16. Wes
I never wake up early the Monday after a race.
And yet here I am, up with the sun and wondering how to fix all the things I fucked up yesterday.
I need to apologize. Not just to the fans, but to the top brass at Martine and the journalist I lost my temper with.
Honestly, I’m embarrassed. I’ve been in this sport long enough to know what to expect from the media, and I’m more than old enough to understand how to respond maturely.
But fuck, I had a terrible weekend. So when that reporter brought up Stas, I lost it.
The most ironic thing about it is that Stas probably would’ve been exceedingly rational about my race. He would have given me shit for what happened in qualifying, but he wouldn’t have been mad or disappointed. Hell, he would have poured me a shot of Stoli and told me to focus on the next race.
I wish I could talk to my friend. But his phone is off, and I have no way to contact him.
There’s also the matter of what to do about Elizabeth.
There’s no way around it: I was a Grade-A asshole. After the post-race interviews, I was so pissed off that Camden all but forced me up to the roof to box. But I couldn’t focus—was refusing to focus—so Camden gave up.
I was at my worst that night. My plan was to grab my stuff in the motorhome before heading to my apartment, taking a sleeping pill, and passing the fuck out. But then I heard someone typing away in that conference room and I knew what I wanted: Elizabeth Jacobs, eviscerating me.
But when she looked at me with understanding—with motherfucking compassion—I started to spiral. Because that wasn’t what I wanted. So I set out to force her hand. I figured the fastest way to do it was to cross so far over a line that she’d want to ruin me. Still, she didn’t crack.
I need to make amends. But with her, I have little idea how to do it.
After brainstorming the kind of grand gesture a crisis specialist with a brilliant mind, dry wit, and inability to be impressed might appreciate, I call the concierge at Elizabeth’s hotel and give it my best shot.
Then I finally get up and around. Our meetings today are virtual since the motorhome is in the midst of being dismantled and transported to Barcelona, and I doubt the team wants to chat with me shirtless.
My phone buzzes as I’m pulling a T-shirt over my head, and I steel myself for all the tough love this day will bring. The last thing I expect is a message of support.
BEAUMONT
It was good to see you, Wes. Keep your head up—and know that there are lots of people on your side. Please don’t be a stranger. If you need anything, I’m here.
Well, damn.
After letting him know how much I appreciate it, my agent calls to discuss the consequences of my actions this weekend.
I expect Adrien to say every brand I work with has canceled our contract, but instead he assures me he’s smoothing everything over—and that if anyone does decide to drop me, he has others lined up to take their place.
I honestly don’t know how he does it, but the man is worth his weight in gold.
The call with Elizabeth and David is not nearly as upbeat. Sitting next to each other in a hotel conference room, they go over all the ways I’ve hurt the team reputationally and show me the chart with the sharp spike in articles about the organized crime scandal.
I absorb the information rather than react to it.
They both assure me this is manageable—but that I need to lay low and, ideally, shut people up by racing well.
I’m about to tell them that’s precisely what will be happening since we’re rolling out my upgrade package in Barcelona, but think better of it when David and Elizabeth look at each other for a weighted moment before turning back to the camera.
“There’s something else you need to know,” Elizabeth says. Unsurprisingly, she’s been all business. The shitty things I said last night probably slid right off of her Teflon exterior. “Speculation about the nature of your relationship with Stas is circulating more widely.”
I think back to Miami, to that alley, to confirming those rumors, and nearly laugh.
“My relationship?” I ask, playing along.
David takes a big drink of water, and Elizabeth nods. “I’m sure you’re aware of the rumors.”
“Oh, those rumors,” I say, working hard to keep my face neutral. The fact that she does it so easily is truly impressive.
“After your outburst last night, people who subscribe to the idea that you and Stas are more than friends felt very encouraged in their beliefs.”
“I see.”
But Elizabeth isn’t finished yet. “A woman publicly posted a detailed account about how the two of you have been more than friends in the past.”
My eyebrows shoot up. My heart rate accelerates. My stomach sinks. “Oh?”
“She told a rather provocative story,” Elizabeth says, obviously picking her words carefully.
“People are divided over its veracity, though. Some are certain it’s true while others think it’s erotic fan fiction being passed off as the truth.
But, she alleges that she met you and Stas at a casino in Macau four years ago, that you invited her back to a hotel suite, and that the three of you engaged in a variety of sexual acts. ”
I cough. I remember that night. But what I say is, “So this week is going to be an even bigger media shit show.”
“Possibly,” David says. “Rumors about affairs have certainly happened before, but they usually never make into the actual sports reporting. But given the shifts in the media landscape as well as the audience appetite for interpersonal drama in F1—”
“I need to be prepared for someone to ask if Stas dicks me down regularly.”
David’s face turns the color of a tomato and Elizabeth looks like she’s about to laugh—but she recovers quickly.
“In addition,” she says. “I think we need to be prepared for this to fuel even more stories about the scandal. I’ve been keeping my eye on a few conspiracy theories, and if this all picks up, I could see them going viral even though they’re outlandish. ”
“Like what?” I ask, curious.
Elizabeth gives me a pointed look and is clearly going to refuse. But then David says, “I’d like to know, too.”
A small smile plays on her lips. “The one I think is most likely to gain traction is that Stas works for the Kremlin as an intelligence asset.”
David and I both burst out laughing, and Elizabeth shrugs good-naturedly before regaling us with some of the other theories floating around. It resets the tone of the call, helping us end on a much more positive note.
But now that the humor has worn off, it’s dawning on me just how disastrous this could be.
I sit and brood for longer than I should, and when my phone buzzes with the reminder about my next meeting, I get up and jog around my living room before downing a bottle of water.
Then, I join the call with the R&D team at the factory and our aerodynamicist, Jack Carmichael.
“Please tell me you have some good news.”
Jack grins. “We’ve got Lu’s simulator data. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”
I arrive at the paddock in Barcelona on Thursday feeling the strangest mix of emotions I’ve ever had when walking into a race weekend.
I’m damn-near giddy about the fact I’m going to test a possible season-altering upgrade package that I helped bring to life while simultaneously dreading the inevitable questions that’ll come my way about my sexual history.
But to my surprise, the scandalous story about me and Stas gets completely overshadowed when the Bosch team principal is suddenly sacked for unprofessional conduct.
It turns out he was having a very cliché affair with his much younger personal assistant, and that when he broke up with her, he also fired her.
He clearly never paid attention to that saying about a woman scorned.
After media day wraps with nary a question about my personal life, I breathe easier.
On Friday, I arrive at the circuit early, excited to test the upgrade I helped bring to life: an additional layer of thermal management on the brake cooling system that helps the tires maintain a more consistent temperature throughout the race.
I figured the idea would die during wind tunnel testing—but the thermal system ended up being even more promising than expected.
So here we are now, testing it out on the track.
I take direction from the engineering team during the practice sessions as we gather data, listening closely to their feedback and focusing on the feel of the car, especially in the high-stress braking areas.
At the end of the day, I’m excited—and the team is, too.
When the third qualifying session begins on Saturday, my times have been the best all weekend long and the upgrade is all anyone can talk about.
This thermal management really works wonders when the other cars on the track are also running at top speed and generating an incredible amount of heat.
But just because I’ve done well thus far doesn’t mean shit now.
Pole position is mine to lose. I have to perform.
I have to rise to the occasion. I have to make it happen.
I find that Zen headspace, relying on my training and instincts to guide me around the circuit. I asked Paul to only give me critical information, so when he says, “Last two minutes,” but doesn’t give me further updates, I know that means I still have the fastest time.
I nearly ask what the interval is. But if I needed to know, he’d tell me.
So I take a deep breath.
And I drive.
I wait for the verdict after crossing the finish line, but there’s only silence in my headset.
It’s strange not to have an immediate update.
By the time I’m climbing out of the car, I’m certain that something catastrophic has happened: I was disqualified, the FIA is investigating the upgrade, word has just come in that I’m being fired, effective immediately.
But then Albrecht grabs my shoulders, Paul is jumping up and down, and my pit crew surrounds me, their claps and cheers nearly deafening.
“I’m guessing I’m on pole?”
“You’re not only on pole,” Albrecht says. “Thad’s Orion was more than a full second slower, you mad genius!”
But I don’t let myself celebrate. I don’t let myself bask in this success. Not on Saturday. Not even when the reporters start saying they heard I came up with the upgrade’s concept. I stay cool. I stay focused. I stay sharp.
And when I’m the first to cross the finish line on Sunday, I finally let myself smile.