Chapter 3 #2
This morning, the car was perfect. Every component precision-engineered, every system calibrated to perfection. Now it’s scraps and broken dreams.
Bowie approaches from his station, tablet in hand, his expression grim. “The engineers are already pulling data. We’ll know exactly what happened.”
“I know what happened.” I meet his gaze. “Wyn Pritchard’s ambition got in the way.”
The mechanics work around the wreckage, cataloging parts and assessing what can be salvaged for the next race. But there won’t be much. This car is done.
Dad follows my gaze to the destruction. “It’s just a machine. We’ll rebuild it.”
I turn toward the garage’s rear door, thinking about a shower and revenge, but Claudia Rossi, our team’s press officer is there.
“Aspetta, Petra. Media pen first.”
Right. All drivers are contractually obligated to make a press appearance after every race—win, lose, or DNF doesn’t matter. Even after a crash, even after being robbed of a podium, I still have to face the cameras and questions.
“Five minutes, Claudia. That’s all I’m good for.”
“Five minutes.” She nods and steers me out of the garage.
The press pen is a sharks’ feeding frenzy. Microphones thrust forward, cameras flash, voices overlap in their eagerness to get my reaction.
“Petra, can you tell us what happened out there?”
“Any comment on the stewards’ decision?”
I step up to the microphones, every muscle in my body screaming protest. “The stewards have made their ruling. Racing incident.” My voice is flat and professional. “No further comment.”
“But surely you must feel—”
“No further comment.” I turn to leave.
“Petra! What about Wyn’s defensive move?”
Defensive?
I pivot back to the microphones. The pause stretches just long enough to let them think they’ve got something. Then I add, “I said what I said.”
Claudia’s already creating space between me and the pack. “That’s all for now. Thank you.”
We’re back in the paddock before anyone can follow.
“Not bad,” Claudia murmurs. “Short and sweet.”
“I need a shower...”
“You’ll get an ice bath,” says Cin, who has my gear and just said my two least favorite words.
I glance back at her. “…before I go to tonight’s sponsors’ party.”
Claudia frowns. “Petra, maybe skip it tonight? No one expects you to attend after that crash.”
I stop and face her. “I’m going… to smile, and chitchat, and do all the things expected of me. I’m going to be exactly what they want, the good girl who takes it on the chin and doesn’t make waves.”
Jacintha’s eyebrows draw together. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because you’re smart.” I manage an evil little smile for my cousin, then add for our PR manager, “But don’t worry. I won’t embarrass the team or upset the sponsors.”
Much.
Claudia sighs. “Cin, keep an eye on her tonight.”
“I always do.” Jacintha herds me toward the evil ice bath she has team personnel prepare after every race.
The circuit monitors show the conclusion of the GP. Reece holds on to first, despite the restart. Nico and Wyn occupy second and third.
Those are my championship points Wyn’s taking. But my shot at the podium is a pile of shit sitting in Nitro’s garage.
“Right then.” Cin ushers me onward. “Ice bath.”
Tucked into a corner of our garage and surrounded by a privacy curtain, sit two large plastic recovery tubs that are essential post-race equipment, especially in Singapore. The team’s already filled one with ice water. Lucky me.
“Ten minutes.” Cin checks the temperature with a digital thermometer. “No arguments.”
I strip out of my race suit and fireproofs, every muscle protesting. The bruises from the crash are already starting to show across my hips and shoulders where the harnesses held me during impact.
The shock of the ice water hits like a punch, stealing my breath for a moment.
In Singapore’s heat and humidity, drivers can lose up to three kilos of fluid from excessive sweating during a race, and an ice bath helps rapidly lower our core temperature for faster recovery.
Plus the cold will reduce inflammation from the crash.
Cin sets a timer and perches on a nearby crate as I sink into the frigid bath, cursing every inch of the way because water that cold fucking hurts.
But it numbs more than just my muscles; it gives me space to think without rage clouding everything.
My cousin doesn’t speak—she knows I need these minutes to process what happened on the track.
When the timer goes off, I climb out, muscles already feeling less inflamed.
“Better?” Cin wraps me in heated towels, another part of the recovery ritual.
“Getting there.” I flex my shoulders, testing. “Now I want that shower.”
We head for my driver’s room. Jacintha’s got my gear. She’ll have everything cleaned and ready for the next race.
The Nitro building is mostly empty as the team is celebrating Reece’s win, so I have peace as we reach my room. Cin closes the door, and I head for the adjoining bathroom.
The mirror above the sink shows a stranger. My dark hair is a mess from the helmet, pink streaks damp with sweat. Despite the cold bath, fury still burns behind my gaze.
I can’t keep shrugging off the injustice of decisions that so obviously favor everyone but me, Petra Hayter, the only woman competing in Formula One right now. The first woman with a very real chance at the Drivers’ Championship.
I’m just as good as any man on any F1 circuit.
In fact, I have to be better than them. They all know it.
And the vast majority of them don’t care that I don’t have a dick in my pants.
Most of them have been racing me since we were teens.
Including Wyn, who I remember as a skinny, shy kid who ate the carrot sticks Dad always packed in my snack even though I hated them.
I used to be friends with all these blokes.
With a heavy sigh, I strip off my sports bra and knickers, and get into the shower, mindful of bruises, aches, and anger that the ice couldn’t quite freeze out.
I’m pissed off, but I’m also clearheaded enough to plan.
The post-race party at The Blue Wall will be packed with media, sponsors, teams, and drivers, including Wyn Pritchard.
Dad always says there’s a right way to handle things in F1. But I’m done playing by rules that don’t apply equally to everyone.
I still haven’t got justice.