Chapter 5 #2
“Does it matter? Christ, Petra, after what he did to you in F2? Which, I assure you, was deliberate.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, you need to be careful. Graham’s got friends in Race Control and sponsors in his pocket. And Wyn’s his favorite weapon.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know you can. My brother’s face today proves that.” He smiles, but it fades fast. “But maybe don’t put yourself in a position where you have to. And be careful about trusting Belmonte.”
That pulls me up short. “What’s Nico got to do with this?”
“He’s a championship defender with a teammate problem. You’re the biggest threat to his title this year.” Reece shrugs. “I’m just saying people have motives. Even surprisingly helpful people who cover for totally accidental wall encounters.”
I nod slowly. I don’t want to think that Nico’s playing a game here, but he’s just as bloody competitive as the rest of us. “Thanks for having my back, Reece.”
“Yeah, well.” He grins suddenly, looking more like the kid who used to smuggle me into hospitality units when we were teens. “That punch was years in the making. Wish I’d witnessed it.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’d never put you in a spot where’d you’d have to choose family or team.”
“I know that.” Reece catches my sleeve again as I start down the stairs. “Pet? Whatever happens... you’ve got allies. Remember that.”
I pause, surprised by the sudden thickness in my throat. Then I look back at him and nod. “Thanks.”
Breakfast with Cin is next and I owe her a massive apology. Maybe the hotel serves blueberry pancakes. They’re her faves.
My hand throbs as I head for the hotel dining room.
Nico’s intervention keeps playing through my mind.
Why’d he step in last night, and back my story this morning?
Maybe when he was a kid he would’ve jumped into this shit, but now?
His actions don’t fit the man, the four-time world champ who’s always been more interested in lap times and telemetry than people.
Yet he put himself between me and the consequences without hesitation.
Like he actually cared about what was right, not just what was expedient. Which…
Bloody hell. Yeah, Reece is probably right about proceeding with caution there.
“My teammate who ran me off the track? That teammate?”
The memory of Nico’s voice, warm and certain, makes something flutter in my chest.
I've felt that rubbish feeling before, and I shove it aside. I won’t be distracted by Nico Belmonte, no matter how decent he acted.
Monday morning post-race means the dining room is humming.
The personnel of ten F1 teams click away at laptops, reviewing data and making notes before they pack up and head to the States for the U.S.
Grand Prix in Austin, Texas. But the mood in the room is a strange vibe I can only attribute to the wall-punch rumors.
Especially as I gather attention like a magnet grabs iron filings. Everyone’s gawping as I cross the room.
I settle into a chair at the corner table Jacintha’s commandeered. I’m wincing because now that the madness of last night has worn off, all my muscles are being arseholes.
Opposite me, my cousin sips steaming coffee, her dark curls pulled back in a professional bun that contrasts with the smirk on her face. I hate that she’s enjoying my suffering, but I can’t do anything to stop her.
“Are you going to tell me about decking Wyn Pritchard in the gent’s at The Blue Room last night?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear or read.” With my left hand, I pick up the mug of chai she’s ordered for me and take a careful sip. It’s wonderful.
“Oh, I believe what I know. You stood me up for your scheduled heat therapy, which you desperately needed after that shunt, and now you’re protecting your right hand in a way that suggests a boxer’s fracture.”
“It’s not fractured.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Give it here.”
I reluctantly offer my hand. She unwraps and examines it with the professional ruthlessness only a physiotherapist who’s known you since birth can manage.
“You’re an idiot.” She releases me after a thoroughly uncomfortable inspection. “Luckily, nothing’s broken, but you’ve got bruising across the knuckles that doesn’t come from a steering wheel.”
“There was debris flying all over the fucking place during that crash.”
“Was there a nose among that debris?” Cin opens the kit bag she always carries, rummages around, and pulls out a rolled compression bandage.
“Because normal crashes don’t leave people gossiping about how Wyn Pritchard returned to the hotel last night with a swollen nose and two magnificent shiners forming. ”
“Ow.” I sip my chai. “I heard he hit a wall.” I point to my nose. “With his face.”
She pauses in wrapping my hand and lowers her voice. “Jesus, Petra. Nico’s keeping his mouth shut, but that won’t last forever.”
“Hmm.” I take another sip of chai. “What’ve you heard?”
“That you tracked Wyn down in The Blue Room, followed him into the gent’s toilet, and laid him out with one punch before anyone could stop you.
” She ties off the wrap. “What I want to know is why you’d risk your career like that.
Not to mention your hand. Do you know how many tiny bones are in there? ”
“Twenty-seven.” It’s a figure Jacintha has drilled into me since I was a teenager. “Eight carpal, five metacarpal, fourteen phalanges.”
“And every single one of them more valuable than Wyn Pritchard’s face and your ego.” She’s still keeping her voice low. “Did you at least hit him properly? Thumb outside, wrist straight, like I taught you?”
I laugh. “You taught me to hit people?”
“I taught you proper form for everything. I’d hate to think you’d risk your hand with poor technique.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, Pet, you need to be more careful.”
“Maybe Wyn needs to be more careful about walls.” I flex my hand, testing the wrap.
She shakes her head. “You’re as ruthless as your old man.”
“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”
“Speaking of whom, what did Uncle Coy have to say about all this?”
“Nothing pleasant.”
“No doubt.” Cin checks her watch. “Let’s finish breakfast, then we’ll go to the gym and get some actual therapy done on your currently fucked-up body before we get on a plane for a twenty-hour flight.”
“Thanks, Cin.”
“Don’t thank me yet. This is going to hurt, plus I’m putting you in the freezer.” She means a cryo chamber is in my immediate future and she smiles at my groan. I hate cryo more than an ice bath. “Well that’s what you get for missing your appointment last night.”
“Worth it.” I’m thinking of Wyn’s stunned expression.
“Maybe. But next time, wait until after I’ve treated you before you dole out punishment to a meathead, yeah?”
I smile. It’s the closest thing to approval I’m going to get from her. “Yeah. Fair enough.”
The press pack descends before I’m fully through the hotel’s front doors. Cameras flash, microphones are shoved in my face, voices overlapping in their eagerness to get a quote. Rodrigo parts their ranks like a human tank.
“Petra! How severe are your injuries?”
“Any comment on Wyn Pritchard’s condition?”
“Was there an altercation at The Blue Wall?”
Claudia materializes beside me like a guardian angel dressed in pink and green. Cin always keeps her apprised of my whereabouts. It used to annoy me, but I’ve grown accustomed to that reality. I’m a valuable tool, and the team likes to keep tabs on me.
“Ms. Hayter will address questions at the scheduled COTA press conference,” she says.
“But—”
“Is it true Nico Belmonte—”
“No further comments.” Claudia’s tone could freeze hell.
Rodrigo guides us through the crowd, and we’re almost clear to the SUV he’s ordered, when Quentin Giffard steps into our path. Unlike the other reporters, his microphone stays lowered. “Just one question, Petra. Off the record.”
I shouldn’t stop, but Quentin’s always been fair. Even when the stories weren’t flattering. I catch Rodrigo’s elbow and I nod for the reporter to join me as we continue forward.
“The stewards are reviewing yesterday’s crash with the race director,” he says quietly. “Word is, several teams have filed complaints about the lack of penalties. And so has Carlos Belmonte.”
That stops me. Nico’s father is filing complaints about his own son’s teammate? Carlos has managed F2 and F3 teams and was once the president of the safety committee at the FIA. Now he manages drivers—Nico, Lynch Sutton, and Gavril Rydderch, as well as several F2 and F3 drivers.
“No comment, Quentin.” Claudia is firm, but I catch her frown. This is news to her too.
He nods, already stepping aside. “Interesting morning for injuries,” he adds. “Seems Wyn Pritchard had an unfortunate encounter with a wall. Very solid things, walls.”
“Very.” I fight to keep my expression neutral. “Just as solid as race barriers.”
His eyes crinkle. Message received.
Claudia hustles me toward the waiting SUV, muttering rapid-fire Italian under her breath. I catch enough to know she’s questioning my ancestry, my intelligence, and my ability to keep my fucking mouth shut.
I offer a smile. “That was good.”
“Good?” She shakes her head. “Petra. Cara mia. Quentin Giffard just told us Carlos Belmonte is involving himself in yesterday’s investigation, and you made a joke about walls. How is this ‘good’?”
“Because now we know something interesting.”
“What? That you’re trying to give me an ulcer?”
“No.” I glance back toward the hotel. This explains Nico’s presence in the meeting. “That the Belmontes are siding with me.”