Chapter 27
Austin, Texas
Circuit of the Americas
United States Grand Prix
Our last race of the season is in my backyard. Or, as close to my backyard as these races ever get.
Austin is the first Formula 1 weekend I ever attended in person.
It was amazing watching the drivers live—the roar of the engines, the way the cars appeared and disappeared so quickly you missed it if you blinked.
Even Mom admitted how fun it was on the flight back home, though I think she got a bigger kick out of the Taylor Swift concert than the actual grand prix.
The morning of the Feature Race, Roz and I agree to meet at the hotel breakfast buffet for strategy review. When I get to the dining area, though, she’s staring at her phone with round eyes, the jumbo omelet in front of her untouched.
“You okay?” I set my tray down and sit across from her.
“You know that employee Marino was investigating for abuse? It’s Thompson. He’s getting sacked.”
“Really?” I nearly drop my spoon into my banana flaxseed oatmeal. Maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked that a team is taking harassment seriously enough to discipline their F1 driver, but I am.
“I know. There’s nothing official announced yet, but Uncle Lou says he heard from good sources that Thompson’s contract isn’t getting renewed.”
“Do you think Marino would poach someone for the seat or promote one of their F2 guys?”
“Dunno. They’re gonna have their pick of the paddock, though.”
I tamp down the ray of optimism flaring within me. I have to redeem my reputation in F3 before I lose myself in any Marino daydreams. I may have clawed my way back into Orbital, but there’s no way in hell or high water I’m still Lou Wilson’s lead horse for their F2 seat.
I take a bite of my breakfast and focus on the matter at hand. “All right—how’s the day looking?”
“Dry race, minimal wind,” Roz reports in between mouthfuls of veggie omelet.
“Perfect.” As close to ideal weather as it gets in Texas. This is the only circuit we race at where the script is flipped: I have the most experience on this track compared to the guys who grew up racing in Europe. Which means with good weather, I’ll be able to make the most of my advantage.
“Tell me the scenario analysis again.” I take a sip of the hydration juice Mom concocted this morning from Gatorade, coconut juice, and god knows what else.
“Dream scenario: You’re P1; Cameron’s P2. Orbital sweeps the team championship, Cameron’s Drivers’ Champ and you’re runner-up. If you and Cameron are flipped, same team result, but Sasha’s runner-up instead of you.”
I make a face. The Drivers’ Championship is mathematically out of the cards for me after missing a race, but after my close call with not having a seat at all, I’m grateful I can still compete.
Even if it means I have to do one more year in F3, with a team I now know will only back me when it’s convenient.
“I know.” Roz sighs.
“And if I win, but Sasha’s second and Cameron’s third?”
“Sasha becomes Drivers’ Champ,” Roz says. “Please don’t let that happen. His engineer is as big of a twat as he is—I don’t want any of those knobheads at Triton gloating.”
“Don’t worry, we got this. The only gloating is going to be from Orbital,” I promise.
“Big words for someone who doesn’t have a seat.”
Sasha Devin is standing over us, a sneer on his face and a half-empty yogurt cup in his hand.
“Good morning to you too.” I roll my eyes.
“Don’t you know better than to hang about some place you’re not welcome?” He laughs nastily. “Georgios is driving in your place for the last race.”
“Wrong, I’m driving in my place.” I smile sweetly. How convenient for him if that’d been the case—one less opponent for the race, and by extension, one less opponent for the Orbital F2 seat.
Sasha’s mouth pulls down. “After the Weekly Mail article? What is Frank thinking?”
“That driver decisions shouldn’t be made on the basis of a gossip rag with a long history of questionable factuality?” Roz glares at him.
He frowns. “That article was everywhere. What sort of team can stand that kind of press?”
“You mean, what kind of team wants to be spotlit by Motor Sport?” Roz whips her phone out and waves our Liam Granville article triumphantly in Sasha’s face.
His eyes scan the page. “So that’s how you pulled it off. Feminine wiles again. What won’t these companies do in the name of wokeness?”
The expression switches on a bulb in my brain.
“Sasha.” I narrow my eyes. “Were you the source?”
He turns a shade paler. “And?” He licks his bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m sure Triton would love to know their driver has a briefing relationship with the tabloids,” Roz hisses.
“It’s not against the rules, is it, now?”
“You were worried you couldn’t beat me on-track, so you resorted to lies.” Anger snowballs inside me, but so does a bizarre gleam of pride. “For someone who thinks women don’t belong in racing, you sure are scared of getting beaten by one.”
“I’m not scared of you.” His eyes bulge. “I was being strategic. Those PR-loving Orbital idiots would’ve loved to find any excuse to give you the F2 seat. I saw a chance to take the shine off your novelty, so I took it.”
“Real classy.” Roz glares daggers at him. “You’re such a gentleman.”
“Why should I be a gentleman when you aren’t ladies?” He gives a slimy smile—the kind where you feel like you need to immediately rinse off in a high-pressure shower—then turns and goes.
“I could so kill him right now.” Roz stares hard at his retreating back. “With my bare hands. Or this fork.”
“Please don’t. I need you to engineer my race, not rot in jail.”
“How’re you so calm about this? That wanker admitted to being the source for the hit piece. We have to get him back—maybe one of those girls from the after-party has something on him.” She pulls out her phone.
I’m not sure how to explain it. In a way, Sasha trying to take me down is the best compliment he could give. It means he sees me, he recognizes my talent, and it freaks him out. I’m tough competition, even if he can’t bring himself to admit it.
I hold my hand over Roz’s phone. “Just a sec on the revenge planning.”
She gives me an are you for real? look.
“Let’s go out there and beat him today. That’ll hurt him more than anything we can cook up with Savannah and Chloe.”
Roz chews her mouthful of omelet, then washes it down with a sip of orange juice. “Fine. But I’m going Cersei Lannister on his arse as soon as offseason starts.”
My Reminder app dings. Fifteen minutes to Feature Race.
“Oh no,” I groan. “We’re late.”
The F3 garages are all the way on the other side of the paddock, and—Texas being Texas—this is by far the largest of all our races this season.
Roz curses. We sprint for the hotel exit, pounding down the balcony staircase. I thank my lucky stars I’m at least wearing closed-toe shoes, unlike the last time I went sprinting.
“Frank is going to kill me!” I shriek, swerving around a catering staff carrying a tray of steaming brisket. “He said I had to be on perfect behavior and now I’m already late! I bet Cameron and Pat have been there for ages.”
“We can still… make it,” Roz huffs. Mechanics and engineers have to be strong enough to jack up the car and carry two twenty-five-pound tires by themselves, but cardio doesn’t exactly fit into their training regimen. “Speaking of… how are things… with Cameron?”
“You know?” I nearly barrel into a grid kid and his father.
“We can’t… stop.” Roz jerks me along. “You have… the worst… poker face… even… without… The Weekly Fail.”
I try to focus on our paddock speedrun instead of worrying about who else may have picked up on me and Cameron. I’m clearly a lot less skilled at sneaking around than I think I am. “He was pretty pissed, but we smoothed it over. I think.”
A trolley carrying wooden crates emblazoned with McLaren logos comes at us and we separate, rejoining each other’s sides again after it passes.
“So… does that… mean… you’re gonna… be… a thing?”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “ ‘Smoothed over’ as in he’s not going to drive into me on Turn 1. We didn’t get a chance to talk about the other… stuff. It’s probably for the better. Dating a teammate is just too messy.” Even if it breaks my heart.
We round the corner, swinging around the red Marino F1 motor home.
“Wait…” Roz stops, heaving and slumping over her knees. “I just want to say… you don’t… have to give up… your love life… for racing.”
“I already tried that. Look where it got me.”
“Dietrich… can date… whomever… he wants…”
“The rules are different for him. You know that.”
“Yeah, but… doesn’t mean… you shouldn’t… try… are we all… supposed… to just… lie down?” Roz gasps. “Actually… I might do that… right now.”
I grab her hand, preventing her from collapsing. “Oh no you don’t. Save the debate for when you can breathe.” It also conveniently prevents me from having to revisit hopes and desires I know are a bad idea.
Half leaning on me, she starts hobbling, then braves a jog again.
“Come on, you got this!” I run half a step in front of her.
The row of F3 pop-up garages appear in the distance, brightly colored tent flaps fluttering in the breeze.
“Final push!” I turn my head and call back to Roz, who’s now trailing me by more than a few feet, cheeks pink with exertion.
Her eyes widen. “Watch out!”
I whirl around. Mateo Bianchi, Scuderia Marino’s CEO. Canal+ journalist. And, mere inches in front of me, two cameramen wheeling a twenty-foot steel tower directly into my path.
I try to tack, but the camera tower is too wide and my hand-eye reflexes, as it turns out, are a lot quicker than my actual physical body’s.
A piercing pain, a flash of white, and the entire left side of my face goes numb.
“Bloody hell.” Frank jumps when I step into the Orbital F3 garage.
Thirteen heads swivel in my direction. Roz leads me in by the right elbow while my left hand holds a bag of ice—hastily provided by Marino catering—to my eye.