Chapter 10 #2
Petra was unflinching in that restroom. Wyn’s recklessness won’t stop unless someone intervenes. Junior’s smirk when they cross paths, like the pedófilo knows what Nico would do without cameras around.
He nods. “Some things are worth any price, Papá.”
Carlos stands and squeezes his son’s shoulder. “That’s what I told your mother when she worried about you following me into this world.” He pauses. “And what I’ll tell her when she calls tonight, worried about you following me into battle.”
“Dile que aprendí de los mejores.” He should tell her Nico learned from the best.
“I will.” His father smiles. “Though perhaps I won’t mention exactly who you’re fighting for.”
“Ay, Papá.”
“Time for karting instruction, no? Try not to stare at her racing lines for too long.”
“Joder,” Nico mutters as Carlos leaves.
Some asshole at the FIA decided Nico and Petra teaching between practice sessions was a good idea. If Nico knew who it was, he’d launch them over the nose of his car. He clears his table and heads out to face two more hours of pretending he’s not hyperaware of Petra’s every breath.
Nico spots Reece in the paddock, staring up at WolfBett’s team unit.
Graham’s voice carries down from the upper balcony.
Even from here, the criticism is clear. Wyn’s weak FP1 performance, his lack of aggression and failure to match Petra’s pace.
All are unacceptable to a father with the wrong priorities.
Nico joins Reece. “Your teammate was flying today.”
“Yeah.” His attention stays fixed upward, where Wyn stands in the corner of the deck, posture rigid as he endures their father’s lecture. “Amazing how quick you can be when no one’s trying to put you into a wall.”
He doesn’t just mean Wyn and Petra and Singapore. They both know it.
“He’s getting worse.” Nico keeps his voice low.
“The pressure’s breaking him.” Reece meets his eyes, and the misery he feels for his younger brother is clear. “You think I don’t see it? My brother used to love racing.”
Above them, Graham’s voice sharpens. “If you’d taken that line like I told you—”
“Before your father decided winning was more important than safety?”
“Before he decided winning was more important than anything else, including his relationship with his sons.” Reece peers at Nico. “You saw Wyn’s times today? Two spins and a near-miss. He’s pushing past his limits because anything less is failure.”
They stand in silence, watching team personnel bustle past. Graham’s criticism continues to rain down, each word making Wyn shrink further into himself.
“Petra won’t back down,” Reece says finally.
“Do you want her to?”
“No. This sport needs someone to show there’s another way to win.” Reece pauses. “Though backing her against Graham and the Bettertons? That might be a fool’s bet, Nico.”
He nods. “Maybe. But it’s the right thing to do.”
Reece’s expression shifts to a different kind of concern. “You know it could be career suicide?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still going to do it?”
“Yes.”
Reece nods slowly. “Good. Because she’s right.” He looks back up at the balcony. “And my brother needs someone to stop him before his next crash is worse than Singapore.”
“Even if that someone is his rival?”
“Yeah.” Reece points from himself to Nico. “Because it means it’s about the racing, not family or history.”
“Everything in F1 comes down to family and history.”
Reece shrugs. “Maybe it’s time that changed.”
“Your father’s going to hate that.”
“That’s exactly the point.” Reece straightens as Wyn pushes away from the railing and Graham’s voice fades. “Now go teach some kids about clean racing. Show them there’s a better way.”
“On it.” Nico slaps Reece’s back and heads for the karting facility, but Wyn’s defeated posture stays with him. The man’s trapped by his father’s expectations.
If defying Graham frees Wyn and other kids getting crushed by their parents’ dreams, it’s worth it.
Working with the kids feels more genuine without Graham’s camera crew in their faces. Word has spread that championship contenders are teaching at the local karting track, so there are more observers. Many are girls sporting pink-streaked hair or pink nail polish.
A boy in a WolfBett shirt catches Nico’s attention first. “Mr. Belmonte! Watch this!”
The kid attempts an aggressive overtake that would make Wyn proud and Graham richer. He ends up spinning into the barriers instead.
“That was an excellent demonstration of how not to drive.” Petra’s already moving to help. Her eyes meet Nico’s, but she’s locked down her emotions. Since arriving at the facility, he’s seen nothing of the woman who flew through COTA’s turns like gravity was optional this morning.
He misses her.
“Want to show them how it’s actually done, Nico?” She’s all business.
Two demonstration laps later, they’ve got the kids’ complete attention. Even the wannabe Wyn is locked in.
“Watch the kart’s weight transfer,” Petra calls, hands moving over the steering wheel. “Through the turns you want to brake just enough to settle the kart’s nose, then trail the brake as you turn in. Notice how the back end wants to step out.”
Nico adds, “That’s your moment to catch it and use the rotation instead of fighting it. Work with the kart and physics, not against them.”
Nico and Petra cross the finish line, then send two students out, calling instructions as the kids go around the track.
She guides a student through the sequence, calling out reference points.
“See that seam in the tarmac? That’s your turn-in point.
Now wait... wait... there. Feel how the kart settled?
Remember that feeling. That’s what you’re looking for.
” Her words carry extra weight given this morning’s practice results.
The girls hang on every syllable, and the boys who’d been trying to impress Nico drift over to watch.
A sharp engine note cuts through the lesson, followed by the thud of a kart hitting a barrier. Another teenager trying to prove something and taking the hairpin way too fast.
“I’ve got this one.” Nico crosses the track and crouches beside the young driver’s kart. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He helps the boy move the kart back onto the track. “What were you thinking through that corner?”
The kid looks sheepish. “I was trying to be fast, like you were in Monaco.”
“When I had years of experience, a highly engineered car, and wasn’t trying to show off?” The kid reminds him of himself at that age.
A burst of laughter from Petra’s group draws his attention. She’s demonstrating something, movements precise and natural.
“Mr. Belmonte? About the corner?”
“Right.” Nico snaps his focus back. “Let’s talk about respecting limits. Yours and the kart’s.”
Another boy joins them. “But how do you know the limit? My dad says you have to push past it to find it.”
Nico catches Petra’s slight pause in her demonstration. A question they’ve both heard too many times.
“Your father’s not wrong,” Nico says carefully. “But there’s a difference between testing limits and ignoring them.”
“Like in Singapore?” The question comes from one of Petra’s students, who’s joined the discussion. “When Wyn Pritchard—”
“You’re not here to revisit that,” Petra cuts in smoothly as she brings her group of students into their conversation. “You’re here to learn how to drive fast and fair.”
“But his dad says—”
Another kid interrupts, “His dad isn’t an F1 champion.”
That gets a laugh from all the students.
“Miss Hayter?” A girl pipes up. “Could you and Mr. Belmonte demonstrate clean racing together?”
Nico holds his breath, waiting for her rejection. For another reminder that they’re not teammates.
Instead, she studies the hopeful faces around them. “One lap.” She raises a finger. “So you can see what respectful competition looks like.”
As they strap into their karts, Nico can’t help asking, “Sure about this?”
Her cheeky smile is something he hasn’t seen since Singapore. “Try to keep up, Conejo.”
Their lap starts courteous. But somewhere between turn 3 and the hairpin, something shifts. Maybe muscle memory from a thousand on-track battles. Maybe the absence of politics and pressure. Or maybe just the pure pleasure of driving with nothing to win or lose.
Petra finds a line through the chicane that makes Nico laugh out loud. He counters with a feint that has her shaking her head and grinning as he overtakes on the outside.
This is how it used to be. Before championship points and sponsor obligations brought money and pressure. Before Graham molded Wyn into something harsh and hungry. Before anyone cared that Petra was different, because all that mattered was how well you could drive.
They trade the lead back and forth, neither pushing too hard but both showing off just enough to draw gasps and cheers from their students. When Petra slides perfectly through the final corner, Nico right on her tail, their audience erupts.
“That’s proper racing!” Lena, their pink-streaked student from yesterday, bounces with excitement.
Petra climbs from her kart. “Notice how we gave each other space? How we could race close without making contact?”
“But you weren’t going full speed,” one of the boys protests.
Nico nods. “There’s more to winning than being fastest. Sometimes it’s about...” He pauses, watching Petra demonstrate the line again to her cluster of admirers.
“About what?” the boy asks.
“Fun.” Nico gestures for the kid to take his kart.
He steps back as the boy and one of Petra’s students head onto the track.
“Remember when we’d do this for fun?” Petra echoes his thoughts. “You, me, and the Pritchards.”
“Before everything got monetized?”
“Yeah.” For a moment, she’s just the girl who used to beat them all, then share her crisps and carrots because racing made everyone hungry. She’s watching the karts. “We were good friends once.”
Were. Past tense.
Nico wants to touch her but doesn’t dare.
“Miss Hayter!” Lena calls. “Can you show us the hairpin approach again?”
The moment breaks. Petra’s professional mask slides back into place. But Nico likes knowing that she remembers when racing was something she enjoyed doing with friends.
He smiles. It’s been a long time since he’s thought of their sport that way, and it’s not too late to remind her that they’re still friends.
And could be more.
As the session wraps up, their students cluster around for final autographs and photos. Lena hugs Petra, whispering something that makes her laugh, and Nico realizes he’s missed that sound since Singapore too.
The last kids filter out with their instructors and parents, leaving them alone in the cooling evening air. Petra lingers, fiddling with her gloves. It’s a habit that means she has something to say but isn’t sure how to get it out.
“About yesterday.” She tugs her glove down, one finger at a time, but pulls it back on. “I was a bit of a cow.”
“Only a bit?” The teasing comes naturally, like muscle memory.
“Don’t push it, Conejo.” She meets his eyes, but there’s no edge behind her response. “I’m not used to people having my back. Not for a while.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing everything that’s changed since they were dumb kids messing around in karts.
“Since it all got complicated?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you about the dinner invitation. Or back in Singapore.” She pauses. “You were being a friend, and I shouldn’t’ve brushed that off.”
The admission seems to cost her something, but her chin lifts in that familiar way that means she’s made a decision and will stand by it.
“I still am,” he says quietly. “If you’ll let me.”
Her phone chimes just as she opens her mouth to respond. Her huff is familiar, and he almost laughs, until she glances at the screen and her expression loses all joy.
“Ah, fuck me. Not Kelley,” she mutters.
Nico’s stomach drops.
Some ghosts never stop haunting you.
“I gotta go, Nico. Sorry.” Petra’s already raising her phone to her ear as she grabs her bag, all traces of ease gone. “Dad? Yeah, I just saw. Fuck no, I did not agree to that. I’m on my way.”
She’s gone before Nico can say anything, her rapid footsteps echoing across the empty track. Not that there’s anything to say.
Kelley Hayter-Morrison’s drama began affecting Petra the day she left a six-year-old daughter and a devoted husband for Richard Morrison’s money. She surfaces occasionally, usually when Petra’s achieving something noteworthy, always bringing chaos in her wake.
“Mierda.”
Some complications aren’t about racing at all.