Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MéXICO | SUNDAY | RACE DAY
Race day dawns clear and cool, and the high altitude makes the air feel sharp.
The atmosphere at Autódromo Hermanos Rodriguez is festive and wildly colorful.
Luchador masks and sombreros abound. Red, white, and green flags are everywhere.
Mariachis play and flamencos dance while women and men decked out in elaborate costumes, their faces painted for el Día de Los Muertos, stroll through the paddock, posing with fans, team personnel, and drivers.
Standing on the grid, Nico watches mechanics run final checks on the car. The national anthem has played and he’s had a last-minute piss. All that’s left is to stay focused until he gets behind the wheel.
“Watch your temperatures through sector 2. The thin air means less cooling,” Baz reminds him.
Nico nods. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but he appreciates these small reminders before he gets into the car.
He’s listening to Little Jesus today and tuning out everything but his number one mechanic.
P1 gives him the inside line, but Lynch is in P2 and his starts have been aggressive lately.
Petra follows, and Nico never underestimates her.
The ten-minute warning sounds. All non-essential personnel clear from the track. Nico passes his headphones to Esteban and puts in his earpieces.
He glances back to see Petra climb into her cockpit. He admires her. Not just her beauty, but her intellect and her determination. She’s the perfect woman for him.
Ella es perfecta.
“Formation lap in five,” Roxana announces in his ear, even as Baz runs through final checks.
The familiar routine centers Nico as he puts on his gloves. The car’s tire warmers come off and the cooling systems are removed.
Fifteen seconds and the green lights signal him to start the formation lap. He accelerates, weaves, makes his way around one lap of the track, warming his tires and settling into absolute concentration. Back around to the starting line and into his box on pole position.
Behind Nico, nineteen cars line up.
Ahead, five red lights illuminate.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The circuit holds its breath.
Lights out.
Perfect launch, but Lynch matches Nico into the first turn. Petra’s dark green car appears in his mirrors, attacking the inside line. Three wide through the first corner isn’t happening, someone has to yield.
“Lynch looking inside,” Roxana warns.
Nico holds his line, forcing Lynch to back off or risk contact. He chooses aggression, trying to squeeze through.
“Contact between Lynch and Hayter,” Roxana says. “Yellow flag, Nico. Lynch is off.”
“I see it.”
“Petra’s P2. Wyn’s P3.”
Seventy-one laps. The real race begins now.
Roxana notes. “Stewards investigating contact between Lynch and Hayter.”
The altitude thins more than air. It strips away margins for error, amplifies every minute adjustment. Through the first fifteen laps, Petra gains time. Nico’s mirrors show her car extracting speed from lines he thought he’d maximized.
Typical Tenacious P.
The gap oscillates between Nico and Petra, stretching on straights where the WolfBett car’s pure power matters most, shrinking in technical sections where her precision shines. Behind them, Wyn maintains P3, driving with control, like yesterday’s revelations lifted a weight from his shoulders.
“How’re the tires, Nico?”
“Yeah, good. Plan B.” That means he’s going long on the medium compound tires before switching to hards.
Nico stretches the gap, opening it up to three point four seconds. But Mexico City’s thin air makes each braking zone an exercise in precision and every acceleration a careful balance of grip and power.
“Petra’s boxing this lap,” Roxana announces in lap 22.
“My tires are still good.”
Strategic chess begins. Do they cover her stop or run their planned strategy to go long on the mediums?
“We want you to stay out,” Roxana says. “Your temperatures are stable.” That means the brakes and power unit are staying cool.
“Okay.” Nico glances at one of the huge screens showing the race to the fans and sees Petra’s green and pink car rejoin the race. She’s still P2, but the gap between them has opened to over five seconds.
Now it gets interesting as other cars start to box for fresh tires.
Nitro’s counting on Nico pitting for tires. He plans to make this set last. The question is whether or not Petra’s fresher compounds will give her enough speed to close the gap again, then take P1 when he pits.
“Where’s Wyn?”
“Fighting Reece for P3,” Rox updates. “Seven point three seconds back.”
Another glance at one of the screens lets Nico see the brothers racing as they should’ve all along, without Graham-mandated aggression and forced rivalry.
“Gap to Hayter four point six. She’s flying, Nico.”
Petra’s finding speed in sectors where the thin air should make it impossible, and Nico admires her too much to be mad.
With each lap, she gains on him, shrinking the gap, and it’s clear WolfBett’s tire strategy will cost them.
“My tires are graining,” he says on lap 29.
“How’s the grip?”
“Define ‘grip,’ Rox.”
That actually makes her laugh. A moment later, she says, “Box this lap, Nico. Box, box.”
“Did Wyn box?”
“Right before Reece. He’s still holding third.
” She adds, “No penalty over contact between Lynch and Hayter in lap 1. We’ve asked him to open a gap.
” Meaning they’ve want Wyn to slow down Reece and the field so Nico can pit without danger of slipping farther back because they can’t count on a penalty to help him regain the pole as he peels off from the track into the pit lane.
The stop runs perfectly, only two point three seconds. Clean hard tires, fresh grip, but Petra’s gained time while he pitted.
“What’s the gap, Rox?
“Three point eight. Mode push, Nico.”
“Vale.” If he’s going to surpass Petra, he’ll need everything these tires and the car have to offer. It’s a challenge while managing temperatures in this thin air.
But El Conejo likes a challenge.
The roles reverse. Now Nico’s the hunter, seeking any weakness, any opportunity. But Petra’s defense is perfect, her lines exactly where they need to be.
He hunts her down, lap after lap, turning in purple sector after purple sector and snagging the fastest times. For the next twenty laps, the gap shrinks: three seconds, two, one point five, one...
“DRS available next lap,” Roxana confirms.
Reece has overtaken Wyn, claiming P3, but both still push hard.
“Gap under one second,” Roxana reports just as the DRS indicator lights up on his display and a beep sounds in his ear.
The chase continues through sector 1, both drivers pushing limits in the thin air. Petra defends perfectly. Every corner, every braking zone calculated to maintain her advantage, though he keeps carving off fractions of seconds.
“Ten laps remaining,” Rox updates. “Gap holding at zero point eight.”
“What’s the gap to Reece?”
“Twelve point nine.”
Through turn 4, Nico finds a better line, closing slightly. She counters through 5, using just enough track to keep position without compromising her exit speed.
“Watch the brake temperatures, Nico.” Roxana warns.
“Yeah. I see it.”
The altitude takes its toll on everything—power units strain, brakes work harder, drivers tire faster. Behind them, Reece and Wyn maintain their positions, still fighting for the final podium spot.
“Eight laps,” Roxana counts down.
“Bien. Let me drive now, Rox.”
DRS signals again.
This time he’ll make it happen.
Into turn 1, Nico tries the outside line, forcing Petra to defend inside. The move costs her exit speed, bringing him closer through the next turn.
He activates DRS down the straight and this time when she defends inside, he’s ready. They hit the hard left-hander through turn 4, carrying more speed on the outside line. For a moment they’re parallel, neither yielding.
Then Nico pulls ahead, but only just. Petra’s already looking for the counter-attack, her car appearing in his mirrors like a heat-seeking missile.
“Nice job, Nico,” Roxana says.
He glances at his display. Four laps left.
They unfold like a masterclass in close racing. Petra probes for weaknesses, never quite close enough for DRS but never falling away. Every corner requires perfect execution. One small error and she’ll pounce.
Two laps remain.
She tries a different line through turn 12, searching for any advantage. He counters, using just enough track to maintain position without compromising his exit.
“Final lap, Nico. Bring it home.”
The last tour feels eternal. Each braking zone, each apex, each moment is crucial. Petra’s still there, still pushing, still racing exactly as it should be done. But her tires are spent and the gap opens just enough to give Nico some breathing room.
Around turn 17, then his car screams across the line to the chequered flag.
“P1, Nico. Brilliant drive.”
“?Vamos!” Nico pumps his fist as he flies past the grandstands. Spanish and Mexican flags wave for him.
“Where did Wyn finish?”
“P3. A squeaker down to the end.”
“Muy bien.”
Through the cool-down lap, Petra pulls alongside and raises two fingers—bunny ears. He laughs despite his exhaustion.
Marcus comes over the radio. “Outstanding driving, Nico. You earned that one.”
“Gracias, gracias, amigos,” he tells the team over the radio. “Perfect strategy, perfect pit stop. And thank you for supporting me and staying focused through everything that’s happened since Singapore. This one’s for all of you.”
Petra peels away toward the P2 placard in parc fermé, while Wyn guides his car into P3. His first podium since all the drama started, earned cleanly and properly. Nico’s damn happy for him. He needed this.
Parc fermé erupts, hundreds of thousands of fans creating a wall of noise that vibrates through Nico’s bones as he climbs from the cockpit.
He replaces the steering wheel, then stands atop the car and raises his fists.
Winning never gets old. The cheers intensify, Mexican fans showing their love for a Spanish-speaking champion.
He hops down, charges across the space, and leaps into the arms of his team.
There are cheers and laughter and everyone’s losing their damn minds.
The mechanics and engineers swarm in, men and women who’ve worked endless hours, supported him through every challenge, and stayed focused despite all the bullshit over the past month.
Heinrich pulls him into a bear hug while rattling off praise in rapid German.
Marcus is next. “Brilliant race, Nico! Just brilliant!”
“?Vamos!” Carlos appears, pride radiating as he embraces his son. “That’s how a Belmonte races!”
Even the Betterton brothers are there.
Damien Sr. clasps his hand and smiles broadly. “Well done, Nico. Beautifully raced.”
“Thank you, Damien.”
Karl nods. “Good race, Nico. This is why you’re a WolfBett.” This is effusive praise from the eldest Betterton brother.
Nico returns his handshake. “I appreciate the team’s support, Karl. It’s been one hell of a month.”
Marcus joins them. “You’ll always have WolfBett’s support. We respect the Belmontes.”
Nico weighs in, then moves to the small podium in front of his car where a towel and a bottle of water awaits. He strips off his helmet, balaclava, and gloves, then downs half the water.
Wyn nods. “Good race.” The pressure of everything his father has done clearly still weighs on his shoulders.
Nico offers a fist. He admires both Pritchard brothers for racing so well considering the circumstances. “You too, chico.”
Wyn bumps his fist to Nico’s. “Yeah, well, still a long way to figuring my shit out.” He turns away as Petra heads toward them.
She’s still flushed from the race, hair wild from her helmet, face creased from its padding.
Her gaze narrows as she considers Wyn and she gives him a curt nod, but the kiss she shares with Nico feels natural now, even with cameras everywhere and fans screaming their heads off. Nico could definitely get used to this.
“Nice driving out there, Bunny Boy.” She pulls her hair back with a pink scrunchie.
He wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then wipes her face with the same towel and loves that she doesn’t object. “Not too bad yourself, TenP.”
Water bottles in hand, the three of them head for the cool-down room, still riding the high of finishing on top.
“Lynch didn’t leave you much choice in turn 1,” Nico notes as they watch the start sequence replay.
“No.” Petra studies the footage, toweling off her face. “Though he gave me plenty of blame over radio. Something about ‘aggressive females’ if you can believe it.” She picks up the second place cap, then tosses the third place hat at Wyn and settles beside Nico.
“Says the guy who tried to squeeze three cars into that first turn.” Wyn drops into the remaining chair. “That move would never work. I wouldn’t even try it.”
Petra focuses on the screen, not acknowledging the comment, a deliberate dismissal. Clearly, she’s not ready to forgive Wyn for all the shit he pulled since Singapore, and before.
Nico dons his first place cap. “Your brother’s getting faster.”
“Yeah, the wanker.” Wyn considers his hat then puts it on.
Grinning, Petra nudges Nico’s foot with hers. “I had you.”
He shakes his head. “Ni pensarlo.” No way.
“No? Just you wait.”
Nico gives her a look. “Plan to watch my gear box in S?o Paolo.”
“Big talk, Bunny Boy.” Petra’s always up for a challenge. More replays show midfield battles and exciting racing. She nods at the screen. “That’s how it should be done.”
The footage cuts to Nico smooching her in parc fermé.
“What? The snogging?” Wyn smirks.
Nico laughs. “Don’t make me shove you off the podium, Pritchard.”
Then they’re led out for the awards ceremony. All proceeds as usual. Handshakes, trophies awarded, the Spanish and German national anthems play. Champagne’s uncorked and they shower each other and the WolfBett team members standing below the podium.
The champagne feels especially celebratory today. Maybe because the politics and drama of the last month have finally given way to racing. When Petra soaks Nico with her bottle, her laughter is pure joy.
The crowd below chants something that sounds suspiciously like “?Bésala! ?Bésala! ?Bésala!”
Wyn elbows him. “I think the fans want you to kiss her, man.”
Well. Can’t disappoint the fans.
Nico pulls her close and her lips taste like champagne and victory. The crowd goes wild. Petra laughs against his mouth. She’s soaked and giddy and beautiful.
And perfect.