Page 6 of Racing Hearts
Please don’t ask it. Please don’t ask it, I silently begged to whatever God was listening, although based on how all of my press conferences had gone this season, I suspected I’d probably pissed Her off in a past life.
“Do you think it’s time to see more women in racing?”Ah, there it was.
My brother let out an almost inaudible gasp next to me, and I couldn’t help but smirk. If there was one thing the journalists were good for, it was this question. A full preseason and several races later, the men in the room never failed to softball this question with a patronizing grin, like they were just dying for me to say, “Actually, I think women should get back to the kitchen where they belong.” Notably, they never asked the other male drivers. Just me and my teammate Lily.
Unable to keep my frustration bottled up any longer, I let out the most exasperated sigh, matched only by my rather noticeable eye roll.
“I think we all know the answer to that question, Frank, because you ask it every race. Did you think my answer changed in the span of a single week?” Nora was waving in the background, her finger crossing her throat, signaling for me to quit before I said something I couldn’t take back.
But it was too late. “Sassy Dubois” had been released, and the silence was deafening. Apparently, the cure for my anxiety was arguing with sexists. I glanced over to Henri for help, a gleam of desperation hanging in my eyes, but his face told me I should have followed his earlier advice to just grin and bear it.
“Obviously, I want more women in the sport. If we had more women, maybe you would all stop asking about mylove life, or mymenstrual cycle, or myracing bra selectionduring our interviews because I wouldn’t be the shiny new toy to harass.”
Silence.
Thick, uncomfortable, no-one-meets-my-eyes silence engulfed the room.
Ten minutes ago I could barely get a word out, and now I sounded like a raving lunatic. But that was the thing about anxiety—it was a constant battle between not being able to utter a coherent sentence and ranting my inner thoughts through a rambling tirade. No in-between.
Shit.Isabelle was going to kill me.
Michael Clifton put his hands up, a largeeverything is finegrin plastered across his face. “Right! Well, thanks for that, Georgia… We wish you the best of lu—uh, we wish you thebestin Miami. As always, folks, we’ll see you next time in sunny Florida!”
Before Henri could make a snarky comment, I was already out of my chair, bolting towards the exit. Nora took off after me, her long legs frustratingly allowing her to catch up. When we burst back into the Valkyrie F1 hospitality suite, Isabelle’s expression stopped me cold. The smile she’d worn an hour earlier was gone, replaced by a look that said she was already halfway through writing my obituary. She motioned with her finger for me to join her in her office with a sharp flick of her finger. The moment I stepped inside, my confidence from before had withered.
“Before you say anything, I know I should have just answered with, ‘Yes, of course, I want more women in motorsport, blah blah blah.’ But I couldn’t do it. Not this time, Isabelle. The male drivers get engineering questions, and I get questions about shopping? It’s degrading and, quite frankly, their questions are becoming morose and repetitive,” I started to argue.
Isabelle didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at me, just typed aggressively on her keyboard, not caring to spare me a glance.
Feel sorry for whoever is getting that email.
When she finally deigned to give me her attention, she pointed towards a chair. “Georgia, I appreciate that the press are morons,” Isabelle started, her piercing green eyes slicing me open, “but unfortunately, change in a male-dominated sport isn’t going to happen overnight, so it’s our job to help guide them. Slowly. Carefully. Losing your temper in front of the media only plays into the ‘hormonal’ hothead stereotype they’re trying to stick you with.”
“But Ifinallywon.” My voice cracked with frustration. “Why can’t they just see my talent?”
“Because life isn’t fair,” she snapped.
I looked down, picking at my fingernails, wishing the floor would open and swallow me.
Isabelle sighed, softer this time. “The media and sponsors aren’t looking at your talent. They’re looking at your sassy attitude. And the more successful we become, the more desperate they get to prove it’s a fluke. Or that we’re cheating. That a women-led team couldn’t possibly deserve to win in Formula 1. Crusty old men don’t like being embarrassed. And Valkyrie F1 has embarrassed the hell out of them. The FIA don’t want us here. The legacy teams don’t want us here. And the press? They’re doing exactly what the establishment wants: baiting you. One bad quote at a time.”
Isabelle’s words were hard to digest, even if they were true. I wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that it was the twenty-first century and it shouldn’t be this way. But the truth was the best defense was to just keepwinning. To keep giving the team the success they deserved.
“I know,” I said finally, shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I’ll work on it for the next race and get some answers prepped with Nora.”
“Good. Because like it or not, Georgia, F1 is a sport where money talks louder than talent. Talent doesn’t buy engine parts. It takesmoneyto build a race-winning car. We’re not backed by a car manufacturer or billionaire’s trust fund. Our future depends on sponsors, and sponsors want polished, media-friendly, brand-ready drivers. You and Lily are two of the most talented racers on the grid, but if you don’t sell the dream, they’ll take their money elsewhere.”
And there was the crux of it all. More sponsors meant more money. More money gave us better car upgrades and builds. It was simple math, and as my race engineer liked to say, “the math doesn’t lie.”
I nodded, knowing there was no reason to further the conversation as I turned to leave the office. Regardless of how the press conference went, I was now a Formula 1 winner, and the fight for the World Driver’s Championship was on.
Chapter Four
Georgia
Just before seven p.m., a loud banging rang through my hotel room, causing the eyeliner I wasperfectlyapplying to slip.
“Shit!” I exhaled a groan. “Coming!” As soon as I opened the door, Henri and Éliott burst into the room, a champagne bottle in Éliott’s hand and chocolate cake in my brother’s.
