Page 9 of Overtake
Darling, the crash footage is already viral! It’s a perfect opportunity to discuss women’s safety in motorsport. I’ve confirmed the BBC Brekkie show for tomorrow morning. They’re so excited to get the mother’s perspective! Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything. xx
“You alright?” Cin reads over my shoulder. The noise she makes answers for me. “Block the number.”
“She’ll just get another one.” I delete the text instead. “Claudia’s probably already fielding calls from The Incubator’s publicist.” That's what I call Kelley when I'm being charitable.
“Stewards’ decision is in.” Bowie’s gaze is steady. He’s never bullshitted me, and he’s not starting now. “Racing incident. No further action.”
“Of course not.” That hurts more than my bruises.
“Petra.” Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. “This isn’t the way.”
“Then what is?” I shake off his touch, something I rarely do. The hurt in his eyes makes me feel worse, but I can’t stop my rage from boiling over. I’ve swallowed it for too damned long. “How many times do I have to prove myself? How many races do I have to win before they stop dismissing me?”
His hands settle on my shoulders, firm but gentle, and he steers me away from the approaching media pack toward a smallside office. The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the race I’m missing.
“Sit.” He gestures to one of the chairs, but I’m too wired to sit still.
“Dad, I can’t keep?—”
“Petra, let go of your anger.”
“Let go?” I glare at him. “Are youserious? After what just happened out there?”
“Yes. Rage won’t serve you. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” He pins me in place with a bloody hard gaze, then drains all the piss and vinegar from me when he adds, “You know this better than any other driver on that track tonight.”
I huff out a breath between my teeth. “Fuck.”
Dad grasps my hands. “I don’t know how many wins it’ll take.” He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with race weekends. “I wish I could give you a number. Ten more? Twenty? Haven’t got a clue. But I see something you can’t.”
“What?”
“Respect. It’s there, even when you don’t feel it.” He squeezes my fingers, then lets go. “The wayEl Conejotalks about your race craft. How Reece studies your data. Even Marcus Wolfberg calls you the most complete driver on the grid.”
My throat tightens. “Then why doesn’t it feel like enough?”
“Because you’re still fighting ghosts from when you were fifteen and were trying to prove you belonged, that you were as good as the boys, and that you could control everything when your world felt like it was falling apart.” He grips my shoulders again. “But you’re not that girl anymore, the one who thought she had to be perfect to be loved. You’re a race winner, Petra. You’ve earned your place in that cockpit, just like the blokes. And everyone knows it.”
Part of me believes him, but the anger still sits in my chest like a hot coal. “I know you’re right, Dad, but I’m still bloody furious.”
“Of course you are.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just don’t let it consume you.”
I nod, but I’m not making any promises.
When we step back into the garage, the controlled chaos of a post-race DNF washes over us. But it’s not the familiar routine that hits me first; it’s the sight of my car.
They brought it back while I was in the medical center. What’s left of it, anyway.
My beautiful pink and green machine sits twisted and broken in the far bay, carbon fiber bodywork cracked open like an eggshell. The front wing is completely gone, the nose cone crumpled beyond recognition. The rear of the car looks like it’s been put through a blender—wishbones mangled, tires tangling by their tethers, pieces of debris still clinging to what remains of the floor.
The sight stops me cold.
“Christ,” I breathe. It’s not the first time I’ve seen my car like this, but it never gets comfortable.
Cin grips my wrist. “You walked away, Pet. That’s what matters.”
This morning, the car was perfect. Every component precision-engineered, every system calibrated to perfection. Now it’s scraps and broken dreams.
Bowie approaches from his station, tablet in hand, his expression grim. “The engineers are already pulling data. We’ll know exactly what happened.”
