia’s probably already fielding calls from The Incubator’s publicist.” That's what I call Kelley when I'm being charitable.
“Stewards’ decision is in.” Bowie’s gaze is steady. He’s never bullshitted me, and he’s not starting now. “Racing incident. No further action.”
“Of course not.” That hurts more than my bruises.
“Petra.” Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. “This isn’t the way.”
“Then what is?” I shake off his touch, something I rarely do. The hurt in his eyes makes me feel worse, but I can’t stop my rage from boiling over. I’ve swallowed it for too damned long. “How many times do I have to prove myself? How many races do I have to win before they stop dismissing me?”
His hands settle on my shoulders, firm but gentle, and he steers me away from the approaching media pack toward a small side office. The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the race I’m missing.
“Sit.” He gestures to one of the chairs, but I’m too wired to sit still.
“Dad, I can’t keep—”
“Petra, let go of your anger.”
“Let go?” I glare at him. “Are you serious? After what just happened out there?”
“Yes. Rage won’t serve you. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” He pins me in place with a bloody hard gaze, then drains all the piss and vinegar from me when he adds, “You know this better than any other driver on that track tonight.”
I huff out a breath between my teeth. “Fuck.”
Dad grasps my hands. “I don’t know how many wins it’ll take.” He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with race weekends. “I wish I could give you a number. Ten more? Twenty? Haven’t got a clue. But I see something you can’t.”
“What?”
“Respect. It’s there, even when you don’t feel it.” He squeezes my fingers, then lets go. “The way El Conejo talks about your race craft. How Reece studies your data. Even Marcus Wolfberg calls you the most complete driver on the grid.”
My throat tightens. “Then why doesn’t it feel like enough?”
“Because you’re still fighting ghosts from when you were fifteen and were trying to prove you belonged, that you were as good as the boys, and that you could control everything when your world felt like it was falling apart.
” He grips my shoulders again. “But you’re not that girl anymore, the one who thought she had to be perfect to be loved.
You’re a race winner, Petra. You’ve earned your place in that cockpit, just like the blokes. And everyone knows it.”
Part of me believes him, but the anger still sits in my chest like a hot coal. “I know you’re right, Dad, but I’m still bloody furious.”
“Of course you are.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just don’t let it consume you.”
I nod, but I’m not making any promises.
When we step back into the garage, the controlled chaos of a post-race DNF washes over us. But it’s not the familiar routine that hits me first; it’s the sight of my car.
They brought it back while I was in the medical center. What’s left of it, anyway.
My beautiful pink and green machine sits twisted and broken in the far bay, carbon fiber bodywork cracked open like an eggshell.
The front wing is completely gone, the nose cone crumpled beyond recognition.
The rear of the car looks like it’s been put through a blender—wishbones mangled, tires tangling by their tethers, pieces of debris still clinging to what remains of the floor.
The sight stops me cold.
“Christ,” I breathe. It’s not the first time I’ve seen my car like this, but it never gets comfortable.
Cin grips my wrist. “You walked away, Pet. That’s what matters.”