Page 66 of Overtake
“Sure you are.” We’re in my driver’s room and she adjusts my position slightly as I stretch. “That’s why you’re wound tighter than a watch shoved up a frog’s arse. Nothing to do with stewards’ decisions or maternal drama or Spanish drivers.”
Fucking hell.I see red and snap. “Can we focus on recovery? You know, your actual job?”
Jacintha crosses her arms and doesn’t bat a lash at my little outburst. “Thisismy actual job.” She keeps data on me like Athol does my car. “Understanding what’s affecting my driver’s performance. Including what’s got her distracted enough to miss two trigger points during cool-down.”
I start to protest, but she hits a tight muscle in my shoulder and the words turn into a hiss.
“That’s what happens when you carry tension through a sprint race and into qualies.” Her sympathy is decidedly lacking. “Now, want to tell me what’s really going on? Or should I keep torturing your deltoids?”
“Nothing’s going on.” My phone buzzes. Another message from Richard. “Bloody hell.”
“Exactly.” Cin continues her work, but her voice softens. “There’s a lot of ‘nothing’ happening this weekend, Tonka.”
Bowie opens the door without knocking, and his expression sets off my alarm bells. “We’ve got a problem with the rear suspension, Pet.”
Cin’s hands still.
I sit up. “How bad?”
“Bad enough to need creative solutions without breaking parc fermé.”
For fuck’s sake.“Okay, give me a minute.”
The garage feels different at night. It’s all intense energy under harsh lighting. Zara’s already deep in data analysis with Hans and Asuka. Their stations display comparison charts while Bowie points out anomalies in the telemetry. Athol and his mechanics glare at my car like it’s betrayed them.
“The sensor readings started shifting after Q3,” Asuka explains when I join them. “At first we thought it was normal settlement, but the bushings in the rear suspension are exhibiting premature wear. The displacement’s minimal now, but under race loads tomorrow, you’ll get unpredictable handling through the high-speed corners.”
“The numbers don’t lie.” Zara zooms in on a graph. “The load distribution’s off by three percent. And trending worse.”
Under normal circumstances, they’d simply replace the bushings. But with parc fermé rules in effect, they can’t make any substantial component changes without incurring starting penalties.
“Show me the visual checks.” I lean over their shoulders to get a better look at the screen. Years of technical discussions with Dad and the team mean I speak fluent engineer, even if I’m not one.
“Here.” Bowie pulls up photos. “See the slight displacement?”
The images show what should be pristine black bushings now deformed and discolored, with hairline cracking along one side where the rubber’s worn through to lighter material underneath. The components should sit flush and aligned, but there are miniscule gaps and angles that look wrong to my trained eye.
“Brilliant.”
“Options?” Dad looks like he’s aged five years in the last hour.
Athol joins us. “Limited.” He rubs his stubbled jaw. “We can adjust settings within the permitted parameters, but actual repairs would mean starting from pit lane.”
“Which I won’t do. I drove my arse off to start at the front, I’m not giving up pole unless there’s absolutely no other option.”
The garage falls quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of other teams packing up for the night. Tomorrow’s race suddenly feels very far away.
Zara straightens suddenly, fingers flying over her keyboard. “What if we work with what we’re allowed to touch? Tire pressures, brake balance, differential settings.”
Hans is squinting at her screen. “Yes. Compensate for the issue rather than fix it.”
Bowie frowns. “It means completely rewriting the race strategy.”
“But it’s doable.” Athol glances at his mechanics who all nod.
I study Zara’s screen. “Tricky as hell to drive.”
Dad’s expression shifts from concern to calculation. “How long to run the simulations?”
