Page 142 of Overtake
She laughs. “But your beauty routine is so pivotal to all your wins.”
“Clearly.” I roll my eyes. “How will I survive without daily commentary on my moisturizer choices?”
Nicolina drops into a chair.
Sebastian settles across from her, long legs taking up space. The guy’s absurdly big to me after being around F1 drivers and crew who can’t compare to his mass. “What’s happening with Graham? He just disappeared?”
I shrug. “Apparently so. The bloke’s completely radioactive. He can’t get near any motorsport event. Even sponsors who worked with his other projects dropped him. Nitro’s suing him. So are Telco and JMR. Doubtless there are others.”
“Damn.” Nicolina shakes her head. “What about the other guy?”
Nico frowns. “Dixon Atteberry. Beside the espionage and blackmail, he was selling data to betting syndicates too. The whole enterprise was bigger than anyone realized. He’s facing prison and financial ruin.”
“Jeez.” Nicolina shakes her head. “How are Reece and Wyn handling all of it?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess? Reece has Maiken and had mostly cut Graham from his life already.”
Nico straightens and wraps his arm around my hips. “Wyn’s having a harder time.”
“He’s better on track, though,” I say. “He’s driving more like his old self and less like an absolute bastard.”
Nico nods. “It was good to see him on the podium in México.”
Nicolina smiles. “Good for him. He deserves to race without all that pressure.”
Sebastian nods down at the film crew on the track. “That’s wild.” They’ve set up cameras in and around a two-hundred-grand German coupe.
Nicolina glances over, then grins at us. “You’re about to turn trivia into a contact sport.”
Esteban and Cin appear, looking for Nico and me. We promise to come back up to the club after the session’s over, then leave Nicolina and Sebastian and head to our separate driver’s rooms.
I hang my team jacket on the hook in my room, smooth the fabric twice, then unpack my gear bag. Every piece goes exactly where it belongs, and I could reach out with my eyes closed and put my fingers on precisely the thing that I want.
Helmet on the left side of the counter. Balaclava rolled tight as a scroll beside it. Earpieces looped cleanly. Gloves foldedtogether, socks rolled and tucked into my right racing shoe, worry stone in the left.
“You’re doing that thing.” Cin closes the door behind her and leans against it, watching me with dark eyes that miss nothing.
“What thing?” I pull my Nitro team jersey from the bag and give it a sharp shake to eliminate wrinkles that aren’t there.
“The thing where every piece has its exact place and if one item is two millimeters off, the world might end.” She crosses her arms. “Singapore really rattled you, didn’t it?”
“Singapore?” I pause, jersey halfway over my head. “That was two months ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”
She’s studying me. “Because you’re arranging your kit like you’re about to perform surgery, not drive a hot lap.”
The jersey settles into place and I smooth it down, then reach for my new trackies. Black with the FuegoFrío fire-and-ice logo stretching down each leg. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” Cin nods toward my right hand, then meets my gaze. “But is your hand aching?”
I stop curling my fingers into a fist. I’ve been unconsciously flexing the knuckles that connected with Wyn’s nose.Bloody hell.I shake it out. “It’s fine too.” I glance up at her and know that I’m-waiting look on her face. “Singapore wasn’t about losing control,” I say quietly, pulling up the trackies. “It was about finally taking it.”
“I know.” Her voice is gentle. “But Vegas isn’t Singapore, Pet. Why are you armoring up like you’re heading into battle?”
I frown then lean against the massage table. “That night proved I can’t just put my head down and drive anymore. Every time some drunk arsehole opens his mouth around me, it’s to bitch about women being in F1.”
Cin nods slowly. “You feel the weight of being first.”
“The weight of beingonly.” I run both hands through my hair. “When Wyn said those things about my arse slipping outfrom under me, about not knowing how to recover... it wasn’t just him talking. It was every doubt, every snide comment, every bloody journalist asking about my skincare routine between engineering briefings.”
