2. Wes
If I had known what this day would shape up to be, I’d have shaved.
But that’s the thing about days that change your life: you rarely have a heads up about them.
My Tuesdays are usually spent working out, reviewing the latest simulator data from our reserve driver, Choi Hyunjoon, meeting with my engineering team, and generally getting my head together for the next race.
But my usual Tuesday schedule has been blown to smithereens because my boss and best friend have been arrested.
When I read David’s brisk text about the arrests, my first reaction was to laugh. But the shock was quickly replaced by a sinking feeling that had me repeating “What the fuck” as if it were my new morning affirmation.
How could Stas and Elio do this? How did they even get mixed up with organized crime? How did I not know?
But there’s no time to dwell on those questions. I’m now Martine Racing’s number one driver. I will be expected to step up. To be on podiums, to be a leader, to be a spokesperson. That’s why I’m making my way to a conference room for a meeting with that buttoned-up crisis lady.
I don’t know where Baz and David found her, but she’s in way over her head. Sure, she projected confidence during her little speech, but it wasn’t a good look when she obviously had no idea she was speaking with the driver who hadn’t been arrested and who is great at handling journalists.
Even if she did, objectively, look good while doing it.
I’m not usually into the whole serious girlboss vibe, but after taking in her creamy skin, dark hair, and toned body in that crisp white button down and navy pencil skirt, I finally understood the appeal.
But I know her type. She probably thinks motorsports are for white-trash hicks, and that F1, in particular, is something most people have never thought of more than once in their lives.
And that is where she’s very wrong. F1 generates billions of dollars in revenue each year, and there are hundreds of millions of fans around the world.
I fucking love this sport. I’ve worked my ass off to be here—to stay here.
Sure, I’ve made some disastrous choices, and yeah, I’m not on podiums as often I used to be. But I’m still here.
At least, until my contract is up at the end of this season.
I’m not about to lose my seat because of whatever Elio and Stas have gotten themselves involved in.
I’ve worked too damn hard to watch this team implode.
As selfish as it is, I know this crisis is an opportunity for me.
I’m suddenly the lead driver for a team, years after I made a decision that nearly cost me my entire career.
I’m not about to let anything or anyone ruin this for me.
Not even a massive scandal is going to keep me from getting another contract.
“Well hello there, dream team,” I say brightly as I walk into the conference room.
“Hello, Wes,” David says. “How are you holding up?”
I take a seat in one of the leather chairs. “My grandma always told me that when life hands you lemons—”
A woman’s voice interrupts me. “Make lemonade?”
I look at the so-called crisis specialist. Her posture is rigid, her poker face is one of the best I’ve ever seen, and the look in her eyes is fierce. This is going to be fun. “She actually advised knowing precisely whose eyes you should squeeze lemon juice into.”
There are laughs around the room, but my focus is trained on this woman. Who doesn’t laugh. Who doesn’t smile, not even a little.
Hmm.
“Elizabeth,” David says. “I’m very pleased to introduce you to Wes Grant, an immensely talented driver, and, as you’ve already gleaned, our media darling. We’re incredibly lucky to have him on any day, but he’s going to be a particularly great asset in the days ahead.”
“Thanks, man,” I say. It’s been a minute since anyone has called me talented. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Liz.”
“It’s Elizabeth.”
Okay, then.
“My bad.” I shoot her an easy smile that I hope will warm her up. But she just sits there, giving me nothing. Not even saying that it’s nice to meet me, too. “Do you prefer Lizzy?”
And just like that: a reaction. Her dark eyes burn with fury. Not exactly what I was going for, but at least it’s a sign of life.
“No.”
“Okay, Elizabeth. We’ll stay formal.”
I haven’t stopped infusing my voice with the sunny charm and upbeat energy I’m known for—the kind that cracks through tension and puts people at ease. At least, it usually does. But Elizabeth seems even chillier now.
How the hell am I supposed to charm this woman?
“Yes, let’s,” she says before moving her gaze to her laptop, her fingers flying over the keyboard with the skill of a concert pianist. “David, shall we proceed?”
“Indeed,” our head of communications says. “We have a lot of work ahead of us and not a lot of time to do it in before we head to Bahrain. Elizabeth, you’ll be very pleased to know that we can go through our crisis comms plan since Wes is here.”
Her head whips up from her screen. “I didn’t realize drivers are part of the crisis team. Are we meeting with them separately?”
I open my mouth to quip that when it comes to a media crisis, I’m all she really needs, but then David says, “You’ll meet Hyunjoon tomorrow and will be part of his media training. But, unlike Wes, he will not be part of the crisis team.”
Well that’s news to me. I don’t even know what a crisis team is.
"I know it’s unconventional,” David says. “But Wes is a maestro when it comes to cajoling reporters and charming the general public.”
“Wait,” Elizabeth says. “Is the reason you haven’t read me into the crisis plan yet because he’s your entire strategy?” When David doesn’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “Is your plan a charm offensive?”
David meets her gaze. “I know it’s mad, but I’ve never seen anyone work the media the way Wes does. It’s probably the closest thing I’ve seen to magic.”
She scoffs. “Putting an athlete whose best interest is himself on a crisis team is one of the most reckless ideas I’ve ever heard.”
“Hey,” I say, my tone sharp. “You can’t come in here and disparage us when you haven’t even proven that you can help.”
“Wes,” David says, a warning in his voice, but I don’t stop.
“It’s obvious you know nothing about racing.
F1 is cutthroat on the best day, and the media?
They’re fucking feral. They hear even the faintest whisper in the paddock, and it’s immediately being reported.
On top of that, everyone has very, very good memories.
Nothing is forgotten. So something as big and juicy as this scandal?
It’s going to be talked about for decades.
I know exactly what’s at stake. Not just for me, but for this team, the people who work here, and the fans around the world.
But hey—I’m just some self-centered athlete who only gives a shit about himself, right? ”
Elizabeth doesn’t so much as blink when I’m finished.
Meanwhile, my breath is surprisingly short and my blood is thrumming in my ears.
I don’t normally get worked up like this.
But shit, she accused me of not caring about this team.
And that was after she essentially called David an idiot. I’m not okay with that.
“Well,” she says coolly. “It’s good to know you can give a stump speech.”
“I promise he will be valuable,” David says. “And I want to reiterate that the team here knows your track record and guidance are exactly what we need to get through this in one piece.”
“Not the whole team,” Elizabeth says, her eyes meeting mine in what I swear is a challenge.
I shrug. “It’s not like I’ve seen anything impressive from you.”
“Check your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone,” she says, motioning to the sleek black device on the conference table. “Check it.”
I pick it up and tap the screen. There’s a missed call from my mom, and messages from some of the other drivers. “Okay, and?”
“Do you have any calls or emails from reporters?”
“My agent deals with all of that.”
“And has your agent asked you to make a statement or reached out with any media opportunities?”
I check the notifications again. Damn—she’s right.
I called Adrien as soon as I found out about the arrests, but I haven’t heard from him in hours.
I figured he’s busy keeping the hounds at bay.
But based on the satisfied look on Elizabeth’s pretty face, I’m guessing that it’s because of something she did. “So what’s your point?”
“My strategy worked.” She says this in that same flat, cool tone, like water running over smooth stone. It makes me want to rile her up. I want to know what it’s like when she boils over.
So I shrug. “Am I supposed to be impressed that you did your job?”
“No,” she says, still completely composed, entirely unruffled. “But now you know that you can trust me.”
Well. It’s not like I can argue with that. “What exactly did you do?”
“I wrote a holding statement that David’s team posted on all social channels and sent out to the media,” she says. “News editors know that’s all they’re going to get from Martine Racing today.”
“Okay, well—” I start, but Elizabeth cuts me off.
“There are, of course, reporters who will keep digging. And yes, this story is only going to gain momentum. We can’t control either of those things—we have to accept that.
But what we can control is Martine Racing.
Nothing is going to come out of this team until we’re ready to be the ones controlling the narrative. ”
When she’s finished, all I can do is sit there and nod.
“So,” Elizabeth says, turning to David. “Where is your team with the newsletter draft?”
“We should have it in ten minutes.”
“Fantastic,” she says. “And approvals are just you and me?”
David nods. “Marcus has given his go-ahead to send these out by close of business. He’s also engaged a forensic accountant to look at the books starting tomorrow.”
“Good,” Elizabeth says perfunctorily. “I have calls with a few investigative reporters scheduled for tonight. I’ll keep you posted.”
David nods. “Marcus is finalizing the deal with the interim team principal. I’ll have that release draft to you as soon as we have a green light. We’ll send it out at 10am tomorrow.”
My mind whirls. “Who the hell is he tapping?” I ask. It’s not like there are all that many people with the experience and knowledge needed to step into the role of an F1 team principal—the person who acts as both a head coach and the head of a high-performance business unit.
David gives me a long look. “Who would you ask to be a team principal on a moment’s notice?”
You’d need someone who knows the job. Who knows racing. And more than that, who knows this team. My mind lands on one name. “No way,” I say quietly. “I thought he was completely unreachable. Off on a year-long silent retreat in the Himalayas or something.”
“That was last year,” David says. “But should this conversation go well—and Marcus is very confident it will—then tomorrow we’ll be welcoming Albrecht Klein back as team principal.”
I whistle low. Albrecht Klein is a god in this sport. A five-time world champion, he transitioned into management and found success everywhere. He finished his career with Martine two years ago, when he retired at the age of 50 so he could “find a new adventure.”
Though I’ve never worked directly with the man, he’s always been kind and generous during our interactions.
Back when I was at a team that put me through hell, Albrecht offered me advice on a particularly bad day.
Honestly, if it hadn’t been for his words, I don’t know if I would have realized exactly how toxic the situation was.
So to say that I’m excited about this turn of events is an understatement. Fucking thrilled, is more accurate.
This really could be a hell of a year for me.
The first three races of the season have been solid for the team, with Stas on the podium every Sunday and me finishing high in the points.
The car is good. I’m good. I’m in a much better place mentally and emotionally than I have been in years, and I’m in better physical shape now, at the age of 33, than I’ve ever been.
I can do this. This is my time.
I just need to make everything work together, both in qualifying and on race day.
I need to fucking win.
And with Albrecht Klein, I have a feeling I will again.
“Well,” I say. “That’s pretty amazing.”
“It will definitely generate positive press ahead of the weekend,” David adds.
Elizabeth nods. “It seems Marcus took me very seriously when I said we need to give the media a new story this week.”
“He did,” David says. “He knows exactly the kind of results you bring in and is doing everything he can to ensure you can get them.”
Elizabeth smiles. It’s radiant. It makes the room seem brighter. It makes me want to smile.
It also disappears in an instant, there and gone so fast that I wonder if I imagined it. But no—my imagination isn’t that creative. There’s no way I would have come up with a smile that warm on a woman so cold.
“Now that that’s all sorted,” David says. “Let’s get started.”
Elizabeth taps her mouse and the screen at the end of the meeting room fills with the most intense matrix I’ve ever seen.
“I’ve already made a list of every possible scenario I believe we might encounter, including contingencies for anything Elio or Stas might do,” she says. “Today, we need to come up with plans of attack for each scenario—as well as any others you believe need to be here.
David jumps in immediately, throwing around phrases like “external stakeholders” and “brand equity.”
It’s suddenly very clear why Elizabeth was so appalled by the idea of a charm offensive. This isn’t a press conference or a couple of interviews that help a media storm blow over. This is a fucking battle plan.
And I’ve got to strap in if I want to keep up.
So I take a deep breath, and meet my extreme crash course in crisis communications head on.