Chapter 4
“Please, explain what all that was about.” Frank glares at us, arms folded across his chest. It’s surprisingly intimidating, given most of the time he resembles a teddy bear with overgrown sideburns.
I bite my lip.
Next to me, Cameron fiddles with the zipper on his racing suit.
“Go on, then. I’m waiting to hear why you brains thought causing fifty thousand quid of damage the first minute of testing was a good idea.”
“I was only trying to make my turn,” Cameron says. “Then this one came barreling around the corner like a madwoman with her hair on fire.”
A madwoman? He was the one who left the door wide open, then turned in. There’s no way I’m going to let him pin all the blame on me.
“I was faster,” I protest. “So of course I tried to pass him. But you saw how he drove into me, right?”
“How was I supposed to know you snuck in there?”
“Side mirrors. Ever heard of them?”
“That’s enough!” Frank barks, and we both jump. “You acted like morons out there. You’re teammates. I don’t want to see behavior like that ever again.”
“We can’t race each other on-track?” Cameron stares at Frank as if he’s just been told someone’s dumped a gallon of detergent in his fuel tank.
As much as I hate agreeing with him, he’s right.
Your teammates are the only drivers in the exact same cars as you and, therefore, your biggest competition.
Beating them is one of the most important ways to show everyone—the team principals, the sponsors, the fans—where you stand.
Cameron placed third in the F3 championship last year and is a favorite for an F2 seat next season; outscoring him would do wonders for my reputation.
“Did I say that or are you being thick on purpose?” Frank grits out.
I try not to look too openly pleased with Cameron’s dressing-down, even if inside I’m doing donuts like I just won a race by ten seconds.
“You can race each other, obviously. But I expect you to behave with at least a modicum of civility. If you crash each other out racing hard, then Orbital as a team winds up with zero points. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly.” I try to give my most sincere smile, even if there’s a higher chance of me entering the Cook County Dairy Princess pageant than cooperating with Cameron.
Cameron nods once, his gaze on the nubby carpeting.
Frank looks at his watch. “Cam, you can go on and get changed. Justine—please stay.”
Shit.
My heart plunges to the bottom of my stomach. The curious glance Cameron shoots me as he ducks out of Frank’s office only adds to my anxiety. What’s so bad that Frank can’t say it in front of him?
“Look, Justine,” Frank says my name with a long teeeeen at the end.
“I know you’re new to us.” He gestures broadly to the air next to him, and I don’t know if he means Orbital Racing, Europe, or F3.
“A gentle reminder: This is the feeder series for the pinnacle of motorsport. You’re competing against some of the best young drivers in the world.
That little trick I saw won’t work on a single one of ’em. ”
I deflate at the word little. Little girl, little kart, little trick. What is with the racing world’s obsession with this word when it comes to describing me?
“There’s no way I was more at fault,” I protest weakly. “Cameron—”
Frank holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Let’s not waste more time splitting hairs. Regardless of whose fault it was, I strongly suggest you go out there and make peace with your teammate. Any more incidents like today and it isn’t going to be a very long season for you.”
My entire body feels like it’s been dunked into an ice bath, the shock short-circuiting my brain. Did Frank just imply I might get cut before the end of the season?
Dread unfurls in my chest, coiling around my heart.
I’m eleven years old again, standing in our kitchen.
I stare at the hardwood floor as Mom explains how Dad decided to go “find himself.” She didn’t say it, but I knew—we weren’t enough for him.
I wasn’t enough. It’s that sick, small feeling all over again.
Back then, I had grabbed Mom’s hand and swore to myself I was going to be outstanding—so outstanding that someday he was going to turn on ESPN, see me win the F1 championship, and realize how much he’d missed.
I’m not going to blow my shot today.
I can’t blow my shot.
I swallow my pride and force a groveling smile. “I’ll do better, I swear.”
“It was a close call between you and Georgios for our last F3 seat,” Frank continues on. “Lou wanted guaranteed sponsor dollars, but I convinced him to take a gamble on the American girl.”
Georgios’s only notable talent is the number of zeros in his trust fund.
I could drive circles around him with one hand tied behind my back.
The idea it could be close is downright insulting, but judging by the way Frank’s bushy eyebrows are furrowed, now’s not the time to say it.
Now’s not the time to say anything at all, other than whatever it’ll take to keep my seat.
I do my best to keep a bland, straight face. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Please. Prove me right.” Frank heaves himself out of his swivel chair and leaves without another look at me.