Chapter 22
Liège, Belgium
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
Belgian Grand Prix
Upon the lights out signal, thirty engines roar to life. I’m off the starting line faster than anyone else in the top four except Cameron.
Turn 1 comes mere seconds later, and I use my momentum to overtake J. P. Ribeiro, who started third. Sasha, who was on pole, has been passed by Cameron. In his usual style, Sasha careens his car wildly around the track for the next few turns, desperate to regain his position.
I itch to join the fight—these are where opportunities to jump places present themselves—but force myself to give them space. As Dietrich would say, fifteen more laps to go. Plenty of chances for someone to make a mistake.
Sasha grows more and more erratic in his attempt to regain position. He locks up as we move into Turn 8, sliding wide and giving me the perfect opening.
I nudge Lizzie onto the inside line. As I do, Sasha’s Triton car moves back toward me abruptly, cutting me off. Way, way off base for what you’re allowed. I have to drop back to avoid an accident.
I punch the radio button. “Please tell me race control saw that!”
“I’ve already spoken with them—they’re investigating,” Roz says.
With the damage Sasha’s done to his tires, it’s only a matter of time before I pass him. Unfortunately, he refuses to concede gracefully. He weaves all over, trying to defend.
As we move into the third turn of Lap 7, Sasha lunges into the corner. I grasp the opportunity to slip past.
His brakes lock and he struggles, righting just in the nick of time but sliding into the front right of J. P. Ribeiro’s car. J. P. hurtles off the track and hits the asphalt runoff.
“Is it game over for J. P.?”
“Appears so,” Roz says. “That was dirty.”
I grimace, wishing Sasha a hefty penalty. “Is it me versus Cameron for the win?”
“Roger.”
My heart pounds. This is the closest I’ve gotten to a win all season. Cameron is ahead, but advantage is to me because he’s done so much tire damage battling Sasha earlier.
If I can run my laps smoothly, I should have a very, very good shot.
I reach for my deepest area of focus. Slowly, I gain, lap after lap, millisecond after millisecond. As I come into striking distance, Roz’s voice crackles over the radio. “I just got told it’s Multi-13, Justine.”
“What? Seriously?” Multi is Orbital’s code for team orders.
Cameron is 1, Pat is 2, and I’m 3. Multi-13, in this case, means the team wants us to hold our current positions.
Cameron first, me second. This is presumably so we don’t risk an on-track battle where we end up taking each other out and Orbital winds up with zero points.
But in reality, it’s preventing me from making a fair fight for first place.
“ ’Fraid so.” Roz sounds unhappy but resigned.
I worry my lower lip. I know I’m faster right now. I’ve demonstrated that by closing the gap over the last few laps. My tires are fresher, with better grip. If Orbital allowed it, there’s no question I could take him on-track.
I come out of the hairpin at La Source and go flat out, zooming into the corner at Eau Rouge, then a sharp uphill through Raidillon. It’s one of the most hair-raising, electrifying track sections in the world. I come out of the sector now mere breaths away from Cameron’s car.
“I was asked to remind you, Multi-13,” Roz says in a small voice.
The drag reduction system notification flashes on my steering wheel.
DRS is a feature designed to facilitate on-track passing.
If a driver is able to get within a one-second gap to the driver in front, like I am now, then the pursuing driver is allowed to substantially decrease aerodynamic drag, making overtaking an easier process.
My thumb hovers over the DRS activation button.
All I need is this—one win with Lou Wilson watching—to seal my contract.
It wouldn’t be the first or last time a driver defied team orders.
Some of the most legendary races in the history of F1 have come down to teammate battles.
Cameron will be annoyed, but he’s already won three races this season and will still be championship leader whether he places P1 or P2, whereas for me this would be a much-needed maiden win, a career first.
No distractions, I remind myself.
I press down.
A flap in the middle of Lizzie’s rear wing opens, instantly boosting my speed by 5 mph. I sail easily past Cameron’s car on the outside line of the next turn. Guilt simmers in my stomach, but I push it aside. I’ll make it up to Cameron later—somehow, some way.
As I cross the checkered flag, Roz lets out a whoop. “P1, good job.”
I pull into parc fermé, driving straight to the cordoned-off area reserved for podium finishers and stopping behind the giant signboard that marks where the race winner parks their car.
The team claps and cheers in celebration, though they’re a bit more subdued than what they’d normally be if Orbital swept a 1–2.
Roz gives me a tight hug. “There might be some questions during debrief, but I’m really happy for you.”
Cameron pulls up to the left of Lizzie. He climbs out and takes off his helmet, glaring down at me. “Have you gone deaf? Multi-13, Kwong. Multi-13.”
My heart sinks. I’d hoped he’d be slightly more forgiving, seeing as how P1 is so much more consequential for me than it is for him. Before I can say anything, he shakes his head and pushes past me without another word.
“He’ll calm down,” Roz says. “He knows he would’ve done the same if he were in your shoes.”
“I hope you’re right.” But there’s also no getting around the fact that, if our positions were switched, I would be equally, maybe more, furious.
“Come on.” She gives me an encouraging shoulder squeeze. “We’ve got a P1 to celebrate.”
Despite the team’s initial muted response, everyone recovers by the podium ceremony.
When my name is announced, I jog out to thunderous applause and cheers.
I take the double-handled gold-embossed trophy and hold it high up in the air, taking in my long-awaited F3 victory and trying my best not to think about how long it’s going to take Cameron to come around.
We’re posing for photos, Cameron standing as far from me as possible, when there’s a shift in the air.
It starts with a whisper, a couple of people watching the celebrations staring down at their phones, then spreads through the rest of the audience like wildfire.
By the time I’ve shaken the mayor’s hand, the vast majority of the parc fermé crowd have their noses glued to their phones instead of the podium.
We’re ushered into the cooldown room by a bemused FIA attendant. Whatever stole the audience’s attention, it has to be a big deal—an unexpected driver or team principal departure or some other type of shock.
“What’s going on?” I ask, looking at Cameron, Sasha, and the FIA attendant in turn.
One of them refuses to meet my gaze, while the other two look as confused as I feel.
Maybe it’s some surprising resolution to Marino’s internal employee investigation—it’s the only thing I can think of that could have everyone behaving like a horde of stunned monkeys.
“May I borrow your mobile?” Sasha holds out his hand toward the attendant, who reluctantly hands his phone over.
Before I can peep over Sasha’s shoulder to see what he’s digging up, loud, urgent steps echo down the hall.
“What is this?” Dietrich bursts into the room, thrusting his phone at me.
My heart plunges.
It’s an article from today’s edition of The Weekly Mail.
There’s a giant picture of me at Gini Lounge from the night of the after-party, arm slung around Roz, who looks like she’s struggling to keep me standing.
A callout box features a close-up of me from the same night—the photo where I’m making a disgusted face while drinking from a bottle of Hendriksen.
F1’s Fox in the Henhouse? is plastered across the top of the photo in bold lettering.
With trepidation, I scroll down. The article kicks off by describing my podium at Paul Ricard as happenstance.
The author quotes “unnamed sources in the paddock” describing all the various ways I’m getting a special diversity leg up, making it sound like my gender is the only reason I have a seat at all in F3.
From there it goes into detailed descriptions of my “after-dark” activities.
Some can accurately be attributed to my night at Gini, but are made lurid in the worst ways possible.
Roz gets a shout-out too, as my “party princess partner in crime.”
Then, it gets worse.
Kwong has wasted no time making herself at home in the paddock.
We hear it was a shock to Hannie Kemper, Dietrich Lange’s longtime sweetheart, when he abruptly ended their relationship of three years this spring.
Coincidentally (or not), the F1 star began spending ample time with the female driver right around the time of the split, culminating in the duo attending Orbital’s annual gala together.
All’s well that ends well, though, as Lange has been reported to be seen about town again with Kemper. Nice try, Miss Kwong, but this is a win for the everyday girl. In the meantime, the F1 WAGs in the paddock better hang on to their men—this hard-partying butterfly clearly has feminine wiles!
“How could you let this happen?” Dietrich is staring at me with wide, disappointed eyes.
“It’s totally out of context,” I protest.
“The after-party. Did you or did you not allow yourself to get so drunk you couldn’t stand?”
My stomach shrinks and shrinks, until I think I may throw up the liter of hydration juice I drank during the race. “I did,” I say in a small voice.
“Mein Gott.” Dietrich runs a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“I was… upset that night,” I explain lamely, highly conscious of Cameron just a few feet away.
“Are you talking about me? About us? Is this some sort of strange revenge? I apologized for my confusing intentions; I thought it was all okay for us.”
“It was—is—okay.”