28. Wes
After the British Grand Prix, I go to my apartment in Monaco, close my blinds, and hide from the world.
But I have no interest in brooding. The last thing I want is to dwell on the race where my team asked me to move to Plan D: a strategy where I sacrifice my race to defend my teammate and ensure he ends up on the podium.
I did a good job. A great job, even. But ending the race just shy of the podium because the team prioritized the rookie was a hard pill to swallow.
I’m far too old to be sullen and shitty in the face of a younger driver’s success, so I said all the right things during the post-race interviews and showed up at the after-party.
But damn, did I hate everything about that race weekend.
Well. Maybe not everything.
Being bossed around by Elizabeth Jacobs is quickly becoming my preferred way to get out of my head.
I don’t know where we stand now. The drawer labeled “Elizabeth W. Jacobs” in my mind always seems to be open.
There’s no blocking my ever-present desire to know how she’s doing, whether or not she’s wearing her glasses, if she’s remembered to eat, the odds of her hiring an assassin to take her brother-in-law out, if she replays the times we’ve been together in her mind like they’re her comfort movie the way I do.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
It’s always been hot nights, fast flings, and casual hookups.
But I don’t want fast or casual with Elizabeth.
I didn’t lie to her in Cape Cod just to try and get her to open up to me—I really do want to know her.
I want her to trust me enough to allow it.
I hope she’ll give herself permission not to push me away.
On Wednesday, I have my weekly session with Jaclyn.
I expect her to focus on Silverstone or to hone in on my feelings about Freddie.
But instead, she asks about everything else that’s going on: my pre-race nerves, the rumors about my seat, the fact that I’m now third in the Drivers’ Championship standings since Thad’s teammate at Orion has DNF’d three races.
I tell her the truth—mostly. I may leave out the part about how Elizabeth seems to be my new pre-race ritual.
So when she recommends a new deep-breathing exercise to try ahead of the Belgian Grand Prix, I smile and nod and tell her I’ll give it a shot.
But deep down, I know that even if it does help calm my nerves, it won’t be nearly as effective as the intense brunette with exacting instructions.
Over the next week, I adhere to a strict schedule. I train with Camden. I put hours in on the sim. I practice mindfulness techniques. And I text Elizabeth only once a day.
She now exclusively responds with the eye-roll emoji. That’s progress if I’ve ever seen it.
When I walk into the paddock in Spa-Francorchamps, my mind is balanced and laser-focused.
This is going to be a good weekend.
I refuse to let it be anything else.
It’s raining when I go to bed on Saturday night. And when I wake up on Sunday, it’s clear that the rain hasn’t stopped for even a minute.
It’s not uncommon to race in the rain in Belgium—but it makes the already infamously dangerous track that much more dangerous.
The silver lining is that my power unit has been replaced, so Freddie and I are in equal machinery again.
I’m starting on the front row today in P2 and he’s right behind me in P3.
It’s a great situation for the team. But it’s the kind of day where anything could happen. I cannot let my nerves get the best of me.
So I stretch. I have a light breakfast. I pay close attention during the strategy meeting.
I meditate. I go through reaction drills.
And when it’s time to go to the garage, I pop on my headphones, queue up one of Elizabeth’s playlists, and visualize myself staying calm and deploying masterful racecraft.
By the time the grid walk starts, the rain has blessedly stopped, but the weather reports all show that it’s a temporary pause.
During the formation lap, the amount of water that comes off the track is staggering.
A foggy mist hangs in the air and water droplets cling to my visor, completely blurring my vision—and that’s with only one car in front of me.
I can’t imagine how bad it is for everyone else.
But this is the job. As much as rain races suck, they’re always exciting.
The moment the lights go out, I’m speeding off, fighting to get ahead, even when I’m driving nearly blind.
Through a combination of muscle memory, strategy, determination, and sheer luck, I hold my position.
I’m prepared for it to stay this way until the first pit stop, but as we turn into the Blanchimont corner, Thad hydroplanes.
Just like that, I’m leading the race.
My visibility is so limited that I have to trust my instincts, the feel of the track, and the feedback from Paul. Despite the conditions today, I’m confident. Sure, it’s wet out, but the car feels good. And so do I.
As predicted, the rain returns and I’m the first in the pit to switch from intermediate tires to wets, which means I keep my lead.
When Paul tells me Freddie has also kept his position in P2, surprise pulses through me.
I know our pit crew is good, but damn—that kind of double-stack is hard to pull off successfully.
It’s a matter of seconds before my teammate comes perilously close to the back of my car as we enter the famous Eau Rouge and Raidillon section of the track. The tricky sequence requires careful acceleration and braking in the best conditions, and even more so when it’s wet out.
“What is he doing?” I ask Paul. “Are we still on Plan A?”
“Checking,” Paul says immediately—which is not what I want to hear. A few moments later, it isn’t Paul in my ear, but Albrecht. “Wes, how’s your pace?”
“Stable, so long as the rain stays like this.”
“The rain won’t move out before the race ends, but it shouldn’t get heavier, either,” Albrecht says. It’s a relief. “The stewards haven’t put any cautionary speed measures in place. Can you get more out of the car?”
It’s a surprising question in the rain, and especially when my teammate is right behind me. Strategically, I could set a pace I feel comfortable with and Freddie could defend from his spot in P2. “Do I need to?”
“Freddie says he has more pace.”
I understand what Albrecht is really asking: if I am willing to cede my position to my teammate. And that answer is hell no.
“I’ll pick it up,” I say, even though my stomach lurches. But maybe I’m playing it too safe. Maybe this is the push I need.
“Excellent,” Albrecht says. “We’ll remain on Plan A.”
I speed up as much as I dare, then concentrate intently on maintaining the pace while keeping control of the back end of the car on the slick track.
“Is there traffic behind Freddie?” I ask when my teammate once again gets a little too close for comfort.
“No,” Paul says. “The interval to P3 is four seconds.”
I grit my teeth. He’s such an asshole. “Tell him to back off,” I say, leaning into the long Pouhon corner. “And remind him of what I did for him at Silverstone.”
“Copy,” Paul says, and I could swear there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
I continue sailing around the track, watching my speed so that I don’t need to break too hard in the rain. It’s a delicate balance made even more difficult with Freddie riding my ass for absolutely no reason.
I get that he’s greedy for his first win. But we’re on the same team and we haven’t been given clearance to race each other. As frustrated as he might be, the strategy has been set. If he can’t be a team player, then his future in this sport will not be long.
As I start my 30th lap, I take a deep breath. There are just 14 more laps to go. I can do this. I can lead this team to a double podium in Belgium in the rain.
These are the races that are remembered. The ones that become iconic.
As I approach the downhill entry into Eau Rouge, Freddie moves sharply to the right—as if he’s going to try and overtake me.
“Does he have a death wish?” I yell into my radio as I grip my steering wheel harder, defending my racing line so it will force Freddie to slow down.
But he doesn’t. He’s hell bent on getting past me and instead of backing off, he tries to bring his car even with mine as we go into the left turn.
I feel a push that has me immediately counteracting its effects, and I’m vaguely aware of Paul speaking in my ear, a rare urgency in his voice.
But I don’t hear what he says.
Because I’m spinning wildly.
Because I smell hot rubber.
Because my only thought is of a woman with eyes the color of the Atlantic, whose body fits perfectly into mine.
Suddenly, the world comes to an abrupt stop.
I blink several times. This has to be a nightmare. This can’t be the real race.
There’s no way my own fucking teammate crashed into me and ruined our shot at an epic 1-2 finish.
“Wes,” Paul’s voice says in my ear. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “But goddammit.”
“I know,” Paul says. “Believe me, I know.”
I sit in my ruined car, too stunned to move. Finally, I take a deep breath. “How’s Freddie?”
Paul’s answer is succinct. “Also out.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying “Good” on the radio for the world to hear. It serves him right though. That’s what he gets for going against team orders and trying to overtake his teammate on one of the most dangerous track sections in motorsports.
“Are you able to get out of the car?” Paul asks. I figure that means the medical team is here.
“Yeah. Just give me a second.” I take two long box breaths, trying to calm myself down. Trying to prepare myself for what I’m about to see. Trying to remember that murder is wrong.
Once I’m ready as I’ll ever be, I hoist myself out of the car, then detach my steering wheel and take it with me.
As I stand in the grass next to the track, I survey the wreckage, shaking my head, still feeling like this can’t possibly be real.
Then I turn and see Freddie’s mangled car, not all that far from mine—and the rage and heartbreak I feel can’t be anything other than real.
I crouch down and bury my head in my arms. I was going to win this race.
Freddie was going to be on the podium beside me.
But instead, he took that dream scenario and all those points away from us, from our team, from our fans—all because he’s a greedy little prick who has never had to face consequences and picked the absolute worst time to fuck around and find out.
With a groan, I make my way to the medical car, sliding in beside Freddie.
Neither of us looks at the other.
Neither of us speaks.
As we head into the medical tent, all I can think about is how unfair it is that Elizabeth is going to have to manage the crisis that is Frederick Archibald Norton III.
Because if I know one thing about this sport it’s this: rich white boys don’t get fired.