Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The WolfBett meeting room in the hotel feels like a courtroom this morning as Nico stands at the window while the team owners deliberate his fate. Marcus Wolfberg occupies his usual seat at the head of the table, but his typically composed expression is strained.
“Let me understand this.” Karl Betterton’s on Zoom from his home in Las Vegas.
Both his expression and his tone indicate someone’s about to get eviscerated.
“Our four-time world champion was seen conspiring with our closest rival immediately before our second driver suffered an injury that might affect his performance at the next race?”
“I wasn’t conspiring—” Nico starts.
“Save it.” Damien Betterton, Jr. lounges in a chair, scrolling through his phone. “We all saw the photos. Hayter stalking Wyn. You thirsting for Hayter.”
Nico clenches his teeth. His hatred of Damien Betterton, Sr.’s only son, is well-known and well-founded. Instead of punching Junior in the dick, he turns to Marcus. “Why is he here?” He might’ve overlooked the pendejo’s presence if he kept his mouth shut, but DBJ’s not smart enough for that.
Junior lowers his phone. “I’m representing my father’s interest.”
Nico pushes away from the wall. “You do not. Karl does.” Junior has no official team role.
His sole contribution to Formula One is being a drone camera operator for Ground Effect Media, Graham Pritchard’s production company.
When he isn’t doing that on race weekends, he’s wasting his father’s money, dogging Wyn at exclusive clubs, and sexually assaulting underaged girls.
Junior opens his mouth, but Jürgen Wolfberg talks over him.
“Nico’s correct.” He’s WolfBett’s third primary owner and Marcus’s uncle, and he’s calling from his home in Munich where it’s two a.m. and he’s misplaced what little sense of humor he normally possesses.
“However the issue we face is the timing. With sponsor negotiations at hand, this kind of negative publicity could be damaging if not handled correctly.”
Nico’s even temper creeps a little closer to the red line. “The real issue is that my teammate deliberately ran me and a competitor off the track. Again. And everyone’s more concerned about photos from a bar than the fact that he could have seriously injured someone.”
Marcus shakes his head. “We’re discussing the media frenzy Wyn’s bloody nose has caused, Nico.
Now isn’t the time to revisit yesterday’s race incident.
” But he meets Nico’s gaze and adds, “However, your father called me this morning. He’s filed a formal complaint with the race director about yesterday’s Nitro crash. ”
“Good.” The word escapes before Nico can stop it.
On screen, Karl’s brows arch. “You approve of your teammate being investigated?”
“Yes, Karl.” Nico speaks carefully. These are dangerous and murky waters. A lot of history between the Bettertons and Carlos Belmonte hides under their surface, not all of its edges softened by time. “Because I believe in clean racing. Something my teammate seems to have forgotten exists.”
Junior scoffs. “That’s called competing, Nico? Maybe you should try it some time.”
Nico’s world turns red and he steps away from the window. He’s sorely tempted to slam Betterton’s face into the conference table. Instead, he says, “Four Drivers’ Championships suggest I’ve figured it out.” He pauses. “But thanks for the career advice, drone boy.”
“Enough.” Marcus’s gaze pins Nico and it’s full of warning and entreaty. He knows how close his world champion is to committing homicide. “We need to present a united front. The press is already speculating about internal team conflicts.”
“Where is Damien?” Jürgen asks. “He should be here for this conversation, not Junior.” His disdain for the youngest Betterton is obvious.
“Dad’s in Monaco.” Junior’s face is more smarm than smile. “Meeting with sponsors. Who, by the way, love Wyn’s aggressive style. Makes for great television.”
Marcus stands and steps between Nico and the idiot. “This is what’s going to happen. Nico, you’ll make a statement supporting Wyn. Victoria will draft it.” Victoria Swan is WolfBett’s press officer. “I’ll get the telemetry for both cars from Heinrich, and Junior...”
“What?” The moron scowls like a sullen child.
“Try to keep Wyn out of trouble until his nose heals. And remind him that ‘no comment’ is a complete sentence, no embellishment needed or wanted.”
“I’m not his keeper. Harun can do that. I shouldn’t even have to be here, except Nico can’t fall in line, as usual.”
Karl scowls on the wall screen. “Junior, shut up, do as you’re told, and get the fuck out of this meeting.”
For a moment, the less-than-prodigal son looks like he’ll argue with his uncle. Then he pushes away from the table and stomps from the room. One would never guess he’s six years older than Nico. But everyone in that meeting knows the sordid history between that piece of shit and him. And Nia.
“Karl, we have an agreement about him.” Nico rarely loses his cool, but Junior Betterton’s mere presence boils his blood.
“Yes, we do, and I’m sorry, Nico. That won’t happen again.”
“What about Carlos’s complaint?” Jürgen asks.
“That’s for the stewards to consider.” Marcus meets Nico’s gaze. “Unless anyone else wants to file supporting evidence?”
The question hangs there. Nico thinks of Petra’s bruises and two years spent watching Wyn’s “aggressive style” escalate. And he thinks of the battle his father had with everyone in Formula 1 and how the Bettertons backed him when no one else would.
“No.” It takes all his substantial self-control not to snarl. “I’m sure the stewards will handle it appropriately. They always do.”
Marcus looks pained. “Alright. We’re finished here. Karl, Jürg, we’ll talk later.” He reaches for his laptop to end the conference call. “Nico, stay back a moment.”
When the screen goes black, Marcus sits back and studies Nico. “Your father taught you to race clean and respect your competitors. I know that. But right now, I need you to be a teammate.”
“Even when my teammate is wrong?”
“Yes.” Marcus sighs and suddenly looks older than his forty-six years.
“Because otherwise, Graham Pritchard will make this about more than one incident. And you know who he’ll blame.
” He shakes his head. “She made herself a target. Not that I fault her for it.” He looks up from beneath his brows and adds, “You did not hear me say that.”
Nico nods, and he understands the message Marcus has delivered. Graham will smear Petra because it’s easier than admitting his perfect son is the problem, and because all this drama makes for great TV. Which, for Graham Pritchard, equals money.
“Fine.” Nico straightens. “I’ll make the statement. But I won’t lie about what I saw on track.”
“Just be diplomatic.”
“Like Wyn was diplomatic with that wall?”
Marcus’s lips twitch. “Get out of here before Victoria has to write another press release.”
In the hallway, Nico pulls out his phone. Three missed calls from Nicolina, two from their mother, and one text from Papá:
Did what needed doing. Llama a tu madre y Tortuga.
“Three more.” Esteban Ortega, Nico’s physio of eight years, stands over him, watching as Nico completes his planks. Singapore’s humidity makes everything harder, and sweat already soaks his workout shirt despite the gym’s air conditioning. His phone, set to speaker, rests nearby.
“Finally!” Nicolina’s voice carries over the sound of water running in her sink. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how phones work, Conejo.”
“How are you feeling?” That’s the way he’s started every conversation this year. Since a stalker assaulted her in her own home. “Sebastian’s there?”
“Yes, mother hen, Seb’s between competitions.” Her tone aims for lightness but doesn’t quite hit it. “I’m fine.”
“Nia—”
“Really. The nightmares are better.” A pause. “Most nights, anyway.”
“Switch to side plank.” Esteban taps Nico’s hip.
He complies, muscles trembling. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Please. I was just checking if you’d recovered from watching Petra smoke you yesterday. Before the crash, I mean.”
“Don’t change the subject, hermana.”
“I told you I’m fine.” But there’s something fragile beneath her light tone. “And you’re deflecting from how badly she outdrove you.”
“She did not smoke—”
“The data doesn’t lie, hermanito. Besides, there’s something much more interesting to discuss than my sleep habits.
” The water stops. Dishes rattle. “What really happened with Wyn’s nose?
Because that wall story is about as convincing as your claim that you weren’t cursing in three languages when Petra took P1 at Silverstone. ”
Nico nearly loses his form. Esteban raises an eyebrow.
“That race was—”
“A show of her brilliance? I know. Even Papá said so.”
“Traidores. Todos vosotros.” He calls all of them traitors.
She laughs. “Seb’s been following the F1 forums. He says the photos of her leaving that bar don’t match the official story.”
“Your boyfriend follows F1 drama now?” Nico switches sides at Esteban’s signal and starts slow reach-throughs.
“He’s a massive racing nerd.” Her voice softens. “He’s been extra involved and protective since… everything.”
Because Sebastian Mazur couldn’t protect Nia that day. Because a racing helmet thrown with impressive force and precision and followed up with Seb’s fists were all that saved Nicolina from a knife.
“Nico?” Her voice pulls him back. “You went quiet.”
“Lo siento. I was appreciating your boyfriend’s timing and spectacular aim again.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Done,” Esteban announces. “Water, then weights.”
“Well, whatever happened in that men’s room, good. Some people deserve what they get.” This his sister knows from more than one horrible personal experience.
“How do you know anything happened?” Nico accepts the water bottle his physio holds out.
“Because you’re you.” She knows her brother can’t ignore injustice. “Because Papá involved himself. And because you hate F1 politics, right?”
“Right.” He moves to the weights, settling into position. “Don’t you have tiny humans to educate?”
“It’s Sunday night here.” A cat meows, then there’s a yowl and a crash. Sebastian curses in the background. “Okay, I do have wild critters to wrangle. But Conejo? Ten cuidado.”
“I’m always careful, Nia.”
“Liar. Te quiero.” She gives him her love.
“Te quiero también, Tortuga.”
As the call ends, Esteban adjusts Nico’s form. “Graham Pritchard won’t let this go easily.”
“I know.” The weights feel heavier today, fatigue from the race lingering in his muscles. “But someone had to do something. After F2, then yesterday...”
“And that someone had to be you?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You put yourself between her and the consequences.” Esteban’s voice stays low and neutral. “Just like Melbourne last year. Just like Barcelona.”
“Those were different.”
“Were they?” Another adjustment to his form. “Ten more. And they weren’t different. You’ve been watching her back since she entered F1.”
“Because it’s right and someone should,” Nico grits out, pushing through the burn.
“Because it’s right, or because it’s her?”
Nico nearly drops the weights. “What?”
“Focus. Seven more.” Esteban waits until he’s finished before continuing. “Three races in October. Sprint in Austin. Championship points on the line. You need to be clearheaded.”
“I am clearheaded.”
“You’re protecting someone who could take your title.”
“I’m protecting what’s right for the sport.” But Nico remembers the ferocity in Petra’s eyes. She hadn’t appreciated his interference, and probably thinks he sees her as weak. He doesn’t.
“Maybe.” Esteban hands him a towel. “But Graham has a vindictive streak wider than Marina Bay, and you just painted a target on your back during the most crucial part of the season.”
Nico sits up and turns to confront his long-time friend. “You think I should have let it go?”
“I think you need to be prepared.” Esteban guides him toward the lat machine. “Graham will make this personal. Wyn will make it dirty. The press will make it dramatic. And Junior—”
Nico tenses at the name. The memory of thirteen-year-old Nicolina’s tears flashes through his mind. He clenches his fists.
“Channel that anger into the workout,” Esteban says quietly. “And the racing. That’s what you’ve always done.”
Nico works in silence for several minutes, letting the familiar burn of exercise replace the burn of fury. Finally, he pauses between sets. “Sometimes I think I stay with WolfBett just to keep an eye on that pendejo. Make sure he never gets near another na?ve girl.”
“You stay because you’re a champion and kids need to see that success doesn’t require being like the Pritchards.”
“Or maybe I stay because someday he’ll slip up again, and I’ll be there.”
“Stop. That path leads nowhere good. Focus on what matters now. Austin. The championship. Keeping your head while Graham tries to remove it.”
“Fuck him.” He bites out those words. “He’s been trying since that shit with Nia. I’m still here.”
“Yo sé.” Esteban knows. He adjusts Nico’s hand position. “But you need to survive October. Whatever’s coming with the Pritchards and Petra won’t be easy to ignore.”
“It’s not about her.” Nico’s lying when he says that. Everything’s connected—his need to protect, to stand against bullies, to do what’s right. And Petra.
“Keep telling yourself that, campeón.” Esteban’s voice softens. “But maybe explain why you’ve watched the replay of her Spa qualifying lap sixteen times.”
“That’s tactical research.”
“Research.” His physio’s skepticism could fill Marina Bay. “Like watching her post-race interviews is research?”
“I don’t— How do you even know about that?”
“I know everything.” Esteban adds more weight to the machine. “It’s my job. Like knowing when my friend is lying to himself.”
“I’m not.”
“Slow down. And yes, you are. But we’ll deal with that later. Right now, focus on Austin. Graham will be in his element there.”
“Pushing Wyn even harder.”
“Exactamente. So put aside this thing about Petra Hayter. At least until after the championship.”
Nico completes the set in silence. Finally, he returns the weight stack to its starting position and wipes sweat from his face. “You really think Graham will try his shit again?”
“Graham Pritchard made a fortune turning racing into reality TV drama. What do you think?”
“Mierda.”
“Indeed.” Esteban checks his watch. “Shower, pack, then the airport. And Nico?”
“?Sí?”
“Next time you decide to witness someone punching your teammate, try not to look so pleased about it in the photos.”