Page 24 of Overtake
“Fuck him.” He bites out those words. “He’s been trying since that shit with Nia. I’m still here.”
“Yo sé.”Esteban knows. He adjusts Nico’s hand position. “But you need to survive October. Whatever’s coming with the Pritchards and Petra won’t be easy to ignore.”
“It’s not about her.” Nico’s lying when he says that. Everything’s connected—his need to protect, to stand against bullies, to do what’s right. And Petra.
“Keep telling yourself that,campeón.” Esteban’s voice softens. “But maybe explain why you’ve watched the replay of her Spa qualifying lap sixteen times.”
“That’s tactical research.”
“Research.” His physio’s skepticism couldfillMarina Bay. “Like watching her post-race interviews is research?”
“I don’t— How do you even know about that?”
“I know everything.” Esteban adds more weight to the machine. “It’s my job. Like knowing when my friend is lying to himself.”
“I’m not.”
“Slow down. And yes, you are. But we’ll deal with that later. Right now, focus on Austin. Graham will be in his element there.”
“Pushing Wyn even harder.”
“Exactamente. So put aside this thing about Petra Hayter. At least until after the championship.”
Nico completes the set in silence. Finally, he returns the weight stack to its starting position and wipes sweat from his face. “You really think Graham will try his shit again?”
“Graham Pritchard made a fortune turning racing into reality TV drama. What do you think?”
“Mierda.”
“Indeed.” Esteban checks his watch. “Shower, pack, then the airport. And Nico?”
“¿Sí?”
“Next time you decide to witness someone punching your teammate, try not to look so pleased about it in the photos.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I pacethe lounge at Seletar Airport, phone pressed to my ear, watching Zara triple-check the data we need for Austin’s sprint qualifying. Such a clever woman.
“Ms. Hayter? Are you listening?”
“Absolutely.” I’m not. “Just trying to understand why this requires an emergency meeting when you still haven’t reached a decision about the Singapore GP crash.”
The FIA’s concern for “maintaining professional conduct” would be a lot more convincing if they showed the same urgency about preventing Wyn from running the competition off track.
“The incident with Mr. Pritchard?—”
“Which incident exactly? The one where he ran me off track at two hundred seventy-five km/h or the one where his face allegedly got into an altercation with a gent’s room wall?”
Silence is the reply.
The morning meeting Dad and I had with the race director about last night’s crash was rather straightforward. I gave my version of the incident, recounting my on-track decisions at each moment leading up to it, and provided my honest opinion that Wyn was a fucking wanker for deliberately moving over on me. When the FIA reached out just now, I expected they’d give theteam the investigation’s conclusion, not drill me about Prick-chard’s stupid face.
I move to the windows. Out on the tarmac, a black and silver private jet taxis toward the runway. It’s the Ravn Racing team plane and I track it as it picks up speed.
“Ms. Hayter.” The warning in the official’s voice is clear. “Several team principals have raised concerns about tension between drivers.”
“Really? Have they raised concerns about the fact that I could’ve died Sunday evening?” I catch Claudia’s intense gaze across the lounge. She’s listening in and recording the call. Formula One team protocol means I never speak to anyone in an official capacity without someone recording the conversation. Doubtless, she’s also there to assure I respond diplomatically.
