Chapter 27 #2
I don’t know what’s more humiliating, limping late into the middle of the team prerace pep talk with the mother of all bruises or literally running into the middle of a Mateo Bianchi interview. All on my first weekend back.
“Our breakfast strategy session went long.” Roz gives a weak smile. “And we were running to get here…”
“Are you okay? Someone call the medic.” Cameron pushes his way to my side and turns my cheek gently toward him. I shift my ice bag and peek at him through my puffy left eye.
I melt a little at the concern in his voice, my skin tingly where his fingertips brush my face. “I’m fine. It was just a camera tower.”
“Holy cow,” Pat says. “That’s a hell of a shiner.”
“Can you still race?” Georgios asks, a hopeful tone creeping into his voice.
I clench my fists. I am not going to be sidelined for the last race of the season—my last shot to redeem myself—because of a little swelling. Especially not after what Liam Granville wrote.
“Perfectly fine,” I declare, and rip the ice bag away to make a point.
Everyone flinches.
“What, you guys have never seen a little bruising before?” I bluster.
“If she is harmed in the race,” Georgios says with an overly heavy dose of concern, “it’s going to be bad.”
I glare at him with my good eye. Self-serving bastard.
“It’d be extensive reputational damage.” Britt crosses, then uncrosses her arms. “We’ll be put through the wringer for allowing her to race in this condition.”
“I can see perfectly if I tape my lid up,” I say.
“She’ll have her helmet.” Roz jumps in. “Nothing will get to her with the visor on.”
Frank crosses his arms and tilts his head as he examines me. “Under normal circumstances, I would have serious reservations…”
“Please let me race,” I beg. “We’re fifteen points behind Triton for the team championship. I can make a difference.”
“Frank, it’s too risky,” Britt says in a low voice. “What’ll I tell the media when they come breathing down our necks? Letting her drive when she can’t see without tape?”
Frank purses his lips and nods. My stomach sinks. No. Not when I’m so close. I can’t go down as the girl who blew it in F3 without a chance to redeem myself. I can’t let everyone down.
“Tell them,” Cameron says loudly, “if Niki Lauda can win with half his face burnt to a crisp, Justine Kwong can race with a black eye.”
A hush spreads through the garage at the mention of the legendary F1 driver, then quiet murmurings and nods of approval as the team processes Cameron’s words.
I’m so grateful I could cry. Frank looks thoughtful, rubbing his hand on his chin.
I hold my breath and cross my fingers with the hand that isn’t holding the ice pack.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Don’t think I can argue with that one.”
I clutch Roz’s arm and do a mini celebratory hop in place. Georgios slinks away to the reserve driver’s seat by the telemetry. Pat holds his hand out to Cameron for a high five, which Cameron answers, a reluctant grin on his face. As if he can feel me watching, he looks up and our eyes collide.
The buzzer for the installation lap whips up and down the paddock, causing us all to startle.
“Right,” Frank shouts above the noise. “Final race. Fantastic season. Let’s end it strong.”
Roz pulls me in for a tight hug, the strap of her watch pressing into the back of my neck. “You’ve got this,” she whispers.
“We’ve got this.”
With one last hand squeeze, we go our separate ways. Roz to her seat on the pit wall, me to where Lizzie’s parked, next to Pat’s and Cameron’s cars.
“Hold on, now.” Britt stalks over with a medic she must have just lassoed following after.
He pulls a strip of tape loose with a thwack and gets to work on my eye.
“Thanks, Britt.”
She picks at her nail beds. “I don’t like this at all. But if Frank is going to allow our drivers to pull such a stunt, I prefer they have maximum protection.”
“Just think of all the headlines Orbital will get if I win,” I joke.
“A battered female driver is the last thing we need right now,” Britt mutters darkly and hastens away with the medic as soon as he’s done.
I touch my taped-up eye gingerly. It feels fragile, but it’ll have to do.
Cameron’s already sitting in his cockpit, so I don’t get to do more than flash him a thumbs-up to wish him luck. He gives me a nod back, his expression behind the visor unreadable. I give a quick shake to clear my head. Whatever problems remain, they’ll have to wait.
I pull on my helmet, painted with a special white-and-blue star this weekend in honor of the Dallas Cowboys, hook the HANS device across my neck, and hop in.
Lizzie hums to life, the engine’s vibration comforting under my fingers.
It doesn’t feel real that this is the last time I’m going to be driving her.
Next year, she’ll be replaced with a newer, upgraded model.
I pat the steering wheel. One last hurrah.
We pull out of our garage, complete the lap and pull up to our starting order. Sasha is P1, Cameron P2, Stephane Moreau P3. I’m in P4, and Javi Diaz rounds out the top five.
The Circuit of the Americas begins with a straight run uphill, which gives an advantage at the starting line to the Triton cars. My best bet is to have a great start while Stephane fumbles, then catch Cameron and Sasha on the last, technical part of the track.
The lights blink on one last time. I hold my breath.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
I drop the clutch and floor the pedal.
Stephane doesn’t fumble his start, but he does lock up on the first uphill turn, and I’m able to zip ahead. I get good entry speed into Turn 3, using the momentum to flow through the next few turns.
I glance in my side mirror. Stephane is too busy fighting Javi Diaz to make progress on me, exactly as I’d hoped. I position carefully into Turn 11 and zoom flat out down the back straight. Just ahead of me, Sasha runs an inch wide at Turn 12 and Cameron manages to get past him the turn after.
There’s a crash behind me.
I press the radio button. “Who was that?”
“Diaz and Janssen. Janssen’s got a puncture. I’m expecting safety car.”
The words are barely out of Roz’s mouth before the signal on my steering wheel lights up. I slow to approximately half speed. The shiny red Mercedes safety car drives up in front of Cameron, and we wind our way around the track, tires cooling from the lower speeds.
“It’s a difficult extraction site. Looks like safety car may be out for a while,” Roz reports.
I curse. Keeping tires warm isn’t exactly a piece of cake. Every season there’s at least one driver who winds up crashing, which means you’re forever known as the inept loser who lost control at only 80 mph.
I weave my tires left and right, body tense, watching for any hint Lizzie’s back may drop on me.
We go into a tight turn, the place you’re most likely to lose control. Sasha’s slowed in front of me. Too slow, even for safety car conditions.
I slam on my brakes, but I’m too late, and Lizzie’s nose bumps into his rear wing. “He brake checked me!”
“That tosser. Keep your head down. The stewards are already investigating.”
My first instinct is to drive up alongside Sasha and ram into his side pods, but then I’d be the one facing maximum penalty while he gets off scot-free. It’s probably what he’s hoping for.
“Is there damage?”
“You need a new nose. Box box.”
Fury and disappointment mix in my stomach. Being forced to pit means track positions and precious seconds lost. Seconds I need to improve my time, track positions I’ll have to fight to regain.
The crew are prepared when I pull in. They lift up Lizzie’s broken front wing and replace it with a new nose, then give me fresh tires. Though the stop goes smoothly, it still leaves me in the middle of the pack when I rejoin.
“P10,” Roz informs me.
I mutter a silent curse. Slowly, I work my way through the field.
“Nice one,” Roz says after I weave around yet another car to take P4.
To my surprise, Pat, in P3, pulls to the side, leaving the door wide open to let me past. He waves as I go through.
“Was that team orders?”
“Nope.” I hear a smile on the other end. “He says he’s out of the championship fight anyway and wants to maximize his teammates’ chances.”
I’m sorry for every snarky comment I’ve ever made about Pat. His silver spoon might be as big and conspicuous as Sasha Devin’s, but he’s cut from a different cloth where it counts.
“Five-second drive-through penalty for Sasha,” Roz announces, the excitement palpable in her voice.
Thank the heavens race control isn’t blind, for once. Two laps later, Sasha peels off for his pit stop, where he’ll be forced to serve his penalty before he’s allowed to rejoin the race.
It’s only me and Cameron left now for the lead. He’s on a different strategy and far ahead of me, but I’ve got the fresher tires. If I pass him, I will win this race. I won’t take home the Drivers’ Championship, but I’ll place top three for the season and prove to everyone I’ve got what it takes.
I take a deep breath to slow my pounding heart. “How am I doing on pace?”
“Lapping three-tenths faster. You’re on track to catch Cameron on the last lap.” Roz sounds as excited as I feel.
“Let’s get him.”
I’m faster than the other drivers, Cameron included, on this circuit. Even without Roz’s updates, I know I’m gaining. With his older tires and my experience, P1 is solidly within grasp.
I catch up in eight laps, at Turn 4. Cameron puts up a clean fight, but his tires are simply too worn out. Lizzie and I sail past, my cornering much tighter thanks to superior grip. The grandstands explode.
A wave of relief washes over me. It’s never done until it’s done, but as long as I don’t get a puncture or a tornado doesn’t come ripping across the circuit, the top step on the podium is as good as mine.
I concentrate on pulling away and creating distance between Lizzie and Cameron’s car. Time to build in a safety buffer.
The radio crackles again. “Sasha just passed for P3, four-tenths faster.”