Page 11 of Overtake
The circuit monitors show the conclusion of the GP. Reece holds on to first, despite the restart. Nico and Wyn occupy second and third.
Those aremychampionship points Wyn’s taking. But my shot at the podium is a pile of shit sitting in Nitro’s garage.
“Right then.” Cin ushers me onward. “Ice bath.”
Tucked into a corner of our garage and surrounded by a privacy curtain, sit two large plastic recovery tubs that are essential post-race equipment, especially in Singapore. The team’s already filled one with ice water. Lucky me.
“Ten minutes.” Cin checks the temperature with a digital thermometer. “No arguments.”
I strip out of my race suit and fireproofs, every muscle protesting. The bruises from the crash are already starting to show across my hips and shoulders where the harnesses held me during impact.
The shock of the ice water hits like a punch, stealing my breath for a moment. In Singapore’s heat and humidity, drivers can lose up to three kilos of fluid from excessive sweating during a race, and an ice bath helps rapidly lower our core temperature for faster recovery. Plus the cold will reduce inflammation from the crash.
Cin sets a timer and perches on a nearby crate as I sink into the frigid bath, cursing every inch of the way because water that cold fucking hurts. But it numbs more than just my muscles; it gives me space to think without rage clouding everything. My cousin doesn’t speak—she knows I need these minutes to process what happened on the track.
When the timer goes off, I climb out, muscles already feeling less inflamed.
“Better?” Cin wraps me in heated towels, another part of the recovery ritual.
“Getting there.” I flex my shoulders, testing. “Now I want that shower.”
We head for my driver’s room. Jacintha’s got my gear. She’ll have everything cleaned and ready for the next race.
The Nitro building is mostly empty as the team is celebrating Reece’s win, so I have peace as we reach my room. Cin closes the door, and I head for the adjoining bathroom.
The mirror above the sink shows a stranger. My dark hair is a mess from the helmet, pink streaks damp with sweat. Despite the cold bath, fury still burns behind my gaze.
I can’t keep shrugging off the injustice of decisions that so obviously favor everyone but me, Petra Hayter, the only womancompeting in Formula One right now. The first woman with a very real chance at the Drivers’ Championship.
I’m just as good as any man on any F1 circuit. In fact, I have to be better than them. They all know it. And the vast majority of them don’t care that I don’t have a dick in my pants. Most of them have been racing me since we were teens. Including Wyn, who I remember as a skinny, shy kid who ate the carrot sticks Dad always packed in my snack even though I hated them.
I used to be friends with all these blokes.
With a heavy sigh, I strip off my sports bra and knickers, and get into the shower, mindful of bruises, aches, and anger that the ice couldn’t quite freeze out. I’m pissed off, but I’m also clearheaded enough to plan. The post-race party at The Blue Wall will be packed with media, sponsors, teams, and drivers, including Wyn Pritchard.
Dad always says there’s a right way to handle things in F1. But I’m done playing by rules that don’t apply equally to everyone.
I still haven’t got justice.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Blue Wall’spriciest whiskey burns going down, but the smoke and peat don’t wash away the taste of a hollow victory. Second place should feel better than this, even if it makes Nico the first loser. It’s a podium and points. Normally, he’d do the math and be satisfied.
Not this time.
Bass thuds through bar speakers, mixing with the cacophony of ice clinking in glasses, laughter, and the constant click and whir of phones capturing social media moments. Race highlights repeat on the bar’s mounted screens.
Nico grips his glass until the cut crystal bites into his palm. How long before he can bail without looking like an ass?
A ways down the bar, Wyn knocks back another shot. He’s growing more obnoxious with each round. The Blue Wall is packed. Everyone’s pretending the race’s controversy is just another day in F1. Wyn’s surrounded by sycophants, his voice carrying over everyone else as he recounts his “masterful defense” against Petra for the fifth time.
“Coño,” Nico mutters into the whiskey he’s been nursing for an hour. He should’ve protested to the stewards.
A hand lands on his shoulder. “Conejo.” Carlos Belmonte’s voice carries over the din of the bar, filled with the same steady authority it’s held for all of Nico’s twenty-six years. “You’re not enjoying this.”
“Not my scene,Papá. You know that.”
“Sí.” Carlos deposits an empty glass on the polished mahogany bar. His one and only drink for the evening. “You drove well today.”
