Chapter 34 #2
Dad looks at Maiken. “Work him ragged, get him into bed at a decent hour, bring him to the track in the morning. Can you handle it?”
She nods. “Absolutely, Coy.”
“You don’t race, we take a DNF and you’ll be kicking yourself, Reece.” Dad’s using his Team Principal “I’m not fucking around” tone of voice, and it works.
Reece stares at him, a host of emotions chasing each other across his face. Then he sighs, scrubs his hand over his jaw, and nods. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”
Dad steps back. “I know I am. Now get out of here. Don’t talk to any reporters. Don’t watch any news coverage. Don’t respond to texts that aren’t from this team and about tomorrow’s race. Clear?”
“Yeah. Clear.”
I touch Reece’s arm as he leaves, then drop into the chair opposite Dad as he sits behind his desk. Cin sits beside me.
He tips his head back and lets out a slow breath. “What a fucking mess this is.”
“What the hell is going on, Dad?”
“Dixon Atteberry.”
I frown. “Dixon? You mean Graham’s guy?”
“Yes.” He rubs his forehead like he’s got a headache, then looks up at us.
“Last night, Zara found a pattern of access and specific timing in those fan pages. She shared her data with Laurent Dubois this morning, and he identified the source of the data breach: Dixon Atteberry.” He runs a hand through his greying hair.
“Graham was pulled back in for questioning and admitted to hiring Atteberry at the start of the season to manufacture dramatic content for his productions.”
“Manufacture?” Hardly shocking.
“As in create?” Cin asks.
“Precisely, but Atteberry went after technical data instead, and started blackmailing Graham. He threatened to expose both the original reason for his hiring and the technical breaches.” Dad shakes his head.
“Graham’s spent the season trying to protect WolfBett and cover his own arse instead of admitting he screwed up and needed help.
He told Dubois he was doing it to protect Wyn and Reece. ”
Cripes. “Protecting them how? By pushing Wyn harder?”
“By trying to control everything. It’s why he’s had his nose up everyone’s arse.”
“Hoping to spot any sign that his juggling act was about to fail?” Cin asks.
“Probably.” Dad starts fiddling with his pen.
“Zara analyzed the pattern of the posts, the races, and the events to see if there was a correlation beyond the obvious. Apparently, Dubois already suspected Atteberry and used her data to track the man’s activities.
Graham admitted he hired Dixon for Ground Effect Media and involved the man in all F1 fan events this season. ”
“And Graham came clean about this?” I’m more shocked about that than anything else I’ve just heard.
“That’s not the most surprising thing.” Dad tosses his pen aside and leans forward, planting his arms on his desk. “Graham Pritchard actually chose his sons over his image.”
“What?”
Cin shakes her head. “How so?”
“He laid out all the details, and cleared you and Nico of any blame, Pet.”
“Bloody hell. That’s hard to believe.”
Dad nods, then tips his chin down and considers me. “Race day tomorrow, and it’s going to get extra silly between now and then. Protect yourself.”
I nod. “Yeah, Dad. I will.”
Jacintha says, “I’ll make sure she’s good, Coy.”
He smiles. “I know you will, Cin. Just be sure to take care of yourself, too.”
Standing, Cin and I turn for his door, but I pause and glance back at him. “Thanks for always supporting me, Dad.”
His expression softens. “It’s my job, Petra, as your father.”
I open the door. “You do it well.”
More details flood our phones as Cin and I return to my driver’s room.
She reads aloud. “Christ. Atteberry worked on multiple racing series.”
“I wonder who else he’s been screwing over.”
“Oh, good question.”
A text pops up from Nico.
You okay? Talked w/Coy?
Yeah. Bloody insane. Poor Reece. He’s having a hard time.
Mierda.
100%
“What’s he say?” Cin nods at my phone. I don’t ask how she knows it’s Nico. I figure it’s all over my face. I angle the screen so she can read the messages.
Nico adds:
Wyn’s w/ WB attnys.
“God, I feel sorry for the brothers,” Cin murmurs.
“Yeah.”
My phone keeps buzzing with updates. The whole paddock is processing this at once.
Dad:
Team principals’ meeting in 30. Damage control.
Reece:
Sitting down? Dad actually apologized.
Bowie:
This explains the extra pressure on Wyn lately.
Nico:
For once, Kelley’s not the most dramatic parent in F1. Also dinner?
That last one makes me laugh, and I reply:
Right?! And, yes, to dinner.
“The FIA’s making statements.” Cin is doom-scrolling.
“Multiple teams affected, coordinated response... Atteberry cultivated contacts and trust. When Graham hired him to drum up personal drama for his productions, he saw a bigger opportunity.” She looks up.
“The FIA is specifically praising team cooperation in uncovering the pattern.”
“Zara?”
“And Wyn?” Her smile turns sly. “There’s something there, you know.”
“No.” I scoff. “God, Cin. You’ve got to stop reading all those romance novels.”
She laughs. “Absolutely not. Drew Katterman’s books are my coping mechanism.” Maiken’s to blame for that.
Her phone buzzes again. “Mm. There’s an emergency press conference. The FIA wants all affected teams to present a united front, show how cooperation between teams helped uncover the security breach, blah-blah-blah.” She looks up. “Time to play nice-nice, Pet.”
I roll my eyes. “At least Nico will be there, too.”
“And your dads. Don’t look so put out. The teams support you both.”
I sigh. “I know. It’s just… I’d like some privacy for once.”
She gives me a big hug. “You’re the wrong gender and in the wrong business, if you want that.”
“No shit.”
She’s steering me out the door. “C’mon. Let’s go see your boyfriend.”
“He’s not.”
She just snorts in response.
We leave the team building, and Rigo takes the lead. But as we cross the paddock toward the media center, my stomach tightens. The sea of cameras has become a flood.
We wade through.
“Petra! Petra!” The chorus of my name comes from all directions.
Flashes pop like strobe lights. The crowd is nearly suffocating as they press closer.
Why aren’t you fuckers in the media center?
“How does it feel to be vindicated after the blackmail scheme was exposed?”
I keep my head down and push forward, my hand on Rodrigo’s back. He’s shoving through the mass, but it’s slow going.
“Petra! Did you know about Graham Pritchard being blackmailed before it was revealed?”
Christ almighty.
“Were you ever suspicious that someone was targeting Graham?”
“How did you maintain focus while under scrutiny?”
Rodrigo’s apparently done with this madness. “Stand back, all of you.” Beefy arms swinging, he bulldozes a path through the crowd as two more blokes from Nitro’s security team join us.
When we finally reach it, the media center is beyond packed and buzzes with tension.
“This explains the mob in the paddock,” Cin mutters.
Marcus Wolfberg, Richard, Dad, and other team principals occupy designated seats on the raised platform at the front of the room.
Nico is there and stands as I cross toward him.
He pulls out a chair between Dad and him.
I sit and face the assembled journalists.
The usual suspects are all here—Floor Talk, MotoMouth, Paddock Access, surprisingly—cameras ready to capture whatever drama unfolds.
“Ms. Hayter.” The first question flies across the room. “How do you respond to the allegations that you were the source of the data leaks, now that you’ve been exonerated?”
“Let’s address that.” Nico doesn’t give me a chance to even inhale. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so completely enraged. “Why was Petra the only driver accused of espionage in the press? Why wasn’t I questioned about compromising team data?”
The room gets surprisingly quiet.
“The timing of the leaks—” someone starts.
“Coincided with the revelation of our relationship,” he continues. “Yet only one of us had our integrity questioned. Why?”
“Mr. Belmonte—”
“I’ll answer for you. Because it’s easier to accuse the woman.
Easier to dismiss her, to undermine her, to decide she’s not as capable as the men in this room.
Easier to assume she can only succeed by stealing information, by sleeping with a man, by being anything other than the best fucking driver on any track on any day. ”
Christ. Go on, Nico.
He thumps the table with his fist. “Ask any man who’s competed with her and he will agree with me.”
Silence continues. He’s stunned the hell out of all them. Nico Belmonte, the respectful, even-keel champion is on fire. I wish I had some popcorn because this is fucking entertaining.
He leans forward. “I’m so damned tired of this pattern. You don’t ask her about strategy or tire management after she wins a Grand Prix. You ask her about hair care and makeup products. You question her technical knowledge while assuming mine.”
I study Nico’s profile as he continues addressing the press, calling out examples of biased coverage. His jaw is set with righteous anger, his usual diplomatic mask is completely forgotten in defense of me.
Bloody hell he’s hot when he’s angry.
“When was the last time you asked a male driver when he’ll give up F1 to start a family?
Or whether emotions affect his driving?” He shakes his head.
“Petra Hayter has won five Grand Prix. Set three new track records this season. She’s earned every single point with skill and grit.
But instead of asking about brake temperatures and tire strategies, you want to know if she’s bothered by sweating in her race suit? ”
The guilty shuffling among the gathered journalists speaks volumes.