7. Elizabeth
Free time is something I’m not particularly good at. I enjoy having a plan and following a schedule. When my day is neatly organized into specific tasks and blocks of time, I feel not only prepared, but relaxed.
So I change into a matching set of silk pajamas, settle onto the bed with my laptop, and prepare to cross several items off my to-do list. Which is why hearing a repetitive beeping noise is confusing. It takes me a shocking amount of time to understand that:
I’m awake all at once, sitting up so fast my head spins. But I don’t let that stop me from grabbing my phone, panic rising. But there are no missed calls. No emails marked urgent. No messages in all caps.
David was right. I need to relax. So instead of running on the hotel treadmill, I do yoga. I order breakfast from room service. I get ready for the day slowly. And when I open the wardrobe, I remember that I need to go shopping.
Before my brain and its endless to-do lists can talk me out of it, I grab my phone.
Please tell me that you haven’t left Bahrain yet and love shopping.
CHALONDRA
I’ll meet you in the lobby in 30 minutes.
Five hours later, Chalondra and I head back to the hotel, laden with shopping bags.
I basically bought a new wardrobe: comfortable flats and cushy sneakers, smart but trendy suits, coordinating sets, even a couple of gowns for dinners and events.
It’s more money than I’ve spent on a shopping trip in my entire life, but I don’t regret any of it.
Plus, Chalondra clued me in to years of F1 gossip.
I now know there have always been whispers about Elio.
He made his fortune as a vintage car dealer, then leveraged his father’s reputation as a racing driver to ingratiate himself with F1 teams and land himself on the payroll.
Though it’s undeniable that he’s rich, handsome, and charismatic, Chalondra added some shading to his portrait, describing him as a little too slick for comfort, competitive to the point of recklessness, and with a knack for weaseling out of tight spots.
On three specific occasions, he’s suddenly had the exact high-profile friend needed when shit’s about to hit the fan, be it an influential broadcaster, celebrity fan, or billionaire investor.
Stas, on the other hand, has always struck her as serious, blunt, and introverted.
Though an incredibly talented driver with the accolades to prove it, he’s never hidden his distaste for the spotlight.
He hates being interviewed, doesn’t even try to fake it during fan interactions, and does the bare minimum for social media, press conferences, and post-race interviews. On top of that, he isn’t a team player.
The team dynamics in F1 require each team’s two drivers to work together in some respects, while competing against each other in others.
Sometimes, a driver is asked to do something that is good for the team as a whole but not for them as an individual.
Chalondra said the tension in those circumstances is always thick.
Where other drivers suck it up and do what’s asked of them, Stas has a reputation for outright refusing to help the team if it means sacrificing himself—unless his teammate is Wes.
“I have no idea how Wes managed it,” Chalondra said between sips of her matcha latte. “But Stas genuinely cares about Wes. He wants him to succeed and actively works to make sure that Wes has good races. He did it even when they were racing for different teams!”
“Are friendships like that normal for this sport?”
Chalondra snorted. “Absolutely not. What makes it even more rare is that Stas left Orion—the best team on the grid—to sign with Martine when Elio was announced as team principal. The big rumor is that Stas moved teams for Wes. He knew Orion wouldn’t hire Wes back, so he went to a team where he could demand Wes be the second seat.
He supposedly even added an exit clause in his contract so that if Martine dismisses Wes, Stas can leave immediately, too. ”
All of it together paints an interesting picture. Elio, the charismatic but shady team boss. Stas, the cold, cutthroat competitor with one very specific soft spot. And Wes, the fan favorite with something to prove.
I’m contemplating this dynamic as we step into an elevator. “I’m so glad we did this,” Chalondra says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Genuinely. I had a great time.”
“I did, too,” I tell her. “Your fashion and motorsports insights are invaluable.”
“Finally, someone gets it!”
Back in my room, I survey all of my bags and shake my head.
Guess I better figure out how to pack everything.
I’m sitting on the hotel bed, reading the new Rosalind Sinclair romance book when my phone screen lights up.
CHALONDRA
Hey girl, a sports reporter just posted that Martine has signed Freddie Norton to replace Hyunjoon. Is that shit true?
Though I expected this, I still hoped they would sign Lu. I thought that maybe, for once, a bunch of rich men might surprise me.
But of course they didn’t. Of course they went with the rich white boy. The son of a friend. The “safe” choice.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say out loud, annoyed with them, with the situation, with myself.
I check Martine’s social channels, website, the crisis comms group chat, the PR group chat, and then my email. No one at Martine is talking about this. So I find the reporter’s post and send it to David.
He calls immediately. “I should have known you wouldn’t actually rest.”
“And I guess I should have known that no one would loop me in on this decision.”
“This isn’t a crisis,” David says calmly. “I’ve got this handled.”
I want to argue. I want to point out that my job isn’t to help them weather one particular storm but to set them up for long-term success.
And being the first team to sign a woman driver would have been a hell of a way to start separating the team from the scandal while also cementing a new, progressive legacy.
“So it’s true?” I ask. “The team signed Freddie instead of Lu?”
“It’s not that simple,” he says. “Yes, Freddie was offered the second seat, but it’s a temporary arrangement. The team signed Lu as the new reserve driver. She has a full team contract, and will be front and center both in the garage and on social.”
I scoff. “So they found a way for her to do publicity, but not actually drive.”
“She’ll be instrumental in doing simulator work that helps the team develop strategies and test new components for upgrades,” David says. “Reserve drivers play a huge role.”
“All the work and none of the glory.”
“Progress happens slowly,” David says gently. “Too slowly in this sport. But aside from the sim data, I’m sure that the current scandal played into this decision, too. Going with Freddie won’t raise as many eyebrows or court the same sort of media attention.”
“Right,” I say, tired of this conversation. Tired of businesses and men who see women as a risk.
“Thanks for checking in,” David says. “I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.”
We say good night, and I message Chalondra to let her know I can’t confirm or deny the hire, but an announcement will be coming from the team soon.
She sends a GIF of a drag queen yelling “boo,” and I can’t blame her.
But I also can’t be her source. After promising to buy her breakfast in the morning, she sends the emoji with hearts for eyes, and the small amount of panic I was feeling over the prospect that she only acted friendly with me to get an in at Martine ebbs away.
I don’t have many friends these days. Everyone is busy with their own careers, with partners, with kids, with building lives that are so different from mine it’s harder and harder for us to find reasons to meet up.
So hanging out with Chalondra was really nice.
She’s welcoming and warm, fun to talk to, and kick-ass at her job.
She’s the kind of woman I want to be friends with.
The kind of woman I hope I can stay friends with, even when this job is over.
It’s not until I’m crawling under the covers and turning the lights out that I acknowledge the thought that’s been pinging around my brain since I saw Chalondra’s message.
And as I drift to sleep, I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That I don’t care.
That it’s none of my business how Wes Grant is doing.