Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX | THURSDAY | MEDIA DAY
So, yeah, I’m cultivating a miserable headache.
That Graham has turned our community service into his TV opportunity proper pisses me off. I’d consign all the Pritchard men to the hate train, except Reece is so utterly decent. He proves how absolutely mental Graham and Wyn are.
“Okay, now both of you stand by the karts and look inspiring.” The camera operator gestures vaguely in that direction.
“Inspiring,” I mutter as Nico stifles a yawn. He’s been crunching his schedule since sunrise too, and it shows. “Right. Because that’s exactly how I feel after nine straight hours of setup analysis and media interviews.”
“What was that?” Graham calls from where he’s discussing camera angles with the production team. Of course he’s here. Our punishment is his opportunity.
Bloody wanker.
“Nothing.” I paste on my media smile, the one that’s seen me through a hundred press conferences where I wanted to scream and throw shit. “Just discussing positioning with Nico.”
My partner in crime is giving me the cold shoulder. Probably regretting his chivalry now that it’s cost him valuable prep time before the sprint. But that’s Nico Belmonte for you. Just like Carlos—always taking a stand, consequences be damned.
Had Carlos thought about the cost when he spoke out against the FIA’s old guard? When he nearly lost everything? If the Bettertons hadn’t stepped in for Nico... God, the irony of that. The same family that produced Junior the Creep ended up giving a career to one of F1’s most principled champions.
“Petra?” Nico’s voice pulls me back. The Texas sun emphasizes the shadows under his eyes. “They want us to explain proper racing lines.”
I bite back a response about proper interference in other people’s wars. “Fine.”
“You seem—”
“I seem professional.” I modulate my voice but keep that smile plastered to my face.
Can’t have the microphones catching any honesty.
“Like someone who can handle her own problems without uninvited help.” I’m not sure why I’m being bitchy to him.
Guilt, probably. He wouldn’t be here if I’d kept my cool in Singapore.
“Places everyone!” The director interrupts. “We’ve got twenty minutes until the students arrive.”
Nico’s expression cools. Good. Fine. It’s better that we keep distance between us. I don’t need a world champion fucking with my head.
The cameras roll as we explain basic racing concepts to an imaginary audience.
I focus on the technical aspects, on the pure joy of racing that drew me into this sport in the first place.
Not on the politics. Not on the man beside me who apparently thinks I need saving, or the data analysis I’m missing or the recovery session that should be happening right now.
Easy. Happy. Today, you’re Tenacious P who jokes and smiles, not Petra Hayter who wants to knock the shit out of all the wankers holding her back.
“Perfect!” The director beams. “Now maybe show some friendly interaction? You know, rivals finding common ground through teaching.”
I catch Nico’s slight eye-roll and almost smile before remembering I’m annoyed with him.
He crosses his arms. “No. The kids will be here soon.” It seems he’s done manufacturing enthusiasm. “We’ll focus on the actual instruction.”
Ooo. He’s annoyed. At least we agree on—wait. No. No finding common ground. That’s exactly what he wants. Common ground leads to lowered guard. And that’ll give him an advantage on the track.
Fuck that.
Graham appears, radiating faux paternal concern for the cameras. “Remember, we want to emphasize safety. Show these young drivers that aggression isn’t the answer.”
The irony nearly chokes me. His son runs competitors off the track, but we’re the ones teaching safety lessons?
“Of course. We’ll demonstrate clean racing techniques.” Nico sounds smooth, but I’ve already seen his hackles. I’ve watched him enough to know when he’s nearing the end of his considerable patience.
“Excellent.” Graham’s smile never reaches his eyes. It’s creepy. “Though perhaps Ms. Hayter should focus on the technical aspects, given recent incidents.”
Nico tenses beside me, probably preparing another gallant defense.
“I’m well qualified to discuss racing ethics, Graham. I’ve never caused a competitor to crash.”
Graham’s smile tightens and mine gets sweeter.
Take that, wanker.
The camera op looks delighted at the tension she’s capturing as Graham’s director distracts him.
“Petra—” Nico starts.
“Stop.” I keep my voice low. “I don’t need you playing head games with me too, Nico. We’ve always been friends. Let’s keep it that way.”
He turns away from the cameras as he scowls. He’s that well media-trained. “Head games? You know me better than that.”
I open my mouth to say something that’s probably quite stupid, but the first young drivers arrive, saving me from myself.
Their excitement cuts through the afternoon’s tension, their eager questions about racing lines and apex choices reminding me why we’re really here.
It’s impossible not to be energized by their enthusiasm.
“Ready?” Nico starts toward them.
“To hang out with kids? Always.” I match his stride. “To pretend this isn’t about politics? We’ll see.”
He studies me for a moment, grey eyes serious. “Not everything is politics and head games, Petra.”
“In this sport, Nico?” I look at him. “Everything is about money and politics. Even good intentions.”
The kids range from twelve to fifteen, that perfect age where they’re both trying to look cool and completely failing to hide their excitement. One girl, maybe thirteen, sports pink streaks in her wavy brunette hair. When she spots me, her eyes go wide.
“You’re really her,” she breathes. “You’re Tenacious P.”
“That’s what they tell me.” My smile is genuine this time. “Nice hair.”
She beams, then notices Nico and promptly turns scarlet. Interesting. I file that reaction away for later teasing.
No, stop it. You’re pissed off at him, Petra. We’re here because he shoved his nose into your business, and now you have to feel shitty because he’s being penalized and his team is being penalized.
But Wyn isn’t.
Of course.
Graham’s camera ops position themselves as we gather the kids for initial instruction.
“Okay.” Nico smiles at the kids. “Let’s start with—”
“Is it true you punched Wyn Pritchard?” A boy in the back bursts out.
Lovely. Even teens follow F1 drama.
“Thomas!” His mother looks mortified.
“What? Everyone saw the pictures from The Blue—”
“We’re here to talk about clean racing.” I look directly at Graham’s camera. “And competing safely.”
“Like in Singapore?” Another voice pipes up.
Nico steps forward. “Exactly like—”
“Yes, like Singapore.” I’m not letting El Conejo speak for me. “Where we saw exactly why safety protocols and clean racing matter. Now who wants to learn proper racing lines?”
Several hands shoot up, including Pink Streaks in the front. Good. Focus on the racing. Not the politics. Not the way Nico’s watching me with something that better not be approval.
We split the group so we can work with individual karts.
The cameras follow us, but the kids’ genuine excitement makes it easier to ignore Graham’s people.
Almost easier to ignore the fact that I should be reviewing data from the Driver-in-the-Loop sim.
It’s gathered by our test driver back in PNW Nitro’s UK headquarters, and I’m sure Bowie’s cursing me for creating this whole situation.
“Miss Hayter?” Pink Streaks—“Lena, short for Magdalena” according to her nametag—raises her hand. “Can you show me that line again? The one you used in Baku?”
I blink. “You watched that race?”
“She watches your T-cam for every race,” her friend says. “She has your posters and everything.” She means the main TV camera mounted on my car’s airbox, above and behind my seat.
Lena blushes. “Savannah!”
“What? It’s true. She’s gonna be the first woman to—” Savannah stops, apparently realizing who she’s talking to. “I mean, the second woman to—”
“Fourth,” I correct gently.
Lena nods. “Maria Teresa de Filippis was first. Lella Lombardi was second.”
“You know your history.” I grin, remembering my own teenage dreams. “C’mon then. Let’s work on that racing line.”
As I demonstrate the correct approach, I catch Nico watching again. He’s working with two boys who’re asking about top speeds, but his attention keeps drifting our way.
Graham approaches, camera crew in tow. “Let’s get some footage of you both instructing together. Show how rivals can work together for the sport’s future?”
Because nothing says genuine instruction like Graham’s PR bollocks.
Nico straightens. “We’re more effective working separately. Different techniques for different driving styles. It maximizes the time for the students.”
He’s probably as fed up with these bloody cameras as I am.
“Of course, of course.” Graham’s fake smile doesn’t waver. “Though the sponsors were hoping—”
A snap oversteer into the barriers at the far end of the circuit interrupts whatever corporate bullshit he was about to spout. It’s just a spin into the barriers, but every adult head turns automatically.
“I’ve got it.” I’m already moving. This I know how to handle. This has nothing to do with politics or protection or power games.
This is racing.
The driver is Thomas, the boy who’d asked about Wyn. He sits in his kart, looking stunned. A classic snap oversteer caught him out. I reach him first with Nico close behind.
“You alright there, mate?” I’m already assessing the situation. No damage to him, minimal to the kart. The kind of lesson every driver needs. The earlier in their career, the better.
“I... I didn’t...” His voice shakes.
“First crash in a racing kart?” I keep my tone light. “Welcome to motorsport.”
“But I was doing everything right!” The words burst out. He’s definitely frustrated and embarrassed. “I followed the line and—”
“May I?” Nico asks quietly. When I nod, he crouches beside the kart. “Show me your hands.”
Thomas holds them out. They’re trembling.
“Ah.” Nico sounds understanding rather than judgy. “You tensed up. When you sensed the slide starting, you gripped harder, right?”
The boy nods. Poor kid looks miserable. And, bloody hell, I remember that feeling so clearly.
“That barrier looked real hard,” he admits.
I hold back a smile. No one forgets their first crash. “Barriers usually do. But fighting the slide only makes it worse. You have to work with the car.”
“I know, but...” Thomas shrugs.
“Knowing and doing are very different things.” I demonstrate the correct hand position. “Especially when everything happens so fast.”
Graham’s camera crew starts moving in, probably sensing a perfect PR moment. Before they can get too close, Nico stands, deliberately blocking their shot. He’s protecting Thomas while the boy’s feeling vulnerable.
“This is a good time for all students to learn about recovery techniques.” He looks dead on at Graham. “Without cameras on them.”
Did he just cock block Paddock Access? Yes, he absolutely did. Even Graham backs off, though his expression says he won’t forgive or forget.
Which clearly doesn’t worry Nico Belmonte one damn bit.
“Right then.” I help Thomas restart the kart. “Let’s talk about how to handle snap oversteer.” I raise my voice to include the other students who’ve gathered. “You’ll all face this sometime. You need to know what to do and, just as important, what not to do.”
For the next twenty minutes, we work purely on technique.
No cameras, no PR, and no politics. We’re just teaching young drivers how to handle the scary moments and work with their karts instead of fighting them.
Nico demonstrates left-hand turns while I show the right-handers.
And in all the focus on instruction, my irritation with him fades.
It’s not until we’re wrapping up that I realize we’ve been working in perfect sync, anticipating each other’s demonstrations and building on each other’s explanations. Like we’ve been teaching together for years instead of two hours.
Bollocks.
The kids gather their gear and file out with their parents and instructors, chattering about racing lines and oversteer. Thomas now wears his crash like a badge of honor, but Lena lingers, clutching her helmet.
“Miss Hayter? Would you sign my helmet?” She thrusts a Sharpie forward. “Please?”
“I would be honored.” I do, adding a small message about being tenacious. Her grin could power the circuit’s floodlights.
“You too, Mr. Belmonte?” She turns to Nico, suddenly shy again.
“Absolutamente.” He signs next to my message, writing something in Spanish that makes her laugh. How did he even know the girl spoke Spanish?
Graham’s crew starts packing up, and thank fucking God for that. I’m tired of the cameras and boom mic constantly hovering like flies.
“That went better than expected.” Nico sheds his gloves. “Despite the cameras.”
“Mm.” I check my phone. Three messages from Bowie about the data we still need to review. “Some of those kids have real potential.”
“I agree.” He hesitates. “Want to grab dinner? We could discuss tomorrow’s session, maybe review some—”
“Nico.” I deliberately don’t use Bunny Boy. “We’re not teammates.”
His expression changes in a way I’ve rarely seen. There’s real frustration for a split second before his professional mask drops into place. “Of course. Buenas noches.”
While he walks away, I lie to myself that I’m not noticing how the circuit lighting catches his profile or how his shoulders carry the same tension I’m feeling.
We’re not teammates. We’re not actually friends.
Not anymore. I left the idea of friends behind in F3.
But I hate having to say no, when I really want to say yes.
I like Nico. I’ve always liked him, respected him, and valued his opinions.
But now I don’t know what to make of everything he says and does because we’re rivals, the points spread is narrow, and he’s a world champion.
I could discuss these doubts with him, but would I believe his answers?
Sighing, I hoist my bag, definitely not thinking about Nico Belmonte’s arse.
Which I absolutely did not sneak another peek at before the door closed between us.