Page 25 of Overtake
Hah. Not bloody likely.
“Or does that not count as ‘tension between drivers’?”
“Petra.” Dad’s beside me and, yes, he’s also on the call. He didn’t want them talking to me at all about this, but the FIA insisted. Coy Hayter considers protecting his drivers to be one of his key duties as Nitro’s team principal.
“The stewards are reviewing the race incident separately, as you know.” The FIA official sounds both pompous and dismissive. “For now, we need to discuss?—”
“The fact that you’re more worried about an inebriated driver stumbling into a wall than about deliberate dangerous driving on track?” The words taste bitter as they roll off my tongue. “Fascinating priorities.”
Dad takes over the call before I can do more damage. “What my driver means is that we’re all eager to hear the stewards’ findings about Sunday’s crash. Now about this other matter.”
He talks and steers me toward a seat. I tune him out, focusing instead on the choreographed dance of private jets happening outside.
Zara approaches, tablet in hand. “Bowie wants you to have a look at the aero numbers for Austin.” The sprint format means less practice time to dial in the setup, which is each car’s specific configuration—tires, rear wing, floor height, etc.—for each driver at each track.
I point to the seat beside me. “Let’s have it.”
She sits and pulls up the data we’ve received from our test driver. He’s back at Nitro’s factory headquarters running setup simulations in the Driver-in-the-Loop rig so we don’t arrive in Austin blind. For a few blessed minutes, I lose myself in pure data. No politics, no bullshit, just physics and strategy. It’s simply lovely.
“They’re really more worried about the bar thing?” Zara’s voice drops even lower. “After what Wyn did?”
“This is motorsports, love.” I scroll through her calculations, impressed as always by her thoroughness. “Some issues get more attention than others, depending on who’s involved.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.” She’s Indian-American, born and raised in New York City, and I always appreciate her bluntness.
“Language,” I say automatically, then snicker at her eye-roll. “But, yes, it really fucking is.”
Dad ends the call with the FIA, and his expression says I’m in for a lecture about diplomatic responses. But before he can start, Asuka Shimamura crosses the lounge looking displeased as fuck. She’s our team’s chief engineer.
“Coy, I just talked with Lukov.” David Lukov is Nitro’s technical director. “They’re bumping up scrutineering in Austin. Thursday morning now, not afternoon.”
Scrutineering is the FIA’s mandatory technical inspection before and after each race. The cars are checked for regulations compliance, and failure can result in penalties and even disqualification.
Dad nods. “I heard.” He turns to me. “Also Graham Pritchard’s calling for a review of all recent incidents between you and Wyn. He claims there’s a pattern of aggressive behavior.”
“From me?” I scoff. “That’s rich.”
“From both of you.” His expression is grim. “But mostly you. He’s suggesting your rivalry is becoming dangerous.”
“The only dangerous thing is his son’s driving,” Zara mutters.
“Good. Fine.” I square my shoulders. “Let them investigate. Let them review every incident. Because if Graham Pritchard wants to talk about patterns of behavior, I’ve got plenty of footage to share.”
Dad sighs. “Pet...”
“I’m done playing nice. If they want a fight, they’ll get one. But it’ll be my kind of fight—clean, clear, and by the book.”
Claudia glances up. “You mean by the wall?”
“The wall had it coming.” I give her the sweetest smile ever, then sit back and cross my arms. Our plane doesn’t board for another thirty minutes, which means more time for the press to speculate and social media to explode. #WallGate is trending, because of course it is. Along with #JusticeForPetra and, somewhat worryingly, #BettOnBarriers.
“Don’t look at social media.” Cin appears with coffee, which means she’s trying to soften whatever news she’s about to deliver. “Graham Pritchard’s holding a presser when WolfBett lands in Austin.”
“Oh, fantastic.” I accept the coffee, breathing in the expensive roast. Trust Jacintha to find decent coffee in any airport. “Going to paint me as the violent menace to his poor, innocent boy?”
“Most likely.” She settles beside me, her own cup steaming. “But that’s not the worst part, Tonka.”
“There’s worse than Graham Pritchard with a microphone?”
