Page 28 of Racing Hearts
And anger. What had Valkyrie done?
“How is she, doc?”
Isabelle and Nora came bursting into the tent, both pale and wild-eyed.
“How much water did Georgia have in her car?” I asked suddenly, and Isabelle turned to me, shock—and a hit of frustration—written on her face.
“The water device broke. Georgia didn’t let us know.”
“How could you not have checked it?” I demanded.
Georgia shot her hand up, and I turned my attention to her. “Luca, it’s fine. I should have said something. Let’s not make a big deal about it.” Her eyes begged me to quit it, but the more I stood there watching her sip slowly at the water bottle, the more anger bubbled to the surface.
“It’s not fine, Georgia, you fucking fainted!”
She made a move to get up, attempting to swing her legs off the bed, but Henri put his hands on her shoulder, stopping her.
“Peaches, what the fuck? Luca is right. You passed out. You’re going to lie down for a bit,” he insisted.
Ignoring her brother’s demand, Georgia sat up, waving the doctor over. “I’m fine. Just give me a few minutes, and then I’ll join you both in the cooldown room.” Henri scoffed at her insistence, lightly pushing on her shoulder to stop her from getting up.
“This is insane, who cares about the stupid podium, Georgia?” Henri was now standing, his arms on both hips as he stared down at his sister like a mother scolding a child.
“I do.” Georgia’s voice was strong, and as she took another sip of water, the color in her face started to return. “All week the media have been commenting about my ability to race in this heat, but I did it. I finished in third after a dismal qualifying, and like hell is anyone stopping me from getting the podium celebration I deserve because of a little heat exhaustion.”
The defiance in Georgia’s eyes was nothing short of remarkable, and no one said anything as Nora and Isabelle stared at her with some disbelief.
But this was what made Georgia such an accomplished racer, what made herspecial. Nothing stopped her from accomplishing her goals; and like hell was she going to give the media more fodder to come after her.
And truth be told, if it was me, no one would be able to stop me from collecting my trophy either.
“How about this,” the doctor suggested, putting his hands up in defeat. “Give it another five minutes. Recovery for heat syncope is quick. Georgia, head to the podium celebration, but I expect to see you back here for more fluids after it’s all finished.” The doctor dumped another hydration packet into my Hermes water bottle. “Here, take this water and hydration package with you.”
The F1 stewards had surprisingly pushed back the podium celebration. We made our way to the cooldown room that held the winners before the podium celebration. Georgia was already there when we walked in, perched on the edge of a bench, one arm lazily fanning herself while the other gripped my water bottle like it was a lifeline. Her racing suit was peeled halfway down her torso, tied around her waist. The flush hadn’t fully left her cheeks, but she was upright, alert, and still looked like she could take someone’s head off if they offered her sympathy.
A blast of cold air brushed against my face, but it did little to alleviate the oppressive heat that clung to my skin. I was still in my racing suit, and the longer I stood in it, the more desperate I felt to escape. I unzipped my suit, peeling off my damp shirt without thinking, tying my race suit around my waist. I tossed the fireproof spandex shirt onto a chair, sighing in relief as the cold air hit my skin.
Georgia’s eyes were locked on me, gaze skating slowly across my chest before jerking back to her water bottle like she’d been burned.
My brows lifted, a slow smirk curving across my mouth.
Henri crossed his arms, pointing to the chair next to me. “Put your shirt on, there’s cameras in here.”
“Spoilsport,” I muttered, tugging my shirt back on, but not before catching another quick glimpse from Georgia.
“Alright, you’re on,” the steward said, leading Georgia out first, and then after a few more seconds, motioned for me to join her on the podium. Walking out to the roaring crowd, a feeling of invincibility washed over me, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I looked to my left, and Georgia was waving down at the fans, blowing a few kisses to her mechanics. It was impossible not to smile at the genuine laughter on her face. Impossible not to admire the strength it took to get up on that podium.
When Henri got his trophy, we all huddled in for a group photo.
“Right, Dubois, you ready?” I winked at Georgia, and before Henri picked up his bottle of champagne, the two of us were spraying down her brother and his Hermes race engineer with the cold liquid.
This was my favorite part of being on the podium. Rivalry forgotten in the euphoria of champagne, deafening crowds, and the satisfaction of knowing we’d survived another Sunday. The three drivers up there, for just a few moments, had a special connection filled with pure, blissful joy.
My father and mother waved to me from down below, and that feeling of warmth that I used to have as a kid, it felt like a small piece of that was returning. The moment I walked down, my father grabbed me and pulled me into a hug.
“Amazing work today, son. How did you know Georgia wasn’t well?”
I barely had time to answer before reporters swarmed us. Flashes exploded in every direction. Matteo shuffled in quickly, steering me toward my private room while we left my father to face the cameras. Not one more word about my race. Not a nod to the way I’d defended P2, or nearly closed the gap on Henri. The small light from the podium celebration seemed to fade, as a reminder of my position on the team came back to me.
