Page 7 of Racing Hearts
“Nice raccoon eyes,” Henri chuckled, and I gave my brother a quick shove, lunging for the dessert.
“Bring this all the way from Monaco in case I won?”
“No, I brought it in caseIwon,” he laughed, lifting the cake above my head. “But since you did, I figured we couldshare.”
Behind my brother stood Éliott, Henri’s best friend, who over the last couple of years had truly become one of my closest friends. Éliott was a ray of sunshine on the darkest days. While Henri offered more tough love, Éliott offered solidarity. He understood what I was going through, and even though we were competitors on different teams, his loyal support had been unwavering over the last five races.
“Georgie Pie.” Éliott smiled. “So fucking proud of you today!”
Grinning, I waved them inside, handing over spoons as we flopped onto the suite’s leather couch. Éliott popped the bottle of champagne, pouring us each a glass from the kitchenette’s mismatched glassware.
“Figured we had to get a pre-drink in before we head out to celebrate your win tonight!” But as Éliott clinked his glass with mine, he flickered his eyes to my brother, and I knew they had an ulterior motive for being here. Like a cloud brewing before a storm, the mood of the room darkened slightly.
“So…” Henri started, awkwardly poking at his cake.
And there it was.
“What did Isabelle have to say?”
I stuffed my mouth was a large chunk of icing, chewing painfully slow as I stalled for time, but neither of them broke eye contact. Their gazes were expectant. Almost like they’d spent the late afternoon planning this intervention.
Or been told to by Isabelle.
“She was displeased,obviously. This year has been financially tough, and the team has been struggling to get sponsors. If we don’t secure this big Maison de Klotho sponsorship deal soon, the team could be put up for sale. The embarrassment of the only woman-owned team failing, it puts added stress on the team. Added stress on me.”
“And she thinks your sharp tongue isn’t helping?”
I shot him an irritated look. “Apparently, the phrase ‘there’s no such thing as bad press’ isn’t actually true.”
“I don’t get it. You’re a brand-new team featuring the only female drivers on the grid. Why is the team struggling to get sponsors?”
“Oh, Henri. You sweet, naïve golden boy.” Even Éliott uttered a disbelieving scoff at my brother.
Henri groaned; he hated that nickname, even if he knew it was true. The motorsports world adored my brother. Tall, handsome, charming and fast—sponsors loved him. He was the package all teams wanted in their athletes.
“Look at the logos on your car, Henri. It’s companies withmaleCEOs andmaleexecutive teams who like to watchmenrace fast cars. Name one company on your car that is run by a woman.” Henri’s face was tense, and I watched my brother mentally go through his list of sponsors: oil companies, private investment firms, IT infrastructure companies, not a single one with a female CEO. “Motorsport is predominantly watched by men, sponsored by men, and run by men.”
A concept that had never occurred to him. It hadn’t needed to.
“What’s going on with the Maison de Klotho sponsorship? Any more movement on that?” he asked.
“They’re interested.” I stared at my plate. “We need this to come through. They’re one of the largest fashion houses in the world. They see the growing female fanbase, but we still have to show them we’re worthy of sponsoring.” I exhaled, my eyes fixed on the dark, velvety chocolate sauce that swirled on my plate. “I need to show them that I’m worthy of sponsoring.”
“It’s a team effort, Peaches…” My brother started.
“ButI’mthe team leader, the number one driver. A big part of this burden rests onmyshoulders.”
“I guess just raw talent doesn’t get you sponsors these days,” Éliott sighed, dusting a few crumbs off his pants.
“Sponsors want charm and the ability to sell; talent is just a nice bonus.” The unfortunate truth with any sport. It was like the media expected me to be a social butterfly in front of the press simply because I was a woman. Silent dread filled me as I took another bite of cake, the sudden dryness making it hard to swallow.
I had the talent, but the charm? I’d spent years mastering my ability to hide from cameras, a not so helpful skill when your team’s survival depended on being the center of attention.
“I know you try to understand, Henri, but I just can’t explain how being in front of the press makes me feel. I hate being put in front of people I don’t know, only to be asked the same ridiculous questions every week. I feel like a monkey at the circus, on display for everyone to see.”
“But Georgia—”
“I just want to race,” I said softly. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do since Dad took us to see our first Monaco Grand Prix.” As young kids, we’d fought to be lifted onto our father’s shoulders, desperately trying to catch the action of the Monaco Grand Prix below us. It was how we’d fallen in love with racing.
