Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MéXICO | FRIDAY | FREE PRACTICE AND RACE QUALIFYING
When Rodrigo pulls up to the circuit’s paddock entrance Friday morning, I see two things: Nico and a sea of fans wearing WolfBett blue and gold, and Nitro pink and green.
He stands with Esteban and his own security team, surrounded by fans waving signs.
His arms are crossed, and I know he’s waiting for me as his gaze tracks our SUV.
“Ready for this?” Cin asks from beside me, but the question’s pointless. There’s no being ready for what’s waiting out there.
My stomach’s been twisted in knots since I awoke to seventeen missed calls from journalists and a text from Dad.
For the first time in my racing career, I didn’t want to get out of bed and into the car. Dad’s text changed my mind.
I didn’t raise a quitter or a cheat, so get your bloody arse in the car, Petra Lison Meris Hayter.
The camera flashes start before I’m even out of the SUV. Rodrigo positions himself immediately to my left while Cin takes my right. Three more private security guards create a protective bubble around me, but Nico is my focal point in all this chaos.
He steps forward as we approach. Our security teams and the fans create space between us and the growing wall of cameras and microphones.
Nico extends his hand. I take it and he presses his lips to my ear and says, “Fuck them for doubting us.”
I tip my head back to meet his gaze. “Absolutamente, El Conejo.”
The cameras and questions don’t stop, but my lingering doubts do. Nico and I are in this together. Could I go it alone? Yeah, of course. But having this man at my back feels a bloody fuck-load better. Guess he was right all along about having backup, the cheeky rabbit.
“Petra! How do you respond to your mother’s interviews?”
“Are the allegations about data sharing true, Nico?”
“What’s your relationship timeline?”
We ignore every question, passing through the security entrance together. Nico traces patterns on the side of my thumb with his while we move into the paddock.
There are more autograph seekers, more cameras and questions, but there’s also the familiarity of the circuit and F1’s people, some of whom we’ve known all our lives. We’ve barely made it ten meters when Rich appears, cutting through the crowd with Kilian beside him.
“Pet.” Richard’s voice is warm as he hugs me. “You doing okay?”
“Of course.” I’m not about to show my soft underbelly to anyone. Well, except Nico, and only if he begs.
Kilian extends his fist to Nico, who bumps it and compliments him on his excellent practice sessions yesterday.
“Sólida actuación en ambas sesiones de práctica ayer, chico.” He switches back to English for Richard’s sake. “That lap time in FP2 was mega.”
“Gracias.” Kilian’s grin is broad. The guy’s in his first year with F1, but he’s proving to be a strong choice for Jove Morrison. “Car’s feeling good. Finally got the setup dialed in.”
“Excellent.” I fist bump him too. Thank fucking God for some normal racing chatter. I elbow Richard. “JMR’s looking strong this weekend.”
“We’re getting there.” He’s never satisfied.
As we walk toward the hospitality units, we get a lot of looks.
Mechanics from various teams tip their chins.
Aigar and Lynch bump fists with us as we pass.
But I know everyone’s wondering where the truth lies.
Still, so many of them know Kelley and her lack of common sense.
Even more of them know Nico and me. I have to believe they’re giving us the benefit of the doubt.
“The paddock’s got a lot to say this morning.” Kilian high-fives Gavril Rhydderch.
Rich nods. “Most people know you both too well to buy into conspiracy theories.”
“Most.” Nico signs a cap for a kid who comes abreast of us and holds out the hat and a pen. The kid’s respectful rather than obnoxious and his manners pay off.
We reach Nitro’s temporary building, where more journalists have gathered, cameras ready. More questions come at us but Nico and I have nothing to say.
“See you on track, Hayter.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses me, slow and deliberate and completely unbothered by the media frenzy exploding around us. When we break apart, his grey eyes hold mine. “I’ll be the one you’re chasing.”
I laugh for the first time since Kelley’s text last night. “In your dreams, Bunny Boy.”
His grin is pure confidence. “Every night.”
Flashes are going off and the click of camera shutters is almost louder than the rev of engines and the noise coming from Mexico City’s grandstands and mariachis.
He presses his lips against my ear. “Show them who you really are.”
As he leaves for the WolfBett business unit, Cin captures my arm and pulls me through the door into ours. “Feel better?”
“Much.” My head’s finally clear, the spiral of worry and self-doubt broken by Nico’s certainty and my pig-headedness.
“Good. Because you’ve got qualifying in three hours, and Bowie’s been pacing since dawn.”
I turn toward the glass doors, smile, and raise my hands, covering my lips as if to blow a kiss to the gathered media, but it’s my pink painted middle fingernails that deliver a clear message. And no air kiss follows.
Nico’s right. Fuck you for doubting us.
Quali prep proceeds like nothing weird is happening outside the garage.
But Zara’s seat has been vacant all day.
That’s doing my head in because she rarely misses a session.
Did she have a lupus flare? It’s the only thing that would keep her away from the track.
Hans is covering for her, but there’s no time to ask if she’s okay, and he doesn’t seem worried, so I shouldn’t either…
“Focus,” Bowie reminds me as we head for my car and Q1. But he’s noticed too and keeps glancing at her dark screens.
Cin hands me my helmet. “I’m sure she’s fine, Pet. Probably just needed a rest day.” They happen and PNW Nitro accommodates her. It’s what families do.
I get through to Q2 easily enough, but a crash in the first lap pauses Q3 long enough for me to get out of the car for a jog around the paddock. I need to release this nervous energy.
Cin accompanies me on my run and we keep looking at each other as we overhear snatches of conversation that only make me wonder more:
“The FIA’s questioning Pritchard again.”
“That’s why he’s not in the WolfBett garage?”
“I heard the Bettertons are flying in.”
They must mean Graham because Wyn and Reece have been on track. They qualified through to Q3.
I grab Cin’s sleeve and lean close so only she hears me. “Find out what the fuck is going on.”
She nods. “Focus on qualifying. I’ll ask around.”
As we near WolfBett’s garage, I spy Wyn pacing, hands on his hips, head shaking. He looks absolutely thunderous. Marcus and Gael watch as Haran Tilke, Wyn’s physio, walks with him, clearly trying to calm him the fuck down.
Cin texts Maiken who’s with Reece while Ona’s away, but she doesn’t respond. He’s always been intense during qualifying, so I’m not entirely surprised. He likes complete isolation to maintain focus. But there’s some shit brewing.
Jacintha gets the ten-minute notification via radio. Q3 will resume soon. She sends me back to Nitro’s garage. “Do your job, Pet. None of this matters right now.”
I nod. “Yeah. You’re right.”
When I enter the garage, Bowie’s waiting with my balaclava, helmet, HANS, and gloves. My face must ask the question because he just shakes his head. “Just race, Petra.”
“Zara?” I don the balaclava and my earpieces.
“She’s fine.”
“Right.” On goes the helmet. The world and its current drama get shut out. All that matters now is getting the best position for tomorrow’s race.
“Make this count, TenP,” Bowie says as I accelerate onto the track.
“Let’s make history, team.”
The car feels balanced and responsive. But I keep circling back to Zara and Wyn. Did they discover something last night after we left?
Bowie’s voice crackles in my helmet. “Okay, Petra, you exceeded track limits at turn 1. Lap time deleted.”
“Bloody fucking hell. Is there time for another lap?”
“No. Looks like P3 for tomorrow.”
“Shit, shit, and double-shit. I’m sorry.”
“It happens.” Bowie’s one cool cucumber, which is why I like having him along for every ride.
Lynch takes P2 with a clean lap. And Nico crosses the line to claim pole, the bastard. Reece and Wyn are midfield, P7 and P9, respectively. Now I know some shit has gone down, because Reece hasn’t qualied that badly all season.
“We’ll analyze the data later,” Dad says as I climb from the car in the garage. That’s standard procedure after a session. “See me in my office.”
Oh dear.
Cin joins us and takes my gear. “Cool-down first, Coy?”
“Fine. But no talking with the media.”
She and I exchange looks, then head to my driver’s room. The door to Reece’s is shut and I resist the urge to open it. Whatever’s happened, I’ll find out soon enough. Best to give him space.
After a shower and a change of clothes, Jacintha is helping me stretch when our phones explode with headline notifications:
F1 Technical Espionage Scandal Breaks
Former Media Consultant Arrested
Graham Pritchard’s Cooperation Leads to Arrest
“Holy shit,” we mutter simultaneously, because what else is there to say?
I sit up on the massage table just as Reece’s door slams open, hitting the corridor wall in the process. I’m off the table and into the hall quickly enough to see him disappear into Dad’s office. Maiken’s behind him, and you can bet I hightail it right after.
When I enter, Dad’s gripping Reece’s shoulder, and I’ve never seen my fellow driver look so utterly defeated.
“Coy, I don’t know. I just— I’ll be no fucking good for a race.”
Dad’s the calm eye of this storm. “You’ll race tomorrow, Reece. Better you’re in the car doing something than out of it chewing the shit out of a situation you had no hand in creating and no way to stop.”
“I’m not going to sleep tonight. My focus will be crap.”