Page 8 of Overtake
Fuck.
The brief, heavy silence after a crash always feels long and wrong. No racing pack. No radio chatter. Then perception returns, my own breathing harsh in my helmet as the race continues without me. The acrid smell of burnt rubber, fuel, and hot brakes fills the cockpit. My hands tremble and my mouth tastes of metal, the aftereffects of adrenaline.
“Petra, you okay?” Bowie’s voice breaks through, calm but with a note of concern.
I flex my fingers and do a mental check of all my parts. Nothing’s wounded except my pride. And my championship hopes. Sweat trickles down my spine, suddenly cold. I grit my teeth.
“Petra?”
“Bowie?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing beats a Jet 2 holiday. And right now you can save fifty pounds per person.”
Relief replaces concern in his voice as he adds, “That’s two hundred pounds off for a family of four.”
Yes, I’mfine. But I’m also proper fucking angry because what the hell was Wyn Pritchard thinking?
Red flags wave across the circuit. The race director’s made the right call. There’s too much debris scattered across the racing line for the other drivers to safely continue.
Marshals approach, their orange suits bright under the night circuit’s harsh lighting. I’m already unbuckling, movements sharp with a kind of rage that joking with my engineer can’t ease.
I know what the stewards will say:“Racing incident. No further action.”
Because apparently, that’s what happens when Wyn Pritchard runs you off the track.
That fucking fuck-face. He’s done this to me before, in F2 at Abu Dhabi.
Same move, same bullshit, same bloody outcome.
I yank the surround away from my shoulders and chuck it from the cockpit, climb out, and replace the steering wheel, then I wave off the arriving medical team. “I’m alright.” The words come out clipped. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m taking a trip to the medical center whether I like it or not. So says the flashing blue medical warning light on my car’s chassis. That crash exceeded eighteen G’s.
After a brief stint in the medical facility to confirm that, yes, I’m rather bruised but not broken, the journey back to the Nitro garage feels endless. Though Cin’s joined me, I keep my mouth shut and my expression neutral. The cameras will be watching for the woman driver to crack and show emotion.
Not bloody likely.
I manage a wave for the fans who’re cheering and clapping up in the Honey Hive and the larger Nitro Zone, but I can’t really muster a smile. My race suit feels too tight as I stride through the paddock. Team members scatter like startled birds. They know this isn’t my usual post-race demeanor. No finger guns, no cheeky winks, no victory dance.
Cin has my gloves, helmet, and HANS unit. She says nothing, knowing I’m not ready to talk about what the fuck just happened.
“Petra.” Bowie falls into step beside me, tablet in hand. “The telemetry shows?—”
“Save it.” I don’t mean to sound like a cow. Bowie’s been my engineer since I was a teen and knows me better than most. He doesn’t deserve my anger, but he understands it. “We both know what the telemetry shows. Same as F2.”
“Pet.” Dad stands in the garage entrance. He looks more worried than angry, and that makes everything worse somehow. “Let’s handle this the right way.”
“The right way?” I meet his gaze so he can see exactly how I’m feeling. “Like last time? When the ‘right way’ meant watching that wanker take the championship after running me into a wall?”
The garage falls silent except for the distant roar of engines. My pink hair streaks—usually a statement of rebellion and joy in this male-dominated sport—seem like a joke now.
I glance up at the monitors in time to see the race restart. Of course the red flag helps Wyn. He’s got fresh softs now, when he should’ve been struggling on worn tires for the final laps. I had the fastest lap. I had the podium and that bastard knew it.
Wyn battles for position with Nico. Their dark cars dance around each other, but Nico gives space. He’salways professional, always precise. Unlike his bloody fucking teammate.
The PNW Nitro logo on my chest weighs a ton tonight, a constant reminder of the corporate image I’m supposed to maintain.
My cell phone buzzes. Cin gave it to me in the medical center. I glance at the message and immediately wish I hadn’t. Cripes, I don’t need this shit right now.
