Page 18 of Overtake
“Graham.”
Exactly the answer I expected.
Graham Pritchard has a chokehold on his sons. Well, on Wyn. Over the last two seasons, Reece has cut the cord on his father’s control, wresting his independence from the man who, yes, gave him and his brother the opportunity to become world-class drivers, but at the expense of their self-determination. I don’t know the full story behind Reece’s transformation from cold-bastard Pritchard to a guy I love having on my team, but I know Maiken played a large part in it.
“Come on.” Reece catches my sleeve, and ducks into the stairwell instead of catching the lift.
I sigh as the door closes behind us. “Your father’s going to be livid.”
“Graham’s always pissed off. It’s his natural state.” Reece leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Besides, he’s more worried about the sponsors than Wyn’s nose. Image is everything, right? Can’t have the Second Coming looking like a hooligan.”
The anger in his tone gives me pause. “You okay?”
“Mm. Funny thing about your crash yesterday.” He’s lowered his voice even more. “Wyn told me Graham was on the radio right before it, telling him Nico was catching up. That he had to stop being a fucking pussy and letting his teammate and… that British bitch outperform him. Same shit, different day.”
My eyes go wide, not because of the insult. I’ve heard that and worse plenty of times. No. I’m shocked because Graham Pritchard has zero fucking business being on the radio with one of his sons during a race. That’s the purview of Wyn’s racing engineer, Gaël Faucheux, and WolfBett’s team principal, Marcus Wolfberg, and the latter only in rare instances. No one else should be talking to a driver during a race.No. One.That’s an unbelievable distraction for a driver and a danger to them and everyone else on the track.
“Shit. Reece. Was he distracted or was it deliberate?”
“Does it matter? Christ, Petra, after what he did to you in F2? Which, I assure you, was deliberate.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, you need to be careful. Graham’s got friends in Race Control and sponsors in his pocket. And Wyn’s his favorite weapon.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know you can. My brother’s face today proves that.” He smiles, but it fades fast. “But maybe don’t put yourself in a position where you have to. And be careful about trusting Belmonte.”
That pulls me up short. “What’s Nico got to do with this?”
“He’s a championship defender with a teammate problem. You’re the biggest threat to his title this year.” Reece shrugs. “I’m just saying people have motives. Even surprisingly helpful people who cover for totally accidental wall encounters.”
I nod slowly. I don’t want to think that Nico’s playing a game here, but he’s just as bloody competitive as the rest of us. “Thanks for having my back, Reece.”
“Yeah, well.” He grins suddenly, looking more like the kid who used to smuggle me into hospitality units when we were teens. “That punch was years in the making. Wish I’d witnessed it.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’d never put you in a spot where’d you’d have to choose family or team.”
“I know that.” Reece catches my sleeve again as I start down the stairs. “Pet? Whatever happens... you’ve got allies. Remember that.”
I pause, surprised by the sudden thickness in my throat. Then I look back at him and nod. “Thanks.”
Breakfast with Cin is next and I owe her a massive apology. Maybe the hotel serves blueberry pancakes. They’re her faves.
My hand throbs as I head for the hotel dining room. Nico’s intervention keeps playing through my mind. Why’d he step in last night, and back my story this morning? Maybe when he was a kid he would’ve jumped into this shit, but now? His actions don’t fit theman, the four-time world champ who’s always been more interested in lap times and telemetry than people. Yet he put himself between me and the consequences without hesitation. Like he actually cared about what was right, not just what was expedient. Which…
Bloody hell. Yeah, Reece is probably right about proceeding with caution there.
“My teammate who ran me off the track? That teammate?”
The memory of Nico’s voice, warm and certain, makes something flutter in my chest.
I've felt that rubbish feeling before, and I shove it aside. I won’t be distracted by Nico Belmonte, no matter how decent he acted.
Monday morning post-race means the dining room is humming. The personnel of ten F1 teams click away at laptops, reviewing data and making notes before they pack up and head to the States for the U.S. Grand Prix in Austin, Texas. But the mood in the room is a strange vibe I can only attribute to the wall-punch rumors.
Especially as I gather attention like a magnet grabs iron filings. Everyone’s gawping as I cross the room.
I settle into a chair at the corner table Jacintha’s commandeered. I’m wincing because now that the madness of last night has worn off, all my muscles are being arseholes.
Opposite me, my cousin sips steaming coffee, her dark curls pulled back in a professional bun that contrasts with the smirk on her face. I hate that she’s enjoying my suffering, but I can’t do anything to stop her.
