Page 1 of Racing Hearts
Chapter One
Georgia
“Pole position, baby!” Mel yelled into my radio as I settled into the driver’s seat of my Formula 1 car. “Let’s show those boys how a Formula 1 race is won, yeah?”
Through my mirror, I glanced at my brother whose car was in second position on the starting grid. Henri wanted this Spanish Grand Prix victory as much as I did, and he wasn’t going to make this win easy for me. His cold text messages earlier this morning showed just how frustrated he was to get second place in yesterday’s qualifying. Sarcastically telling my brother he should have practiced moreprobablywasn’t the best choice of a response, but this was my first time qualifying on pole this season, and I wasn’t in the business of apologizing for my success.
I stared up at the lights that danced above the F1 starting line, taking a deep, calming breath.
One light.
Two lights.
Three lights.The distinct smell of engine fumes crowded my senses as I continued to breathe deeply, steadying my heart rate.
Four lights.
Five lights.Lights out.
Without hesitation, I squeezed the throttle and launched into the first corner, determined to defend my first-place starting position from Henri’s aggressive overtaking tactics. Our cars jostled for the lead, tires sliding as we fought for control.
So, it’s gloves off then, is it, Henri?
“Careful on tires, G,” Mel mumbled through the radio. She wanted these tires to last. Defending position from other drivers tore away the rubber grip, but like hell was I going to let my brother overtake me on lap one. The Barcelona-Catalunya circuit required two pit stops, and the longer you could make the first set of tires go, the better the second half of your race would be.
Lap after lap, I maintained my lead, my car gliding through the track with precision, edging just slightly away from the rest of the cars behind me. At around lap seventeen, the Hermes team called Henri into the pits first, his tires worn thin from his attempted overtakes. My brother had never mastered the ability to conserve his tires. Two laps later, it was my turn to veer off the track and into the pits.
I exited the pit lane clean, heart still pounding, only to see a bright purple streak fly past me. My heart sank as I watched the other Hermes driver pass me by.
Luca Rossi.
“Of course, I come out behind Luca,” I muttered under my breath. Memories of last week’s tense battle flashed through my mind. He’d refused to give up the racing line to me, a line that I’d clearly won, and his arrogance had sent him into the gravel, ending his race. But now Luca was in front of me, and he was undoubtedly going to make me pay.
For an entire lap, I shadowed his every move, analyzing his trajectory, searching for weaknesses. But each time I lunged, he defended his line, refusing to let me by. Even if it wore down his tires.
“Asshole! We’re not even racing each other!” I screamed inside my helmet, glad the radio feed was off. Considering Luca had qualified in sixth place, he should have been more worried about saving his tires to battle it out with Lily and Éliott—not me. Defending your position wasted lap time.
My attempts to overtake him at various corners were thwarted, but in a moment of slight misjudgment, Luca drifted too wide on a turn, giving me the inside line, and I was not going to back down. I braked late, turning in sharply forcing Luca to yield, which he wisely did.
Luca had learned his lesson: Georgia Dubois didn’t back down from fights, she won them.
Finally, after maneuvering through the other cars, I’d easily returned to first position, my car gripping the track with absolute perfection with my newer tires. A second pit stop was completed with utter perfection, and by lap forty-nine, I’d put ten seconds between me and my brother, an excellent buffer. My body tingled with adrenaline that sent a fire through me. Imposter syndrome had been my biggest weakness this year, and after each lap, its grip on my heart was fading.
At the start of lap fifty, Mel popped on to the radio. “Yellow flag and safety car. Accident close to the pit entrance.”
“Shit! Just my luck to get a safety car this close to the end.”
Five races into the season, and Lady Luck never seemed to be on my side. A restart with the safety car meant all the F1 cars would be forced back together, eliminating that beautiful ten-second gap between me and my brother. All of the work from the first half of the race was down the drain. With the yellow flag in play, the next five laps felt like utter agony as I drove behind the safety car, weaving as best I could in an attempt to keep my tire temperatures up. For cars meant to go 200mph, driving this slow in a race was nearly impossible.
“Track is almost clear. Race is about to restart,” Mel announced.
Henri was right behind me now, probably singing his victory speech in his helmet. When it was safe to restart, I led the group of cars off again, but as I rounded the next corner, I felt my wheels spin, making me go wide. A rookie mistake.
“Fuck!” I yelled out as Henri’s car zoomed past mine, his tires hugging the track as he overtook me in one fell swoop. I knew I hadn’t kept my tires’ temperature up during the yellow flag, and cold tires were impossible to control.
There was no response from the team, and undoubtedly Mel was assessing the situation from the pit wall where my race engineer and leadership sat. My tires were wearing, and we couldn’t risk a blowout.
I drove behind Henri for another ten laps, and as I entered the penultimate lap, I was still trailing a second and a half behind my brother in second place. Time was running out for me to catch up, and my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would break through at any moment. This was Valkyrie F1’s first real opportunity to win a race, and with each passing second, that dream of being the first women-run team to win a Grand Prix was slipping from our grasp. The jaws of defeat started to wrap around my heart, but I gripped the steering wheel harder, forcing the dread away.
