Chapter Forty-Six
Georgia
After the podium celebration, Henri motioned for me to follow him. “So, you love Luca, huh?” He grinned.
“What if I did?” I asked cautiously.
“Then I would be happy for you, Peaches. Very happy.” Henri laughed at my surprise.
“He’s good for you. And he seems to love you, very much.
Which is good, considering after that JOULE article and your little outburst professing your love to the entire world on live television, it’s going to be pretty hard for anyone to argue otherwise.
Bet the Daily Reporter journalists are ready to crawl into a hole right about now. ”
At least that was one good thing to come out of today.
“Now, come on. Let’s get this press conference over with, I’m dying for a beer.”
We walked shoulder to shoulder toward the media center. Part of me suspected this was going to be brutal. Besides the early Thursday morning press conference prior to the article’s release, I had managed to mostly avoid the media on Friday and Saturday.
But no more. As the race winner, I had to face them now.
This was their last chance to get questions answered in a public setting.
And yet, as I sat there with another Formula 1 race win under my belt, I didn’t feel the same nerves that usually overcame me at media events.
Sweat didn’t drip down my hands as normal, and the trembling of my fingers was replaced with steady confidence.
The moment the Q&A was opened up to the floor, countless hands went flying into the air. Marcus from Sports Broadcasting stood up.
“Georgia, congrats on a great race. There’s a rumor you were brought into the FIA offices earlier this week. Anything to report on that?”
So much for that meeting being confidential.
“Marcus, I think you know I can’t comment on private FIA meetings,” I replied, keeping my face even.
“Really? Well, reports say that the FIA is investigating you for cheating in Monza.” I gave him an incredulous look. It was easy to expect this from the tabloids, but not from Sports Broadcasting, a company that had become the crown of British sports reporting.
A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “If you have reports, then sounds like you don’t need my input.”
“So, are you denying it?”
These journalists really were like vultures, eager to tear into any shred of vulnerability they could find. I’d spent the season calling it the Lion’s Den, but as I sat here now, I realized they weren’t lions. They were vultures who fed off of the scraps from the racers—from me.
“I’m denying that it’s any of your business.” Nora was now waving at me in the background, motioning for me to quit the conversation, but I ignored her wild gesturing.
No more of this. Luca was right, it was time to face my fears, to do something different.
“In fact, I’m denying the whole fucking thing. If you all think you know me so well, well enough to write articles before even speaking to me, then why do you bother asking me these questions?”
Marcus may have been slightly discouraged by my question, but his next statement showed that he wasn’t deterred nearly enough.
“I’m asking because a serious allegation has been brought against you, and you have yet to say anything about it.
Instead, all you’ve done is galivant on a yacht and attend fancy dinners. ”
“That’s enough!” a voice yelled beside me. Edward, who’d come in P3, was now standing, microphone in hand. “Press conferences are for us drivers to answer questions for the fans. You know, the people we race for.”
“Don’t you think the fans want to know if Georgia actually deserves to be in Formula 1?” Marcus fired back.
“Not as much as the fans might want to know why Sports Broadcasting hired such a lunatic to do their press interviews,” I retorted. A ripple of stunned laughter went through the room. A petty thing to say—and frankly, not the best quip—but his unamused face told me my point had been made.
A murmur rippled through the press room, and for the first time, I noticed some nodding heads among the journalists.
“So, let me get this straight, you’ve been accused of cheating, and your response is to giggle about it?”
Unbelievable.
Henri bristled beside me, but I held out a hand, stopping him.
This was my battle to fight. I’d spent the last several races hiding behind my friends and family, letting my anxiety get the best of me, but as I stared down at the broadcaster, I realized how little I cared in that moment.
How little I cared about the press’s comments, jabs, and insults.
“No, Marcus, my response is to laugh at you. All of you. You call yourselves journalists, but you don’t have a shred of journalistic integrity. Let me ask you this: did you question why the Daily Reporter article didn’t have a single bad thing to say about Luca?”
Silence. Not a shuffle, not a tap of a laptop key.
“Of course not, and I’ll tell you why. Because you all know that attacking Luca, the son of a world-famous F1 champion, won’t sell papers. No one would believe you. But attacking the woman you’ve berated all season? Well, that’s fair game, isn’t it?”
As I held their gazes, it seemed ridiculous that I had ever been afraid of them. They seemed so small and insignificant staring back at me.
“But—” Marcus went to interject.
“I’m not finished,” I bit out. “You all have tried to bury me since Bahrain. You call it reporting. I call it misogyny.” I scanned the room.
“You want a statement? Fine. Here’s one: I’m not leaving.
I’m not backing down. I am going to win this championship, and then I’ll win the next one.
And the next one. And you can write that in your fucking papers.
I don’t care if you don’t like me. I’m not here to be liked.
I’m here to win. I’m not leaving Formula 1.
Valkyrie isn’t leaving Formula 1, so I suggest you all get used to it. ”
I could see some heads nodding. Some faces falling, and I took another deep breath, before standing up and stepping off the small stage.
“You’ve all held too much power over me since I started this season, but no more. From now on, in press conferences, I’ll only be answering questions about my driving. You want to know what I do in my personal time? Tough. It’s none of your business.”
I turned to Michael Clifton, and I almost gave him an apologetic smile before stopping myself. He didn’t deserve an apology from me. None of them did.
I set the microphone down in front of him.
“Georgia,” Michael whispered, “you’ll get fined if you leave now.”
I half-smiled. “Then expect a check in the mail, Michael. Maybe use the money to get us some better journalists.”
Nora was chasing after me as I walked out of the press conference.
When I got to the garage, I marched straight into the team principal’s office and took a seat in front of Isabelle, who just narrowed her eyes at me while motioning for Nora to shut the door.
The office vibe felt like a showdown from one of those old western movies, the sheriff vs the villain, except I was no longer going to be the villain in my story.
“Damn it, Georgia. Why?” Isabelle finally lamented.
“Why?” I scoffed sarcastically. “Why do they get to treat me like garbage?” I demanded back. “Why can’t I defend myself?”
“Because we’re supposed to be burying this story, not giving them more reasons to bring it up!”
Isabelle was angry, that much was clear. She leaned back into her chair, resting her head in her hands and rubbing her eyes with frustration. It was rare to see Isabelle so defeated, and it felt like a kick to the stomach, but I wasn’t going to apologize. Not this time.
“I just want this to go away for you, Georgia. I get it. You’re young and ambitious, and yes, it’s unfair that they treat you this way, but we need to learn to control the narrative, not feed into it,” Isabelle begged.
I had spent the entire season backing down, letting journalists get away with their misogyny. Had spent these last few months hiding in the shadows so we could get sponsors, but the more I thought about it, the more it became clear that sponsors wanted someone loved by fans.
“To hell with the press. I don’t care if this story drags on for ten years, Isabelle.
I’m not going to sit back and let them treat me this way.
I won’t teach little girls that it’s okay for male journalists to tear down female athletes.
You hired me to win, to fight. So that’s what I’m doing.
And if I lose my racing seat, then so be it, because I’ll lose it staying true to who I am. ”
I pushed back my chair and strode toward the office door. My hand closed around the knob—
Laughter.
A loud, unapologetic, delighted laugh.
I turned around in surprise. And there she was, my team principal, sitting behind her desk with her arms folded and a proud, almost defiant smile on her face. Not a hint of scolding. Not a flicker of doubt.
Only pride.
“Well, then, Georgie, sounds like we have some work to do.”