Page 2 of Formula Dreams
“What message do you think your presence sends to little girls watching?”
“Is there a particular brand of foundation you recommend for under-helmet wear?”
That one was from a man, by the way.
I handled it exactly the way I was coached by our PR team by keeping my answers tight and professional.This would prevent them from twisting my words.They eventually got tired of my unwillingness to play and moved on to a dialogue that had to do with racing.But afterward, I spent an hour walking the paddock to stop myself from punching something.
I don’t want to be a symbol.I most certainly don’t want to be a gimmick.I want to drive—fast, focused and feared.I want them to talk about my cornering, my braking zones, my times—not my chromosomes.Or my mascara.
An unexpected knock sounds at the door, and I cross the room.Brienne Norcross, owner of Titans Racing and the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team, stands on the other side.Beautifully chic in pale slacks and a structured black blazer, her platinum-blond hair pulled into a sleek twist.She looks like she belongs on a Parisian runway, but she’s one of the most powerful and shrewd businesswomen in the world.
I blink.“Ms.Norcross.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says smoothly, her blue eyes quiet and assessing.“I wanted to speak with you privately before the noise starts.”
I step back and gesture my welcome.“Of course.”
She enters with the confidence most women fake, and most men find threatening.
“I know I saw you a week ago in Tuscany,” she says, studying my perched helmet.“I wanted to see how things were going.”She smiles faintly.
“That was business.This is… different.”A week ago, she offered me the second driver’s seat at Titans Racing.Probably the best day of my life.“It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams.”
She turns to me, quietly assessing.“Today is a monumental day in this sport’s history.All eyes are on you.”
With a tight throat, I nod.
She offers an empathetic smile.“I imagine the pressure’s been… intense.”
I manage a small laugh.“You could say that.”
“I’ve seen the headlines,” she says.“Heard the soundbites.Watched the commentary clips.”
My stomach knots.“It’s a circus.”
“It is,” she agrees.“But it’s not forever, and most importantly, it’s not why you’re here.”
I meet her eyes.“Sometimes it feels like it is.”
“I understand,” she says.“When I bought this race team, they called me a socialite with a hobby.Said I didn’t know the difference between a gearbox and a grapefruit.They said worse when I took over the hockey team.”
I blink.“Just because you’re a woman.”
“Just because I’m a woman,” she agrees.But her gaze sharpens.“So do you know what I did?”
I shake my head.
“I let results speak louder than outrage.I want you to do the same.”
A long silence stretches between us.
“You’re not here to carry the sport on your shoulders, Francesca.You’re here because you’re fast and because you’re the best damn option for this team.You were not hired because you’re a female.”
That lands like a weight—but not a burden.Perhaps a tether?
“I expect great things from you,” she continues.“Eventually.But today, I want one thing only—”
“Run a clean race,” I murmur.
