6. Wes
You’d think waking up after winning a grand prix would be the stuff of Bacchanalian dreams: a smile on your face, booze still sticky on your lips, a gorgeous person or two in your bed.
But though I won the Bahrain Grand Prix—my first win in over four years—I did not celebrate.
Oh, I went out. I showed my face at the official after party, took photos with beautiful people, and shook hands with motorsports officials.
But the second my obligations were fulfilled, I parked myself in the hospital waiting room, right beside Sora.
The verdict is that Hyunjoon will recover. But for now, he has a broken collar bone, a bone bruise at the base of his spine, and a pretty gnarly concussion. He’s lucky, that’s for damn sure.
“My kingdom for a coffee,” I say, and she laughs. “Big night?”
“Of a sort. Probably not the kind you’re thinking.”
“I know, Wes,” Sarah says, placing a black coffee with one pump of sugar-free vanilla in front of me. It’s not how I prefer my coffee, but it’s the way Camden allows me to take it.
“Need anything to eat? Protein shake? Omelet with peppers and mushrooms? I can order from the hotel kitchen.”
“You are a goddess. And both, please.” I take my coffee and head into the conference room, only to find that I’m interrupting a meeting that’s already in progress.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to David, Marcus, Baz, Albrecht, and Elizabeth. “The message said the meeting is at four o’clock.”
“It is,” David says easily. “We all got here early and dived right in.”
“We’re going over the update about Hyunjoon,” Baz says. “A little birdie told me you already know how he’s doing.”
My brow furrows, and then a tablet is in front of me and I’m staring at photos of myself.
I’m hugging Sora in the garage, holding the Grand Prix trophy over my head triumphantly, “partying” in a nightclub, and then sitting in a hospital waiting room.
I didn’t realize the paparazzi followed me there.
“Are the Chois pissed?” I ask, and David laughs. “No one is pissed, Wes. All anyone is talking about is how thoughtful and wonderful you are for spending your big night in a hospital with your teammate’s family.”
I blink, surprised. Though the media likes me, they’ve also gleefully exposed some of my most unflattering moments: at yacht parties surrounded by billionaires snorting lines, in various stages of undress with a variety of partners, drunk off my ass at clubs around the world.
Since joining Martine, I’ve all but embraced an ascetic lifestyle: no more wild nights out, no more meaningless sex, no more blowing money at casinos. Finally, it’s starting to pay off.
“Well that’s good,” I say. “Anything about Stas and Elio in the news?”
“Not much,” Elizabeth says. Her dark hair is pulled back like always and she’s still dressed in business-formal attire. But there’s something about her that looks less severe than usual.
“The next big thing we’re waiting on is the forensic accountant’s report,” Baz says. “Though we hope Martine Racing is completely in the clear, David and Elizabeth have put together a statement in case it turns out Martine money was being funneled to these criminals.”
I blow out a breath. Though I’ve tried very hard not to panic about this scandal, I can’t help but wonder if I was unwittingly involved.
If I met these people at a dinner or around a blackjack table.
I’m not an idiot—at least, not according to all the intelligence tests I took as a kid.
But I don’t always have a lot of common sense.
I take people at their word, I don’t ask questions even when I know I should, and I usually prefer to have a good time rather than a safe time.
I always thought that made me a good friend.
But maybe it just makes me really fucking shady.
I’m also not positive ignorance is a valid excuse in a court of law.
“In any case,” Baz says. “The next grand prix starts in four days, and we only have one driver. Both Formula 2 and Formula 3 are racing there, so I think we can all agree that it’d be best to bring up a driver from a lower division.”
I nod. As terrible as it sounds, I gave this some thought while sitting in the waiting room. We have to replace Hyunjoon fast. In the quiet moments, I was thinking about who in the lower racing divisions might be a good fit for the team—and for me.
“I like Freddie Norton,” Albrecht says. “This is his first year in F2, but he’s an F3 champion. He’s only 18, but I know for a fact that several teams are looking at him very seriously. It’d be a boon to get him now. Plus, he’s British, so I’m sure the sponsors would be pleased.”
“They would be,” Marcus says with a smile. “Freddie is also my suggestion. Full transparency, I know his father. But regardless, I think he’d be an excellent fit.”
Well I’ll be damned. Having the team owner and the team principal agree on a driver basically means it’s a done deal. But Freddie Archibald Norton III? No, thank you. He may be talented, but he is the most entitled prick I’ve ever met—and that’s really saying something.
Before Baz can jump in to sing the little fucker’s praises, I seize the moment. “I know people are excited about Freddie, but have you considered Luísa Lopez-Walker?”
Elizabeth’s gaze shifts to me. Before her usual shrewd, calculating expression is fully in place, I see curiosity and intrigue there. I wonder if she knew that there are women who race.
“Lu?” David asks. “That could be interesting. She’s British and huge on social media. Fans adore her, and she’s been holding her own in F3.”
“More than holding her own,” I say. “She was second to Freddie last year, and she’s hit the podium every race so far this year. She’s consistent and dedicated. She’s also a hell of a team player. She’s a lot like Hyunjoon, honestly.”
The only reason Lu isn’t in F2 this year is because of a lack of sponsors.
Unlike F1, where drivers are paid millions by teams, the lower racing divisions require the drivers to pay for their spots.
Though Lu has the talent and experience to move up, she couldn’t afford it.
The ugly truth is that corporate sponsors saw her as a risk rather than an investment.
I offered to sponsor her personally, but she refused the money, saying she’d feel too indebted to me.
I hated that answer, but understood it. And I had no choice but to respect her decision.
Marcus hums thoughtfully. “I see the merits of bringing on a female driver full-time. We’d be the first team to do it, and that’s no small thing.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Having the first woman driver would be huge. And it’s a record no one could ever take away.”
“I agree with Wes,” David says. “This is an exciting opportunity, and people really do love Luísa.”
“What about Freddie?” Baz asks David.
“He’s very polished. Media trained, well spoken, but posh in a way that can be alienating, even off-putting. He and Lu would appeal to the same age demographic, but she’s more commercial and authentic.”
“Let’s see it in action,” Marcus says.
My food is delivered as David pulls up Freddie’s social media feed, which looks like it could be one big ad for an aspirational heritage brand.
I dig into the omelet as a video Freddie did for a sponsor plays.
It’s all fine, if stiff, and his accent is so posh that he sounds like a caricature.
Lu, in contrast, seems real. Her feed gives you an actual sense of who she is: bright and bubbly, a little bit messy, but funny and deeply in love with racing.
Her sponsor video showcases her enormous personality and her infectious laugh.
She and Freddie are complete opposites. But I know who I’d rather hire.
“I see what you mean,” Baz says. “Lu feels like a breath of fresh air.”
“Signing Lu could be huge,” Elizabeth says. “It would garner an incredible amount of goodwill for the brand.”
“Albrecht?” Marcus asks, looking at our team principal.
“She has real potential,” he says. “But I don’t think anyone is as excited about her as they are about Freddie.”
I want to stand up for Lu—point out that there’s an obvious bias against women in this sport, that of course the men in charge want the kid whose rich dad hob-knobs with them. But then Marcus says, “Why don’t we test them both on the sim?”
There are nods of agreement, and Albrecht excuses himself to call their agents. Everyone welcomes the opportunity for a break, and I pick up my phone to give Lu a very small heads up.
“Congratulations on the win.”
I look up, surprised I’m not alone. But even more surprised that Elizabeth deigned to speak to me.
“Thanks,” I say. “I wasn’t about to let Thad Wedington take the win after Hyunjoon’s crash.”
“I still can’t believe they restarted the race,” she says, shaking her head. I’m so used to it now that I barely think about it—plus, it’s not like other sports just end when someone gets injured. But Elizabeth is new to the world of motorsports, and her very first race was not a typical one.
“The first time I witnessed a crash like Hyunjoon’s and had to get back in the car, I threw up in my helmet.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve never done it again.”
“How?”
“Superb compartmentalization skills,” I tell her.
“I think of my mind as a filing cabinet. When it’s time to race, I close every drawer except that one.
I don’t think about how hot it is, or how sore my shoulders are, or how I’d desperately like some Wendy’s fries and a chocolate Frosty, or the fact that my teammate is on his way to the hospital.
I can’t afford to think about anything else, so I don’t open any other drawer until I cross the finish line. ”
Elizabeth absorbs that, nodding. The motion makes what’s different about her today click into place. She left some of her hair loose to frame her face rather than pulling it all back. It looks nice. More than nice.
“So Wendy’s, huh?” Elizabeth asks. “That’s your vice of choice?”
I huff out a laugh. “These days? Yeah.”