Page 26 of Overtake
Claudia joins us. “Junior’s doing the rounds.” Her lip curls. “Specifically about teammate loyalty. Suggesting that certain drivers might be letting personal feelings affect their judgment.”
It takes me a moment to parse that. “DBJ’s going afterNico? That’s suicide.”
“Mm.” She shows me her tablet. There’s Junior looking every bit the entitled heir apparent while talking aboutconcerning behaviorandquestionable priorities. Like he has any room to talk about such things. The man makes my skin crawl for reasons I can’t quite name.
“That little shit.”
“Language,” Dad calls from across the lounge, not looking up from his phone. “And stop reading that garbage.”
Zara keeps tapping away at her tablet. “The technical blogs are on our side, at least. They’re pulling telemetry from every incident with Wyn this season. The data doesn’t lie.”
I blow steam from my coffee. “No, but money talks louder than data in this sport.”
“Not always.” She looks up, brown eyes fierce. “Sometimes the truth just needs enough people willing to speak it.”
I study her. She’s barely twenty-four, brilliant, and absolutely fearless about standing up for what’s right. When we hired her, some of the older strategists complained about her age, her gender, and her “attitude.” Now they come to her for solutions. That she does her job brilliantly while managing lupus and never complaining only elevates her in the team’s eyes. I think Dad would adopt her, if given the chance.
Claudia interrupts my thoughts. “Speaking of truth, Carlos Belmonte is giving a press conference. Live.”
We all lean in to see her screen.
Carlos looks like he’s come to remove heads. “Racing should be hard and competitive. But it shouldalwaysbe clean and safe. When we see patterns of dangerous driving and officials nottaking action... this is not the sport I want my son to compete in. Not the legacy I want for Formula One.”
“Damn.” Zara whistles softly. “He’s not pulling punches.”
Dad joins us. “Carlos never does. His voice carries weight and the old guard respects him.”
I sit back and fold my arms. “Unlike the woman driver who’s been saying the same thing for years?” That comes out sharp.
Dad’s trying to pin me down with his stare. “Easy, Petra.”
“She’s right, Coy, and we can use her truth.” Claudia meets my father’s gaze. That she’s contradicting him isn’t unusual or unwelcome. He’s smart enough to trust the people he’s hired. “We’ll let Carlos fight this battle in public. Let him be the voice of tradition and authority. While Petra focuses on winning.” She looks at me. “You beat them where it matters most. On track.”
I nod and Dad says, “Agreed. That’s what you do best, Pet.”
After that, Dad turns his attention to Asuka and the scrutineering. Claudia buries her nose in her media plans. I go back to staring out the windows.
Movement catches my eye. The WolfBett executive team is boarding their jet. Wyn’s there, a cap pulled low over his face. So is Nico, and the gulf between them is wide. Junior is among the execs, and Nico gives that prick an even wider berth. Rumors of inappropriate conduct have long dogged Damien Betterton, Jr., and he was banned from the F1 paddock for seven years. There’s bad blood between Nico and Junior, but no one’s really ever said exactly what or why. Doubtless there are NDAs involved.
“Petra?” Bowie waves a hand in front of my face. “Sprint format? Austin setup? Any of this ringing bells?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I drag my attention to him and Zara. “What are you lot thinking?”
We dive back into technical discussions, but part of my brain keeps returning to that gent’s room, a pair of steady grey eyes, and an unexpected ally.
“…it’s good to have backup.”
But I have to wonder,What’s his game?
Sharing a private jet with coworkers and my father isn’t exactly romantic, but there’s something intimate about being forty thousand feet above the earth in the middle of the night. Most of our team personnel fly commercial airlines in business or first class, but Reece and I and our physios ride with Dad, Asuka, and anyone else they want aboard for planning. It’s a twenty-four-hour trip to Austin, Texas, and most everyone is asleep. Dad’s snoring softly, Cin is curled up with her tablet still glowing, Reece is stretched across two seats with his hood up, and Maiken’s asleep opposite him, looking as flawless and fabulous as ever.
I should be sleeping too. Instead, I’m staring out the window, mind spinning. The cabin’s dim lighting throws my reflection against the glass. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my expression is raw.
I made the mistake of checking social media, and the rumor mill is churning out bullshit overtime. Which, fine, let people speculate all they want. I don’t worry about that. Except it’s still got me thinking about Nico Belmonte.
Fuck.
I clench the armrest harder, trying not to remember exactly how he’d looked in that gent’s room, then at the meeting in Dad’s office. He’d defended me without hesitation, and his support felt like grip on fresh rubber.
