5. Elizabeth
On Sunday morning, I finish my hour-long run on the treadmill in the hotel gym and use a long cool down as an excuse to continue not checking my phone. I’m not quite ready to face what will be the busiest day I’ve ever had.
I didn’t expect to be working on so many fronts with this job.
If sports and organized crime weren’t enough, celebrity gossip is now in the mix, too.
I’ve handled some big names so far in my career, but I’ve never seen social listening data that looked like what we saw last night, with the team, both drivers, and the scandal all trending.
But the news about Hyunjoon and Sora is spreading like wildfire online, so I have a feeling they’ll likely be the biggest headline. I’ll take anything that keeps the talking heads from speculating about whether Martine Racing is a front for a crime syndicate.
Since their arrests, both Elio and Stas have lawyered up, paid their astronomical bail, and are cooperating with the investigation.
Elio’s whereabouts are being widely documented as he continues his life as if absolutely nothing has gone awry, while Stas hasn’t been seen at all.
He got in a town car and seemingly disappeared into thin air.
You’d think this would be good news, but a lack of information gives people more time to dream up unhinged conspiracy theories.
I’ve been keeping my eye on the discourse, working to identify anything that might go viral so that we can get ahead of it.
Begrudgingly, I will admit that Wes’s idea to call basically everything Stas has ever done in the company of another driver into question was a smart play.
Conversations about whether or not Wes is involved seem to have stalled.
My phone rings and I brace myself. But when I look at my screen, it isn’t David or a journalist. It’s my sister.
We haven’t talked in ages. Not for lack of trying—she just rarely answers. And she’s never the one to reach out.
But she’s calling now. Panic rises in my chest as my mind jumps to the worst conclusions. “Jane!” I say into the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Hello to you, too,” she says, her lyrical voice full of mirth. “Everything’s fine! Is everything okay with you?”
I exhale slowly and unclench. “Yes. Sorry. Work must be getting to me. I convinced myself there must be an emergency.”
“Not this time,” she says wryly. “Todd said he saw you on TV!”
“Oh.” There’s no love between me and my brother-in-law. I’m surprised he’d even mention me to my sister. “Yeah, that’s something that might be happening for a while. I’m currently working with a Formula 1 team.”
“The one involved in that organized crime case, right?”
“That’s the one,” I say. “I didn’t realize you and Todd are interested in F1.”
“Todd has gotten into it since watching that docuseries.”
“Ah.” I leave my answer at that. If I ask questions, the conversation will inevitably end with me fuming, Jane disappointed, and Todd victorious.
That’s how it’s been ever since he entered my sister’s life their junior year of college.
After they started dating, she suddenly decided she should teach middle school science rather than pursue her dream of becoming an astronaut.
All my life, I looked up to my big sister, amazed at her brilliance, her drive, and the kindness she never grew out of.
We spent our childhood dreaming about what we would do once we were out of the house, away from our father’s casual misogyny and our mother’s refusal to shut it down.
So when Jane fell in love with someone who reminded me so much of our dad, I was heartbroken.
I didn’t understand why she would work so hard and get so close to her dreams, only to allow a man to derail them.
But every time I tried to talk to her about it, she would shake her head and tell me that she got a wake-up call, that her dreams changed, that Todd helped her see what she wanted out of life. It was a lost cause.
They married two months after college graduation and moved to a suburb outside of Houston.
Jane quickly found a teaching job and Todd landed an engineering role at NASA.
Though he doesn’t seem interested in being an astronaut, if he ever goes on a space mission, I will absolutely plead temporary insanity in a court of law for whatever it is I end up doing to him.
Especially since that’s just the tip of the iceberg-sized grudge I have against my brother-in-law.
The week Jane received an offer to work with the JASON Project on their science curriculum, Todd decided it was high-time they start trying for a baby.
Then, once they had their first child, Todd announced on Christmas Eve that Jane was going to stay home full-time.
I had to excuse myself to go outside and scream into the winter night while the rest of my family acted as if this was the best gift they’d ever received.
Jane and Todd have had two more kids since then, and Jane is homeschooling them all.
So now my sister is a stay-at-home mom slash teacher slash trad-wife influencer even though they can afford to send their kids to the best private school.
“So how are you?” Jane asks.
For half a second, I consider telling her that I’m exhausted and overwhelmed from the past few days of cramming everything about elite motorsports, the press pool covering it, and the complex parasocial aspects between teams, drivers, and fans in my head so I can be the expert Martine needs.
But I don’t want to make this call about me, so I say, “I’m fine,” doing my best to sound breezy. I don’t quite manage it.
Jane starts to say something that sounds suspiciously like it might be, “Really?” but she’s interrupted by a high-pitched shriek followed by the very specific wail only toddlers make. “Lizzy, I’m so sorry but I have to go.”
By the time I say, “Of course,” she’s already hung up.
I know there’s no point in feeling disappointed.
This is how life goes. But, I am disappointed.
Though I call and message Jane to my heart’s content, I don’t hear back for hours, if not days.
When I do get a response, it’s an emoji or a Sorry, day got away from me!
message that communicates just how little time Jane has for me, let alone herself.
With a sigh, I pick myself up off the gym floor. I have a long day ahead of me. And before it truly gets started, I desperately need a shower and caffeine.
“How is this allowed?”
I stand next to Chalondra, taking in the chaos unfolding around us.
She talked me into joining her for the pre-race grid walk, where high-profile celebrities, media, and team guests flood the starting line minutes before the race begins.
Everywhere I look, there are news crews interviewing actors and glamorous people chatting or peering at the cars up close, even as team members rush around, holding clipboards and wearing headsets, doing last-minute checks on… .tires? I don’t even know.
“It’s insane in the best way,” Chalondra says, looking amused by my horrified reaction.
“I think it’s just insane,” I say, but she ignores that, pulling me over to introduce me to someone.
This keeps happening. While I reel from sensory overload, wondering how the hell this is conducive to the drivers this close to the start of the race, she moves through the privileged crowd, introducing me to glossy-haired content creators and members of news teams she thinks I should know.
After a podcaster invites me on his show—as if I’d ever allow myself to be interviewed—the track starts to clear.
Chalondra steers me towards the Martine garage, past where Hyunjoon is standing by his car on the grid, listening intently to one of the crew members.
I give him a thumbs up and he shoots a close-lipped smile my way.
“What, no thumbs up for me?” The low voice is close to my ear. I whip around and come face to face with Wes Grant.
We haven’t spoken since Thursday. But here he is now, wearing his tight, Oxford blue race suit and a smoldering expression.
It’s an extremely effective combination that makes him look hotter than anyone should when wearing a jumpsuit.
But rather than thinking about how attractive I find him, I focus on how annoying it is that he makes what is, effectively, a high-tech adult onesie look good.
“Do you need a thumbs up?”
“Not when I’m in P2,” he says, the left side of his mouth arcing into a lopsided grin.
His eyes quickly travel the length of my body and back up again.
Under usual circumstances, I would glare at any man who had the audacity to check me out so publicly until he apologized.
But today, it makes me want to fidget. I had no idea what to wear after discovering neither the professional basics nor the workout clothes in my suitcase are appropriate for race weekends.
Since I haven’t had time to go shopping, I did my best with what I have, putting together a white Martine Racing polo, a black, knee-length skirt, and black pumps.
“Are your feet okay?”
I blink. “Your race starts in a handful of minutes and you’re asking about my feet?”
“Yeah,” Wes says with a casual shrug. “But it’s good to know you’re nervous on my behalf.”
“I’m not—” I start, but then Chalondra rushes over. “Wes, oh my God, I haven’t been able to congratulate you in person but! P2!”
“Thanks,” he says with friendly affection. “I plan to win this one.”
She smiles wide. “I’ll be cheering you on from the very comfortable hospitality suite.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the boys,” he quips.
“You know you’re my favorite. Go do the damn thing, Grant.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he tells her, turning to make his way to his car. But he pauses and looks back at me. “Enjoy your first race, Elizabeth.” And then: he winks.
I should be rolling my eyes. I should be annoyed. But instead, I’m smiling.
“Girl,” Chalondra drawls. “I’d tell you to tread carefully with that one, but I think I should save that advice for him.”