Chapter 16 #2
Unstable ground, this. “The stewards reviewed all available data and made their determination based on established regulations. I trust the process.” Okay, maybe I had some serious doubts…
More questions fly:
“Championship implications—”
“Team dynamics—”
“Future races—”
Claudia glances at me, but I keep answering. This is part of my job, as much as driving is. I’ve been doing it since I was winning karting championships as a kid.
“The focus now is on tomorrow’s race. Every point matters, every lap counts, and that’s where my attention needs to be.”
All perfect sound bites without saying anything controversial.
Dad must be so proud.
“Petra, care to comment on Kelley Hayter-Morrison’s interview with MotoMouth?” A reporter thrusts a phone screen in front of me and there’s my mother, perfectly positioned against the Austin sunset.
“As a mother, naturally I’m concerned about safety in the sport.” Her practiced emotion is almost believable. “While I respect the stewards’ decision, this highlights the need for proper guidance. The importance of family support during these high-pressure situations is immeasurable.”
Right. Because she’s an expert on family support.
Claudia steers me away from the reporters. “You have enough sound bites. Our driver needs to focus on prep for tomorrow’s Grand Prix.”
The last thing I hear is my mother’s perfectly modulated voice: “Sometimes love means making difficult choices. Stepping back to let your child grow.”
“I will actually murder her,” Claudia mutters.
I shake my head. “Too much paperwork.”
Time to find Cin and hit something that’s not my mother. Though the temptation’s great.
“Your blood pressure’s through the roof.” Cin studies the cuff’s readout, brow furrowed with disapproval. “Not that I’m surprised.”
“I’m fine.” Another automatic lie.
“Sure you are.” We’re in my driver’s room and she adjusts my position slightly as I stretch. “That’s why you’re wound tighter than a watch shoved up a frog’s arse. Nothing to do with stewards’ decisions or maternal drama or Spanish drivers.”
Fucking hell. I see red and snap. “Can we focus on recovery? You know, your actual job?”
Jacintha crosses her arms and doesn’t bat a lash at my little outburst. “This is my actual job.” She keeps data on me like Athol does my car. “Understanding what’s affecting my driver’s performance. Including what’s got her distracted enough to miss two trigger points during cool-down.”
I start to protest, but she hits a tight muscle in my shoulder and the words turn into a hiss.
“That’s what happens when you carry tension through a sprint race and into qualies.” Her sympathy is decidedly lacking. “Now, want to tell me what’s really going on? Or should I keep torturing your deltoids?”
“Nothing’s going on.” My phone buzzes. Another message from Richard. “Bloody hell.”
“Exactly.” Cin continues her work, but her voice softens. “There’s a lot of ‘nothing’ happening this weekend, Tonka.”
Bowie opens the door without knocking, and his expression sets off my alarm bells. “We’ve got a problem with the rear suspension, Pet.”
Cin’s hands still.
I sit up. “How bad?”
“Bad enough to need creative solutions without breaking parc fermé.”
For fuck’s sake. “Okay, give me a minute.”
The garage feels different at night. It’s all intense energy under harsh lighting. Zara’s already deep in data analysis with Hans and Asuka. Their stations display comparison charts while Bowie points out anomalies in the telemetry. Athol and his mechanics glare at my car like it’s betrayed them.
“The sensor readings started shifting after Q3,” Asuka explains when I join them.
“At first we thought it was normal settlement, but the bushings in the rear suspension are exhibiting premature wear. The displacement’s minimal now, but under race loads tomorrow, you’ll get unpredictable handling through the high-speed corners. ”
“The numbers don’t lie.” Zara zooms in on a graph. “The load distribution’s off by three percent. And trending worse.”
Under normal circumstances, they’d simply replace the bushings. But with parc fermé rules in effect, they can’t make any substantial component changes without incurring starting penalties.
“Show me the visual checks.” I lean over their shoulders to get a better look at the screen. Years of technical discussions with Dad and the team mean I speak fluent engineer, even if I’m not one.
“Here.” Bowie pulls up photos. “See the slight displacement?”
The images show what should be pristine black bushings now deformed and discolored, with hairline cracking along one side where the rubber’s worn through to lighter material underneath.
The components should sit flush and aligned, but there are miniscule gaps and angles that look wrong to my trained eye.
“Brilliant.”
“Options?” Dad looks like he’s aged five years in the last hour.
Athol joins us. “Limited.” He rubs his stubbled jaw. “We can adjust settings within the permitted parameters, but actual repairs would mean starting from pit lane.”
“Which I won’t do. I drove my arse off to start at the front, I’m not giving up pole unless there’s absolutely no other option.”
The garage falls quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of other teams packing up for the night. Tomorrow’s race suddenly feels very far away.
Zara straightens suddenly, fingers flying over her keyboard. “What if we work with what we’re allowed to touch? Tire pressures, brake balance, differential settings.”
Hans is squinting at her screen. “Yes. Compensate for the issue rather than fix it.”
Bowie frowns. “It means completely rewriting the race strategy.”
“But it’s doable.” Athol glances at his mechanics who all nod.
I study Zara’s screen. “Tricky as hell to drive.”
Dad’s expression shifts from concern to calculation. “How long to run the simulations?”
“All night.” Asuka doesn’t sound the least bit troubled by this. “Petra, we’ll need thorough feedback from you during the reconnaissance laps to fine-tune the settings.”
I nod. “Just give me a list.”
Dad looks at me from beneath his brows. “You okay with this?”
“Absolutely. Better a difficult car than a DNF.”
“Right.” He touches my arm. “Then go get sleep. The team can handle this.”
I hesitate.
His brows go up. “If you’re compensating for mechanical issues tomorrow, you need to be sharp. That means proper rest and recovery.”
Asuka nods. “We’ve got this. Engineering will have a full briefing ready for you in the morning.”
“I’ll get the coffee started.” Zara stands. “The team’s gonna need it.”
I know they’re right, but leaving feels wrong. Still, years of training tell me a tired driver is a dangerous driver, especially with a compromised car. And they don’t need me to tell them how to do their jobs.
“Fine. I want complete details. Every setting, every adjustment.”
“Copy that, boss,” Bowie says, already deep in differential maps with Hans, Zara, and Asuka.
Zara smiles, looking as fresh as a fucking daisy. I don’t know how she does it, especially with a chronic health condition. She should be wilting more than me, and I’m in awe of her. As usual.
Dad gives me a gentle shove toward the door. “Get out of here.”
Tomorrow just got more interesting, but I’m not tired enough to return to the hotel.
I’ve got nervous energy and if I don’t burn it off, I’ll be up half the night.
So instead of leaving the circuit, I return to my driver’s room and change into trackies and running shoes.
A quick run around the track will burn off the last of my Saturday energy, then I’ll go back to the hotel, carbo load, shower, and sleep.
“Back to the hotel, Ms. Hayter?” Rodrigo appears as I emerge from my driver’s room.
“No. I want to run first. Burn off some of this energy.”
He falls in beside me as I head toward the track’s service road. Rigo’s both protective and unobtrusive, and I appreciate that his presence buys me time to think.