17. Evangeline
EVANGELINE
With another look at the clock, I question whether I can actually finish this report before my friends get here.
Once I categorize these last sixteen comments for the content analysis I’m working on, my first official report for Granata will be complete.
It was a whirlwind of a day. To my surprise, I didn’t mind watching the action from the grandstands.
Races can be loud, but with my earplugs in place, I had a lot of fun.
I was eager to dive into my first data collection assignment, and feeling the sunshine on my face and soaking up the energy from the crowds only added to my excitement.
Aside from offering to take a few pictures for people, I didn’t talk to anyone. If I had, I imagine I’d feel far more drained.
I intentionally wore a basic black Granata T-shirt today to blend in with the spectators.
Sitting among so many fans of my friends was an experience.
The whole row of people in front of me were cheering for Flynn, all wearing special merch since it was his home race.
A huge group of college-aged girls sported Abrams-Rhea colors and held up cutouts of Mia’s and Kenji’s faces.
The number of women in the stands was exciting.
Women account for three out of every four new F1 fans these days.
I can’t wait to show Mia and Kenj the pictures when we meet up tonight.
I click through the tabs on my screen, combining some of the notes I took on my phone with a few more race day comments I found online.
Granata performed really well today, with Heath placing sixth and Ferris finishing in ninth. To have both drivers land in the points at the opening grand prix is a fantastic start.
Most of the comments I’ve come across are neutral or positive in that hopeful kind of way that’s common at the beginning of any season.
Many, many comments mention Alaric by name. It surprised me, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.
He is the new team principal, and the reason my job even exists is to gauge how he’s doing and how the public’s perception of Granata is evolving. I certainly don’t mind having to ogle the man I’ve been secretly crushing on for about a week now.
I click over to an open tab that features a candid shot of Alaric that’s already making the rounds and will probably end up being a meme. He’s on the pit wall wearing his headset, looking right into the camera, with this mischievous twinkle in his eye and a smug smirk on his face.
He looks hot as hell. I may or may not have saved the candid to my phone.
I don’t know when the photo was taken, but if I had to guess, it was after Granata pitted both cars at the start of a virtual safety car when Kelly wasn’t in a good position to pit.
The virtual safety car lasted less than two laps, and the timing couldn’t have been better.
I was grinning from ear to ear when the call came in. I can only imagine how elated Alaric and the drivers must have been.
With a sigh, I force myself to exit out of the tabs featuring Alaric’s smiling face and refocus on my work. I’ve got seven minutes left—and that’s if Flynn and Bea aren’t early.
Granata and Kelly are often next to each other on the paddock, and for the next several races, the teams are staying at the same hotels. So Flynn and Bea insisted they’d swing by my room so we could head to the Ritz for Sweatpants and Chill together.
I copy a few more quotes from the notes app on my phone, then double-check them for clarity and categorize each in the spreadsheet, color-coding them accordingly.
Once I’m done, I save everything and upload it to the share drive. Then, with a grin and two minutes to spare, I close my laptop.
A thrill runs through me. It’s week one, and I got all my work done quickly and efficiently. On top of that, I’m genuinely enjoying my new position.
Dressed in a cute matching set of animal-print pajamas, I dig through my bag, ensuring I have everything I need for the night. I’m zipping my purse closed when there’s a knock at my door.
I check the peep hole, then confirm my hotel key is in my pocket before greeting my friends.
“Congrats, mate,” I tell Flynn in my best Australian accent, pulling him into a hug.
“Ah, thanks, Ev,” he says. “Would have loved to finally make it onto the podium and do the home crowd proud, but it wasn’t in the cards for today.”
I give him an extra squeeze.
Flynn came in P4. It’s a great way to start the season, but I understand this disappointment. If he’d placed even one spot higher, he’d be the first Australian to ever stand on the podium at their home grand prix.
Honestly, though, finishing at all is cause for celebration. The first race of the season is always challenging. And despite the good weather, there were a myriad of technical issues and mechanical failures today. Six cars didn’t place—four of them DNF-ing and two not starting at all.
One of the things I appreciate most about my friends is that it’s rare anyone lets what happens on track bleed into our group dynamic. The drivers are all ruthlessly competitive, but we all make a concerted effort to be kind when we get together for Sweatpants and Chill.
“Ready?” Bea asks.
I can’t help but grin at her.
She’s wearing a kangaroo onesie complete with a little joey sticking out of the pouch sewn onto the front.
“You’re ridiculous.” Laughing, I close my hotel room door behind me and double-check the handle. “Before we go, we need a selfie.” I extend my arm, making room for Flynn, then snap a photo and stash my device.
“Let’s hop to it,” Bea says.
I shake my head. My friend is truly one of a kind. She’s supermodel gorgeous, with shiny auburn hair and big, bold, beautiful green eyes. She’s the kindest soul, but she also has no shame and truly doesn’t care what people think.
I’m jealous of the way her brain works. I spend so much time stressing about what people might think of me, sometimes spending hours dwelling on how I’m perceived. Beatrix makes self-confidence look effortless.
She’s been touring with Flynn on and off for the last several years, though she accepted a position with Kelly’s social media department three years ago.
Last year we didn’t see her a whole lot.
After her mom’s stroke, she went home so she could care for her while she recovered.
I’m so glad she’s back in the mix full time this year.
Flynn secures a rideshare, and we walk through the palatial lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Melbourne right on time.
We’re greeted by name by a concierge, then escorted up to Stefan’s suite.
As we step inside, Flynn emits a low whistle. This hotel room is absolutely the perfect place to gather for Sweatpants and Chill.
A sweeping entryway opens into a two-story living area with several doors I imagine lead to bedrooms. The rest of the main space is taken up by an incredible kitchen.
Most of our crew is already here. Bea’s kangaroo suit is definitely the most ridiculous, but she’s not the only one who went all out for tonight’s gathering.
Kenji is wearing a hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, which hugs his hips and butt like a dream. I’m low-key jealous of how good he looks in it, honestly.
Saint is wearing black silk pajamas. They’re pretentious and gaudy, yet they’re quite possibly the most on-brand attire I’ve ever seen him wear.
We trek into the kitchen, where almost every surface is covered with snacks. The drivers won’t have more than a single beer and a few other treats, yet there’s enough food here to feed an army, not just the eleven of us. But that’s how it goes in Formula 1.
As our friends notice our arrival, the energy in the room revs up, and then we’re practically tackled by Shelby, who bounds toward us, cackling at Bea’s outfit.
Once she regains her composure, she pulls me into a hug.
I loop my arms around her in return. “Congrats.”
She came in P10 today. It may not be the best spot, but a point is a point.
“Thanks,” she says, though there’s no missing the disappointment in her voice. “I can’t believe how much I struggled after I switched to softs.”
“It’s only the first race,” I remind her, squeezing her shoulders. “You’ll get them next time.”
With a smirk, she lifts one shoulder. “I know I will.”
Shelby’s confidence is inspiring. She is a very cool, collected driver who doesn’t let much get to her, and she has two years of experience more than most of our friends, having started in Formula 1 two seasons before the Elite Eight came onto the scene.
The woman is the queen of composure, just like my sister Aurelia, who happens to be Shelby’s best friend.
Speaking of best friends…
I scan the room, searching for mine.
“She’s over there,” Shelby mutters, clearly reading my mind. “Have you talked to her yet?”
Lips pressed together, I shake my head.
I texted Mia after the race, but she didn’t respond. That’s to be expected, though, given all her responsibilities, like talking to the media and debriefing with her team.
She finished the race in eighteenth place. Typically, that wouldn’t be bad for her debut on a newer team. But because six drivers either didn’t start or didn’t finish, P18 means Mia was dead last.
Abrams-Rhea has only been on the grid for two years. It would be almost unheard of if they were scoring in the points, and if anyone was going to make the top ten, Kenji, their veteran driver, would be much more likely than the rookie.
Because Mia has spent the last three years in development programs or waiting in the wings as a reserve driver, she hasn’t been allowed a lot of practice time in the car and on the track. While she’s had plenty of time in the simulator, nothing can replace hands-on experience.
My best friend has always been hard on herself. She gets in her head when a race doesn’t go well, so I assumed she’d need a little extra tenderness tonight. Hopefully she can relax a bit and let herself unwind.
She’s in the far corner of the kitchen, leaning over the island, talking to Prince.
“What’s that about?” I ask.