Page 3 of Overtake
He nods as I approach. “‘Bout time you showed up, your highness.” Technically, Reece is a Yank, but he and Wyn grewup in Motorsport Valley within spitting distance of Silverstone in the U.K. Same as me.
“Yeah, well, I had to make the rabbit sweat a little extra.”
Reece laughs.
He knows who I mean because we’ve all known each other since we were teens, competing first in karting, then F4, F3, F2, and now F1. Formula racing is an international sport but a small world in many ways, and in many instances, it’s literally a family affair.
Bowie pulls up a simulation at his station. “We’re looking at standing water on several parts of the track, and the radar shows intermittent showers continuing for at least thirty laps.”
“Perfect.” I grin. “I love a wet track.” I’ve always excelled in rainy conditions—they’re a blessing for a British driver.
Misho taps his screen. He’s compact, French-Moroccan, and sports a perpetual five o’clock shadow. “This could work in our favor. Both Telco and WolfBett are struggling with wet setups this season.”
“It’ll be a challenge to transition to dry,” Reece says. Singapore’s humidity means the track might stay damp in patches even after the rain stops.
“Let’s focus on the start and what we know.” Zara Devi, one of the team’s race strategists, joins the conversation. She’s younger than me and a mathematical genius who, I swear, calculates pit strategies in her head faster than our computers. It’s a bit terrifying, and her blunt New York manners don’t lessen the impression. “Wet or dry, the WolfBett cars are gonna be aggressive off the line.”
I nod. “We need to get past Nico, keep Wyn behind, and overtake Lynch.”
Reece crosses his arms, an evil glint in his eyes as he meets my gaze. “You clear Nico. I’m happy to block Wyn.” This is his younger brother we’re discussing, mind you. Not that I’mcomplaining. Wyn’s a fucking wanker on the track, and he’s run me wide more than once.
Hans Fischer, Zara’s German co-strategist, nods. “Just don’t sacrifice your tires fighting your brother, like at Monaco.”
My counterpart shrugs. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for beating the guy. Nothing better than knocking him and Graham down a notch when it counts.”
Graham is the Pritchard brothers’ father and a right piece of shit, in my opinion. And Reece’s. And ninety percent of the paddock. The brothers used to get along when they were younger, but their father playing favorites has eroded that relationship. Sad, really.
I tip my chin at Reece. “How’s your car then?”
Misho glances at him before answering, always a little cagey. We’re teammates, but we’re also rivals. It’s a weird thing about F1. “Down on power by about two percent. Nothing we can’t handle, but it’ll make a difference in the straights.”
“It’s fine.” Reece shrugs. “I’ll make it up in the corners.”
“Absolutely.” Misho nods. “No one faster.”
I file that information away and turn to the strategists. “What about tire deg?” That’s F1 speak fordegradation.
“Starting on inters,” Zara says. Meaning intermediate compound tires. With standing water on track, we need wet grip, but the intermittent rainfall means we could encounter dry areas too. The treads on the green-marked inters are designed to disperse water at full speed and handle these varying conditions. They have less traction in heavy wet conditions, but if it’s wet enough for wet compounds, it’s usually too wet to race.
So much of race strategy comes down to managing tire wear. The sport’s not nearly as sexy as most people think.
“We anticipate a one-stop strategy,” Hans adds. “Intermediates to softs.”
Zara nods. “Unless a safety car turns everything upside down.”
Which is more than likely in Singapore in the rain.
“Alright then.” I mentally calculate potential overtaking opportunities. “All eyes on the tires and the sky.”
My father, who’s been listening, chimes in. “Right, you two, trust your instincts. You both know how to drive in the rain.” He nods at Reece and me. “Good hunting.”
“Right.” Reece gives the same respect everyone shows Coy Hayter.
We’re interrupted by a message from Race Control—the pit lane is opening. That means forty minutes until race start.
Reece bumps his fist against mine. “See you on the podium, Hayter.”
“Mind the top step for me.” I wink, then we head to our respective cars.
