Page 2 of Overtake
F1 fans are rabid and Singapore’s are no exception. The roar from the grandstands echoes through the paddock, a wall of sound that includes chants and cheers I can’t quite make outfrom here. But the energy is electric, and I hear my name being called from multiple directions beyond the circuit barriers.
“Tenacious P!”
“Petra, we love you!”
“Niiiitrooooo!”
My fans, the self-proclaimed Hayter Honeys, have made their presence known throughout the weekend, many sporting pink-streaked hair and nails painted to match mine. They’re absolutely the best.
Jacintha, Rodrigo, and I cross the paddock, threading our way around fans, crew members, and media. He parts them like the Red Sea so I can stay focused. Our goal is the PNW Nitro garage where a team of mechanics and engineers surround my green and pink car, readying it for the challenge ahead.
But someone catches my eye, and I veer off course. “Hold on, you lot.” There’s something I need to do before I reach our garage.
Cin stops and waits. Rigo follows me because the Fort is always nearby.
Nico Belmonte, the reigning Drivers’ Champion and driver for WolfBett Racing, is speaking with a pair of reporters. His dark blue and gold race suit, unzipped and open, hangs around his hips, revealing the fireproof undergarments we all wear. It’s a good look on him, I’m not above admitting. Fans and photographers hover around him, bees around the finest flower.
His nickname isEl Conejo—The Rabbit—because the blond Spanish driver is fast as all hell and slips in and out of the tightest spots. I should know. I’ve been racing the bastard for twelve years. He’s also one of the most disciplined drivers on the circuit. He proves you can race hard and clean, and still win. A lot.
I stop behind his right shoulder, pop my hip, and raise two fingers behind my head and two behind his—rabbit ears. Nothing like photo-bombing the competition before a race.
The photographers laugh and grab the shot just as Nico turns to see my cheeky pose. His grey gaze meets mine and his lips lift into a sexy half-smile.
I’m also not above admitting that the fellow isveryfine on the eyes.
“Get accustomed to the view. The back of my head is all you’ll see today, Hayter.”
“Fat chance, Bunny Boy.” With a wink for the photographers, I pivot and continue to the Nitro garage. But I’m pretty sure Nico’s watching me go.
As he should.
Inside the garage, the smell of fuel, rubber, and hot metal permeates everything—it’s a scent I prefer to any perfume. The odor of the circuit’s wet tarmac just adds to the bouquet.
This is home.
The place is a hive of activity. Mechanics crawl around my car and Reece Pritchard’s like ants at a picnic, each with a job to do, working in concert. Reece is my fellow driver. Every team has two. We’re nothing without this crew, and I can say with confidence that we never forget that.
Coy—Dad—stands at the head of the engineering station, arms crossed, observing the mechanics and engineers with a critical eye. He’s not just my father, he’s our team principal, and at fifty-three he remains imposing—his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly trimmed, posture impeccable. He spots me and gives a single, deliberate nod as I don one of the headsets that allows the team to communicate while in the garage. The sound of the warming car engines precludes conversation otherwise.
“Head in the game?” Dad’s voice is measured in the radio, but I catch the hint of pride in his brown eyes—the same color as mine.
“One hundred ten percent.” I stop beside him.
“Car’s looking good.” He nods at it.
“Because we have the best crew in the business.”
“Yes, we do.” He pauses. “P3 is a good position for you. Clean line into turn 1. Barring any nonsense, this race is yours to take, Pet.”
That’s Dad—no flowery encouragement, just practical assessment and unwavering certainty. It’s all I need.
“I know.” I’m confident but I don’t want to be too cocky. That’s how I get into trouble. Starting third suits me. I like a good chase, but I’ve been here before. Racing is unpredictable, which is what makes it thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
“Petra, let’s talk strategy.” Bowie Lucassen, my race engineer, interrupts our moment. He’s been the voice in my helmet for ten years, ever since I was sixteen and competing in F3, when Dad poached him from Jove Morrison Racing to be my engineer. There’s no one I trust more during a race.
“Talk to me.” I follow him to the opposite side of the bank of monitors that divides the two bays in Nitro’s garage. Reece and his race engineer, Misho Leroy, are already on their side.
Reece is tall for an F1 driver with the same lean, athletic build as his brother, Wyn, who races for our competition. The guy’s short dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, even in racing conditions. I blame his wife for that. Beside him, I look like a storm with my wild pink-streaked brunette locks pulled into a short ponytail, but our dynamic works. Reece is a cool alpine lake. I’m a raging sea. The sponsors and fans love that about our team.
