Page 55 of Overtake
“Yes.”
His teammate straightens, and he stands a little taller. “That’s what I thought.”
After they’re gone, Heinrich lets out a long breath. “You realize this isn’t over, Nico.”
“I do.” Nico retrieves the pieces of his broken headset from the floor. “But I doubt the Bettertons and Wolfbergswill appreciate Graham endangering their forty-million dollar investment because of his ego.”
“And Junior?”
“Es un maldito cabrón.”
That gets a round of chuckles from the engineers and strategists. No one disagrees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX | SATURDAY | SPRINT RACE AND RACE QUALIFYING
Didthat wanker let me take pole?
The question nags at me even as Bowie talks telemetry and setup. It’s Saturday morning. The sprint race is in three hours, and I’m distracted. His words blur into technical white noise while I replay yesterday’s final sector in my head. Nico’s line was textbook perfect. Too perfect. Like he was demonstrating clean racing instead of fighting for position.
“Petra?” Bowie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You with me on these tire temps?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I focus on his screen, on numbers that usually calm my mind. “The mediums were fine yesterday.”
And his car was perfect. So why didn’t he push harder in that last corner?
I’ve raced against Nico long enough to know when he’s got more to give.
El Conejo, always proving something. Always being noble and principled and...
“Riiight. And that’s why you’re grinding your teeth?”
“I’m not.” Lie. I absolutely am. Because if Nico let me take pole, if he backed off to prove some point about clean racing or proper principles or whatever noble Spanish code the Belmontes live by, I’ll cut off hiscojones.
“Let it go, Petra. Your last sector was clean yesterday,” Bowie says quietly. “You earned P1.”
“Did I, though? Because the more I think about it, the more it looks like someone decided to make a point instead of engaging in a proper battle on the track.”
Zara looks up from her data station, dark eyes wide. She knows what I’m implying.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. Get a fucking grip, Petra.
“What matters is your race prep for today’s sprint,” Bowie says firmly. “Whatever games other drivers might or might not be playing are immaterial.”
“This isn’t about games.”Or is it?
Is he deliberately keeping me off balance by siding with me against Wyn? Is that what his kumbayah-let’s-be-friends song and dance is all about?
“Pet.” Dad’s voice from his garage office doorway makes me look up. His expression says he thinks I’m missing something obvious. “Either focus on setup or sort this out with Belmonte. But stop wearing a hole in Bowie’s stomach.”
“I’m focused.” Another lie. “We’re discussing tire strategy for the sprint.”
“Discussed. We just discussed it,” Bowie says. “But you haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the last ten minutes.”
Right. Because I’ve been too busy replaying that final sector, analyzing every micro-movement and questioning Nico’s motives and strategy instead of planning mine.
“Fine.” I head for the garage’s rear door. “I’ll handle this.”
