Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I pace the lounge at Seletar Airport, phone pressed to my ear, watching Zara triple-check the data we need for Austin’s sprint qualifying. Such a clever woman.
“Ms. Hayter? Are you listening?”
“Absolutely.” I’m not. “Just trying to understand why this requires an emergency meeting when you still haven’t reached a decision about the Singapore GP crash.”
The FIA’s concern for “maintaining professional conduct” would be a lot more convincing if they showed the same urgency about preventing Wyn from running the competition off track.
“The incident with Mr. Pritchard—”
“Which incident exactly? The one where he ran me off track at two hundred seventy-five km/h or the one where his face allegedly got into an altercation with a gent’s room wall?”
Silence is the reply.
The morning meeting Dad and I had with the race director about last night’s crash was rather straightforward.
I gave my version of the incident, recounting my on-track decisions at each moment leading up to it, and provided my honest opinion that Wyn was a fucking wanker for deliberately moving over on me.
When the FIA reached out just now, I expected they’d give the team the investigation’s conclusion, not drill me about Prick-chard’s stupid face.
I move to the windows. Out on the tarmac, a black and silver private jet taxis toward the runway. It’s the Ravn Racing team plane and I track it as it picks up speed.
“Ms. Hayter.” The warning in the official’s voice is clear. “Several team principals have raised concerns about tension between drivers.”
“Really? Have they raised concerns about the fact that I could’ve died Sunday evening?
” I catch Claudia’s intense gaze across the lounge.
She’s listening in and recording the call.
Formula One team protocol means I never speak to anyone in an official capacity without someone recording the conversation.
Doubtless, she’s also there to assure I respond diplomatically.
Hah. Not bloody likely.
“Or does that not count as ‘tension between drivers’?”
“Petra.” Dad’s beside me and, yes, he’s also on the call. He didn’t want them talking to me at all about this, but the FIA insisted. Coy Hayter considers protecting his drivers to be one of his key duties as Nitro’s team principal.
“The stewards are reviewing the race incident separately, as you know.” The FIA official sounds both pompous and dismissive. “For now, we need to discuss—”
“The fact that you’re more worried about an inebriated driver stumbling into a wall than about deliberate dangerous driving on track?” The words taste bitter as they roll off my tongue. “Fascinating priorities.”
Dad takes over the call before I can do more damage. “What my driver means is that we’re all eager to hear the stewards’ findings about Sunday’s crash. Now about this other matter.”
He talks and steers me toward a seat. I tune him out, focusing instead on the choreographed dance of private jets happening outside.
Zara approaches, tablet in hand. “Bowie wants you to have a look at the aero numbers for Austin.” The sprint format means less practice time to dial in the setup, which is each car’s specific configuration—tires, rear wing, floor height, etc.—for each driver at each track.
I point to the seat beside me. “Let’s have it.”
She sits and pulls up the data we’ve received from our test driver.
He’s back at Nitro’s factory headquarters running setup simulations in the Driver-in-the-Loop rig so we don’t arrive in Austin blind.
For a few blessed minutes, I lose myself in pure data.
No politics, no bullshit, just physics and strategy. It’s simply lovely.
“They’re really more worried about the bar thing?” Zara’s voice drops even lower. “After what Wyn did?”
“This is motorsports, love.” I scroll through her calculations, impressed as always by her thoroughness. “Some issues get more attention than others, depending on who’s involved.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.” She’s Indian-American, born and raised in New York City, and I always appreciate her bluntness.
“Language,” I say automatically, then snicker at her eye-roll. “But, yes, it really fucking is.”
Dad ends the call with the FIA, and his expression says I’m in for a lecture about diplomatic responses. But before he can start, Asuka Shimamura crosses the lounge looking displeased as fuck. She’s our team’s chief engineer.
“Coy, I just talked with Lukov.” David Lukov is Nitro’s technical director. “They’re bumping up scrutineering in Austin. Thursday morning now, not afternoon.”
Scrutineering is the FIA’s mandatory technical inspection before and after each race. The cars are checked for regulations compliance, and failure can result in penalties and even disqualification.
Dad nods. “I heard.” He turns to me. “Also Graham Pritchard’s calling for a review of all recent incidents between you and Wyn. He claims there’s a pattern of aggressive behavior.”
“From me?” I scoff. “That’s rich.”
“From both of you.” His expression is grim. “But mostly you. He’s suggesting your rivalry is becoming dangerous.”
“The only dangerous thing is his son’s driving,” Zara mutters.
“Good. Fine.” I square my shoulders. “Let them investigate. Let them review every incident. Because if Graham Pritchard wants to talk about patterns of behavior, I’ve got plenty of footage to share.”
Dad sighs. “Pet...”
“I’m done playing nice. If they want a fight, they’ll get one. But it’ll be my kind of fight—clean, clear, and by the book.”
Claudia glances up. “You mean by the wall?”
“The wall had it coming.” I give her the sweetest smile ever, then sit back and cross my arms. Our plane doesn’t board for another thirty minutes, which means more time for the press to speculate and social media to explode.
#WallGate is trending, because of course it is.
Along with #JusticeForPetra and, somewhat worryingly, #BettOnBarriers.
“Don’t look at social media.” Cin appears with coffee, which means she’s trying to soften whatever news she’s about to deliver. “Graham Pritchard’s holding a presser when WolfBett lands in Austin.”
“Oh, fantastic.” I accept the coffee, breathing in the expensive roast. Trust Jacintha to find decent coffee in any airport. “Going to paint me as the violent menace to his poor, innocent boy?”
“Most likely.” She settles beside me, her own cup steaming. “But that’s not the worst part, Tonka.”
“There’s worse than Graham Pritchard with a microphone?”
Claudia joins us. “Junior’s doing the rounds.” Her lip curls. “Specifically about teammate loyalty. Suggesting that certain drivers might be letting personal feelings affect their judgment.”
It takes me a moment to parse that. “DBJ’s going after Nico? That’s suicide.”
“Mm.” She shows me her tablet. There’s Junior looking every bit the entitled heir apparent while talking about concerning behavior and questionable priorities. Like he has any room to talk about such things. The man makes my skin crawl for reasons I can’t quite name.
“That little shit.”
“Language,” Dad calls from across the lounge, not looking up from his phone. “And stop reading that garbage.”
Zara keeps tapping away at her tablet. “The technical blogs are on our side, at least. They’re pulling telemetry from every incident with Wyn this season. The data doesn’t lie.”
I blow steam from my coffee. “No, but money talks louder than data in this sport.”
“Not always.” She looks up, brown eyes fierce. “Sometimes the truth just needs enough people willing to speak it.”
I study her. She’s barely twenty-four, brilliant, and absolutely fearless about standing up for what’s right.
When we hired her, some of the older strategists complained about her age, her gender, and her “attitude.” Now they come to her for solutions.
That she does her job brilliantly while managing lupus and never complaining only elevates her in the team’s eyes.
I think Dad would adopt her, if given the chance.
Claudia interrupts my thoughts. “Speaking of truth, Carlos Belmonte is giving a press conference. Live.”
We all lean in to see her screen.
Carlos looks like he’s come to remove heads. “Racing should be hard and competitive. But it should always be clean and safe. When we see patterns of dangerous driving and officials not taking action... this is not the sport I want my son to compete in. Not the legacy I want for Formula One.”
“Damn.” Zara whistles softly. “He’s not pulling punches.”
Dad joins us. “Carlos never does. His voice carries weight and the old guard respects him.”
I sit back and fold my arms. “Unlike the woman driver who’s been saying the same thing for years?” That comes out sharp.
Dad’s trying to pin me down with his stare. “Easy, Petra.”
“She’s right, Coy, and we can use her truth.
” Claudia meets my father’s gaze. That she’s contradicting him isn’t unusual or unwelcome.
He’s smart enough to trust the people he’s hired.
“We’ll let Carlos fight this battle in public.
Let him be the voice of tradition and authority.
While Petra focuses on winning.” She looks at me.
“You beat them where it matters most. On track.”
I nod and Dad says, “Agreed. That’s what you do best, Pet.”
After that, Dad turns his attention to Asuka and the scrutineering. Claudia buries her nose in her media plans. I go back to staring out the windows.
Movement catches my eye. The WolfBett executive team is boarding their jet.
Wyn’s there, a cap pulled low over his face.
So is Nico, and the gulf between them is wide.
Junior is among the execs, and Nico gives that prick an even wider berth.
Rumors of inappropriate conduct have long dogged Damien Betterton, Jr., and he was banned from the F1 paddock for seven years.
There’s bad blood between Nico and Junior, but no one’s really ever said exactly what or why. Doubtless there are NDAs involved.