Page 100 of Racing Hearts
“That’s enough!” a voice yelled beside me. Edward, who’d come in P3, was now standing, microphone in hand. “Press conferences are for usdriversto answer questions for the fans. You know, the people we race for.”
“Don’t you think the fans want to know if Georgia actually deserves to be in Formula 1?” Marcus fired back.
“Not as much as the fans might want to know whySports Broadcastinghired such a lunatic to do their press interviews,” I retorted. A ripple of stunned laughter went through the room. A petty thing to say—and frankly, not the best quip—but his unamused face told me my point had been made.
A murmur rippled through the press room, and for the first time, I noticed some nodding heads among the journalists.
“So, let me get this straight, you’ve been accused of cheating, and your response is to giggle about it?”
Unbelievable.
Henri bristled beside me, but I held out a hand, stopping him. This was my battle to fight. I’d spent the last several races hiding behind my friends and family, letting my anxiety get the best of me, but as I stared down at the broadcaster, I realized how little I cared in that moment. How little I cared about the press’s comments, jabs, and insults.
“No, Marcus, my response is to laugh atyou. All ofyou. You call yourselves journalists, but you don’t have a shred of journalistic integrity. Let me ask you this: did you question why theDaily Reporterarticle didn’t have a single bad thing to say about Luca?”
Silence. Not a shuffle, not a tap of a laptop key.
“Of course not, and I’ll tell you why. Because you all know that attacking Luca, the son of a world-famous F1 champion, won’t sell papers. No one would believe you. But attacking the woman you’ve berated all season? Well, that’s fair game, isn’t it?”
As I held their gazes, it seemed ridiculous that I had ever been afraid of them. They seemed so small and insignificant staring back at me.
“But—” Marcus went to interject.
“I’m not finished,” I bit out. “You all have tried to bury me since Bahrain. You call it reporting. I call it misogyny.” I scanned the room. “You want a statement? Fine. Here’s one: I’m not leaving. I’m not backing down. I am going to win this championship, and then I’ll win the next one. And the next one. And you can write that in your fucking papers. I don’t care if you don’t like me. I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to win. I’m not leaving Formula 1.Valkyrieisn’t leaving Formula 1, so I suggest you all get used to it.”
I could see some heads nodding. Some faces falling, and I took another deep breath, before standing up and stepping off the small stage.
“You’ve all held too much power over me since I started this season, but no more. From now on, in press conferences, I’ll only be answering questions about my driving. You want to know what I do in my personal time? Tough. It’s none of your business.”
I turned to Michael Clifton, and I almost gave him an apologetic smile before stopping myself. He didn’t deserve an apology from me. None of them did.
I set the microphone down in front of him.
“Georgia,” Michael whispered, “you’ll get fined if you leave now.”
I half-smiled. “Then expect a check in the mail, Michael. Maybe use the money to get us some better journalists.”
Nora was chasing after me as I walked out of the press conference. When I got to the garage, I marched straight into the team principal’s office and took a seat in front of Isabelle, who just narrowed her eyes at me while motioning for Nora to shut the door. The office vibe felt like a showdown from one of those old western movies, the sheriff vs the villain, except I was no longer going to be the villain in my story.
“Damn it, Georgia.Why?” Isabelle finally lamented.
“Why?” I scoffed sarcastically. “Why do they get to treat me like garbage?” I demanded back. “Why can’t I defend myself?”
“Because we’re supposed to be burying this story, not giving themmorereasons to bring it up!”
Isabelle was angry, that much was clear. She leaned back into her chair, resting her head in her hands and rubbing her eyes with frustration. It was rare to see Isabelle so defeated, and it felt like a kick to the stomach, but I wasn’t going to apologize. Not this time.
“I just want this to go away for you, Georgia. I get it. You’re young and ambitious, and yes, it’s unfair that they treat you this way, but we need to learn to control the narrative, not feed into it,” Isabelle begged.
I had spent the entire season backing down, letting journalists get away with their misogyny. Had spent these last few months hiding in the shadows so we could get sponsors, but the more I thought about it, the more it became clear that sponsors wanted someonelovedby fans.
“To hell with the press. I don’t care if this story drags on for ten years, Isabelle. I’m not going to sit back and let them treat me this way. I won’t teach little girls that it’s okay for male journalists to tear down female athletes. You hired me to win, to fight. So that’s what I’m doing. And if I lose my racing seat, then so be it, because I’ll lose it staying true to who I am.”
I pushed back my chair and strode toward the office door. My hand closed around the knob—
Laughter.
A loud, unapologetic, delighted laugh.
