Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX | FRIDAY | FREE PRACTICE AND SPRINT QUALIFYING
“We’re not teammates.”
Mierda. Concéntrate, idiota.
This is practice, not time to replay conversations that shouldn’t matter.
“Hayter, one-thirty-two point three,” Roxana reports through his radio. “Purple sectors 1 and 2.”
“The rear feels loose through 13,” Nico replies. The car is fighting him in all the corners, especially at high speeds.
“Alright. Box this lap.”
Ahead, Petra’s car dances through the corner sequence that’s been trouble for him all morning. Her line is impossibly smooth.
“El Conejo?” Roxana prompts. “Box confirm?”
“Confirmed. Boxing.” Focus on your own fucking car, Belmonte.
The pit lane speed limiter gives him five seconds to reset his mind. Distracted driving is always dangerous, especially when you’re going three hundred km/h.
“Heinrich’s watching sector times,” Roxana says as the crew swarms his car. “Says the medium compounds should give better rotation through 13.”
A roar of engine noise grabs his attention as Petra’s car screams past the pit wall. He checks the F1 TV feed. Another purple sector.
“How many fast laps has she done?”
“Six.” Rox doesn’t point out that he didn’t ask about Lynch or Gavril or Wyn or any of the other drivers putting in fast laps. “All within a tenth. Very consistent.”
“Unlike someone’s concentration,” Heinrich cuts in. “Focus on your own telemetry, Conejo.” It’s a rare rebuke.
Mediums on. Front wing changes complete. The crew steps back and Nico’s number one mechanic guides him into the pit’s fast lane. At the end, he gets a green light and accelerates. Nico clears the pit lane and weaves to warm the new tires.
“Right. Let’s see what these changes do for 13.” Roxana’s voice in his helmet centers him. “Three flying laps, then cool down. And Nico?”
“Yes?”
“Trust your own lines.”
He almost protests, but there’s no point. Rox knows him too well. He focuses on the car’s response to the wing adjustment and medium compounds, seeking the balance between speed and control.
Turn 13 approaches.
“Yellow flag, yellow flag. Spin in turn 4. It’s Wyn.”
Again. It’s the second time this session.
“Is he okay?” Nico backs off.
“He’s fine.”
Nico swallows a curse. Graham’s been in the garage all morning with his film crew, dogging every step Wyn takes. The man doesn’t know when to fucking quit.
The yellow flags clear and Nico starts his first flying lap. The circuit opens up before him, empty and perfect. Just him and physics.
The front wing changes work their magic through turn 13, the car finally settling into that perfect space between grip and slip. Nico’s instincts take over. He’s best when he doesn’t think about each input.
“Purple sector 1,” Roxana reports. “Looking clean.”
The car dances through the chicane. Everything’s flowing now. No more thoughts about karting or a rejected dinner invitation or the way Petra finds impossible lines through corners. Just him, the car, and the track.
“Sector 2, purple again, Nico.”
He hits apexes perfectly, riding the kerbs just enough before straightening into the exits. The car responds like it’s reading his mind.
“P1, Nico.” Roxana sounds satisfied. “One-thirty-one-point seven-six-three. Beautiful lap, Conejo.”
“Vale.”
His satisfaction lasts exactly three corners.
“Hayter’s on another flyer.”
He’s watching his mirrors, knowing she’ll appear any minute now—
There. She takes a line through turn 4 that shouldn’t work but somehow does. It’s like she has her own laws of physics.
“Focus on your own lap.” Rox knows he’s watching Petra. “Two more runs, then we need to check tire wear.”
Right. His lap. His car. His...
“Hayter goes purple. One-thirty-one six-nine-zero.”
“Mierda.”
Roxana’s laugh makes him smile. “Now do you want to focus on your own driving?”
She knows Nico can’t resist a challenge. Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be...
He settles deeper into his seat and everything else falls away. It’s just him and the car and the perfect lap waiting to be found.
Time to show everyone why they call him El Conejo.
Race weekend meals are scheduled like pit stops with a bit more leisure, and the WolfBett dining room hums around him as Nico eats. Engineers debate over data, mechanics relax on break, and Carlos sits across from him, sipping coffee.
“Your line through 13 improved. After you stopped trying to copy Petra’s approach.”
Nico doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I wasn’t copying.”
“No? What then? Analyzing? Mm-hmm.” His father smiles. “Every driver has their own style. Their own magic. You have yours, she has hers.”
“Yo sé, Papá.” Nico’s more interested in his meal than this conversation. “She finds grip where others don’t.”
“So you weren’t distracted?”
Nico looks up at his father from beneath his brows. “No. Studying competitive lines.” He checks his scheduling app. Twenty-three minutes left in his meal break before he needs to head to the karting facility again. He pockets his phone and looks around.
Heinrich and the aerodynamics team occupy the closest table, absorbed in setup data on their tablets.
“Ah.” Carlos steals a grape from Nico’s plate, then glances at his own phone as it lights up, probably checking out a team press release.
He monitors every team’s movements, always looking for opportunities for the drivers he manages.
“And the karting instruction? Did you study competitive lines there too?”
“Viejo—”
Papá puts the phone aside. “Graham Pritchard came to see me this morning.” Carlos keeps his voice low. The dining room might be mostly team personnel, but paddock walls have ears. “In the Jove business unit.” He means Jove Morrison, a rival team. Carlos manages one of their F2 drivers.
Nico spears grilled yellow squash with his fork. “?Por qué?”
“To remind me of old debts.” Carlos’s expression darkens as Junior swaggers past their table and heads out to the paddock. “And suggest that perhaps it’s time for the Belmonte family to remember who helped us when we needed it.”
“Why is he speaking for the Bettertons?” Nico’s food suddenly tastes like ash.
Carlos had protested lax aero regulations.
Speeds through Eau Rouge at Spa were beyond what the safety barriers could handle.
But the manufacturers wanted faster cars, more spectacular racing.
They didn’t want to hear about risk. They forced Papá out of his FIA safety position.
Then Damien and Karl backed him, and suddenly, everyone listened.
Papá says their support kept him in motorsport and saved lives.
“A good question.”
“Did they send him?”
“No sé.” Carlos shrugs. “They’ve been good to our family. First with my position, then taking a chance on you.”
“True, but Junior undid much of that good will.” Nico looks down at his plate, jaw tight.
Carlos nudges his foot under the table. “I haven’t forgotten what he did to Nia, mijo.”
Nico meets his father’s eyes and sees the same hatred reflected. They sit with their shared guilt and anger, two men who feel they’ve betrayed the women of their family by remaining where they are.
Carlos steals another grape. “The question is what matters more, Nico. Old debts? Or what’s right for the sport?”
“What’s right is what’s right.” The memory of Nia’s tears rises unbidden.
Nico still feels the rage that had consumed him when he’d seen Junior’s hands on his sister.
Her struggle to push him off her. Nico had been smaller then, barely thirteen to Junior’s nineteen, but fury had made him fearless. And stupid.
The satisfaction of breaking Junior’s nose had lasted exactly as long as it took Betterton to put him on the ground, split his lip, blacken his eye, and give him ribs that ached for weeks. But he’d do it again and properly, if given a chance.
“The FIA claimed he was reformed.” Carlos carefully controls his anger. “That his time away from the sport taught him perspective.”
Nico scoffs, pushing vegetables around on his plate. “Like the perspective of knowing his family’s money would eventually buy his way back in?”
“Like the perspective that some actions have consequences, while others don’t.”
“Is that why Graham came to see you? To remind you that Junior’s back despite what happened? That the Bettertons have that kind of power?”
“Perhaps.” Carlos takes a third grape. “Or maybe to suggest that standing against them will leave us unprotected.”
“We’re stronger than we were back then.” Nico meets his father’s eyes. “We have other allies and a lot more influence, Papá. I won’t run from a fight when I’m on the right side of it.”
Carlos studies him. “You know what your mother says about the Belmonte men and our principles?”
“That they’ll ruin us?” Nico manages a slight smile. “Or we’re too stupid to bend them?”
“Both.” Carlos pushes his cup between his hands. “But she says they make us who we are. Even when they cost us.” He pauses and holds Nico’s gaze. “Like they might cost you now.”
“Because I won’t let Wyn’s behavior slide?”
“You’re choosing the same path I did. Standing up to the same people.” His father’s eyes are serious. “But this time? Maybe no one will step up to save you.”
The weight of that settles on Nico’s shoulders and he shoves his plate away. “What would you have me do? Pretend Wyn did nothing wrong? Let Petra take the fall?” Old fury rises, shaking off inertia and baring its teeth. “Watch Junior act like he never touched Nia?”
“No.” Carlos’s voice is gentle, meant to calm Nico’s rage. “I would have you be exactly who you are. Who your mother and I raised you to be. I just want you to understand what it might cost.”
“Like it cost you?”
“Much more. The sport’s different now. More political. More...” He waves a hand.
“Corrupt?”
“Careful. You’re making assumptions.”
“Am I?”
“Sí.” Another grape is sacrificed to Carlos Belmonte. “If you’re going to take this stand, mijo, be sure it’s worth the price.”
So much pressure to make the right moves.
But…