Page 27 of Overtake
Nico’s always been more relaxed with me than he has with most of the other drivers. People think he has a stick up his arse, but I know that’s not the case. He’s seen the ugly underbelly ofF1, nothing he talks about, but I know Junior’s a major source of friction. It’s always surprised me that he’s stayed with WolfBett, but Nico Belmonte never does anything without a bloody good fucking reason.
That includes shoving his nose into my business with Wyn Pritchard.
Why’d he do that?
I think about the Azerbaijan Grand Prix. It’s the last race I won. I’d nailed qualifying and nabbed pole position, and Nico was second. In parc fermé, he’d high-fived me and said, “Outstanding lap, Hayter. I’ll have fun chasing you tomorrow.” He’d said that with real feeling rather than the usual coolness he’d adopted when he’d entered F1, and it had stuck with me.
That memory shouldn’t make my pulse quicken, and it shouldn’t matter more than any other post-quali conversation with another driver. But it does.
He’d grinned then. “Might have to steal your line through the castle section.”
“You can try,” I’d replied, matching his smile. “Might want to work on your exit speed from the main straight first, though.”
Nico had laughed, the sound drawing the focus of nearby photographers. “There she is. I worried pole position made you diplomatic.”
“Never that, Bunny Boy.”
Next I think of Monza in Italy, and his quiet fury when one of the midfield drivers had suggested my qualifying time was “suspicious.” He’d shut down the whispers with cold precision:
“I wouldn’t question someone who’s always faster than you.”
The number of times I’ve overheard women talking about Nico Belmonte.
“—those shoulders in that suit?—”
“Those shoulders in anything.”
“Or nothing…”
I close my eyes, but that’s worse. Because now I’m remembering the way his jacket had stretched across said shoulders in The Blue Wall, how he’d moved with that controlled power that all great drivers have, their bodies as well tuned as their cars.
Bloody hell.
I press my forehead against the cool window.
Shut up, brain, you stupid git.
He’s the rival standing between me and the Drivers’ Cup. And he’s the man who stood between me and consequences without hesitation.
“Water?” Cin appears like a mind-reading angel, offering a bottle. “Or something stronger?”
On second thought, sod her for knowing me too well.
“Water’s fine.” I keep my voice low and accept the bottle. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“Shouldn’tyou?” She settles into the seat beside me. “Instead of brooding about Spanish drivers with hero complexes?”
“I’m not—” But the denial dies at her raised eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you your whole life.” She smirks. “There’s quite a list of women who’ve tried, and failed, to keep his attention over the last decade.”
“They’re welcome to him.” I uncap the bottle.
“Mm.” Her smirk widens. “I’m sure they appreciate that lie.”
I turn back to the window. “This is a stupid conversation.”
My cousin whispers, “You know, he hasn’t given anyone a second look in three years.” She tilts her head. “Since you entered F1, none of the paddock princesses who throw themselves at El Conejo have received the time of day.”
