Page 4 of Overtake
I thread my earpieces up through my race suit and pop them into my ears, then Cin hands me my fireproof balaclava. Next comes my helmet. It’s white with hot pink and silver streaks swirling around my sponsors’ logos. I pull it on, leaving the visor up. The world immediately narrows, sounds become muffled, and my focus sharpens like a laser. Finally, I add my HANS device—a horseshoe-shaped head and neck support. It sits over my shoulders and its tethers connect to my helmet. Held in place by my six-point harness in the car, it’ll keep my head on my shoulders, literally, should I crash. G-forces are not to be fucked with.
Athol Kilpatrick, my number one mechanic, helps me into the car. A skinny Scotsman with a face only a mother could love, Athol has been with me for three years, since my first Formula One race with Nitro. This man knows his shit and I respect the bloody hell out of him.
“She’s purring like a kitten today, Petra.” He always talks like a Scottish grandfather, even though he’s only forty-one and has never even been married. “Give her some love, and she’ll fly for you.”
I settle into the carbon fiber cocoon, the seat molded perfectly to my body, and pull on my gloves, ignoring the wall of photographers and videographers surrounding the front of the car, all lenses trained on me. The team helps me strap in, harness tight against my chest, legs, and hips. The steering wheel—a complicated array of buttons, toggles, and paddles—is fitted into place with a satisfying click. Then the team wedges into place the padded surround that protects my shoulders in a crash.
“Radio check, Petra.” Bowie’s voice comes through my earpieces.
“Yep. Loud and clear.” Every step of our familiar pre-race ritual settles me deeper into the focus I need to race and win.
Athol starts his final inspection. It’s his job to decide when and if my car is ready to leave the garage. He has the final say.
I close my eyes, centering and focusing. When I open them, I’m no longer Petra Hayter, Coy Hayter’s daughter, or the only woman in F1. I’m just a driver, the fastest one on the grid today, and I’m ready to prove it.
The engine rumbles behind me, vibrating through my entire body. My crew unplugs the external starter and warming systems, and Athol appears in front of me, guiding me forward as the media clear off.
“Let’s make history.” I ease the car out of the garage and into the pit’s fast lane. Ahead and behind, nineteen other Formula One cars accelerate onto the track.
Singapore is a street circuit and we race at night. The track is tight without a lot of run-off areas. It’s bumpy and demanding, with a lot of hard turns, coupled with high humidity that hasus sweating buckets. Truthfully, that’s another reason I welcome the rain. It’ll keep the cockpit a bit cooler.
The installation lap is a chance to check all systems and get a feel for the soggy conditions. The crowd in the Honey Hive—a section in the main grandstand where my fans have congregated—rises as I accelerate down the starting straight. It’s a waving sea of pink and green flags and banners plastered with my name and face.
“How’s the balance?” Bowie asks through the radio.
“Good. Bit tight in the turns, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Copy that. Rain expected for the first hour. Track temperature twenty-nine degrees.”
I complete the lap and return to the grid, where the team does final checks. Reece’s car sits a few spots back, the bright pink airbox on his power unit marking him as my teammate. To my left, in P2, Nico’s dark blue WolfBett car gleams under the floodlights. He raises a gloved hand in my direction—wave, warning, or insult.
I respond with a Queen’s wave, the pink tip of my glove’s middle finger sending a familiar message, and I know he’s laughing. The FIA hates when I do this, but they’ve given up on asking me to change my gloves.
The formation lap begins, and the twenty most sophisticated racing machines on the planet snake around the track in a choreographed dance. I weave back and forth, pushing heat into the tires, feeling every vibration through the chassis and trying not to drown in the spray Nico and Lynch are throwing my way.
“All systems go,” Bowie confirms. “Remember, protect the inside through the first three turns. Wyn will dive-bomb you.”
“Let him try.”
As we approach the starting line, I position the car precisely in my grid box and wait as the rest of the cars line up behind me.
Five red lights appear one by one above the track. My heart pounds, but my hands are steady on the wheel.
The dark blue and gold of Wyn’s car is in my mirror. Ahead are the matching colors of his teammate, Nico, and Lynch’s red and white Telco leads the pack.
“Focus, Petra.” It’s what Bowie always says right before…
The lights go out.
I stomp on the accelerator, and the world explodes into motion. Sixty-two laps, twenty cars, one winner.
And tonight, that will be me.
CHAPTER TWO
“Three cars comingup on you, Nico.”
Roxana Soler’s voice cuts through his concentration.
