Page 64 of Overtake
“Stop, Richard.” I meet his eyes, finding the same genuine warmth that’s made him send birthday flowers every year for twenty years. “You’re not responsible for Kelley’s choices. Any of them.” This is a conversation we’ve had way too many times. He and I. He and Dad. He and I and Dad. I hate that he feels he needs to keep saying it.
Rich runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, she’s escalating her campaign. The closer you get to making history, the more determined she becomes to be more than just a footnote in your story. And when she doesn’t get what she wants...” He shrugs. “Well, you know.”
“Yes. She makes everyone miserable. Including her loving, generous husband who has more patience than Job himself.” I remember that much about my mother. “Look, Rich, whatever she’s planning I don’t care, and I won’t play along. She’ll look like a fool, but she’ll have done it to herself. Who knows? Maybe she’ll learn something from being embarrassedthistime.”
“Ms. Hayter?” A circuit official approaches. “The race director requests your presence. The FIA is ready to announce a decision about Singapore.”
Jesus, the timing.
“Go.” Richard squeezes my arm. “Just be prepared. Kelley’s not gonna stop until she gets the narrative she wants.”
“Yeah, well. She’s forgetting who she’s fighting.”
His face screws up into an expression only Rich can make. “I know you hate to hear this, but you got half your determination from her.”
I think my eye-roll displaces the planet from its axis. “Oh my God, stop staying it then.”
He laughs. “No.”
Shaking my head, I follow the official to the media center, a room so crowded with press reps it feels too small for the drama about to unfold. Graham’s there, puffed up with righteous indignity and an extra shot of arsehole-ishness. Wyn stands slightly behind him, expression so blank I think he used one of those Magic Eraser thingies on his face. Dad arrives just after me with Reece.
Carlos Belmonte’s presence surprises me until I remember he filed the primary complaint. Plus he’s not just Nico’s father, he’s his manager. And given he’s a former president of the FIA’s safety committee, his voice and opinions carry an astonishing amount of weight. Which he knows and doesn’t swing around lightly, earning the respect of everyone. Except Graham, obviously.
“Let’s get started.” Emil Krastev, the race director, clears his throat. “Regarding the on-track incident during the Singapore Grand Prix between Wyn Pritchard and Petra Hayter, after reviewing all available data and testimony concerning the actions of WolfBett Racing driver Wyn Pritchard.”
A thrill runs through me as Nico enters the room. He joins Carlos and his gaze meets mine briefly, then he focuses forward. Professional. Controlled. Like we didn’t almost do something foolish.
His coolness raises theOh, Bollocksflag in my mind, and I have to wonder,yet again, if he’s just playing games with me.
If he is, I swear, I will choke him with his own fucking testicles.
“The stewards find significant evidence of dangerous driving practices.” The words hit like a shunt into the barriers and yank my attention back to the front of the room. “Multiple instances of aggressive blocking, forcing competitors off track, and?—”
“My son was racing.” Graham’s voice carries practiced authority. “These modern interpretations of acceptable racing lines are overly conservative.”
“They are designed to prevent fatal accidents.” Carlos’s quiet response carries more weight than Graham’s bluster.
The tension ratchets higher in the room. Everyone in F1 knows about Carlos’s fights with the FIA over safety regulations.
Krastev continues. “The stewards have decided the Singapore incident represents a pattern of behavior requiring significant response.”
My heart pounds. Beside me, Dad stands straighter.
“Therefore, the following penalties are imposed: A ten-place grid penalty for tomorrow’s race. Six penalty points on the super license. And a twenty-five thousand euro fine.”
Ten-place penalty? Holy shit.It means Wyn will start in seventeenth place for tomorrow’s race. That’s a potentiallymassive blow to WolfBett’s Constructors’ points. And points mean money. A lot of fucking money. A lot more than the twenty-five thousand euro fine.
The room erupts. Graham’s already protesting, words like “appeal” and “prejudicial” spewing from his mouth. Wyn’s shoulders curl inward slightly. Carlos and Dad exchange looks. They’ve traveled this road many times.
They listened. The FIA actually listened.
“Additionally.” The race director raises his voice to quiet the room. “All teams are reminded that dangerous driving will not be tolerated, regardless of championship implications.”
That last bit’s aimed directly at Graham, whose influence clearly didn’t extend far enough this time.
“This decision is final.” Krastev closes his folder and stands. “Good evening.” He’s not entertaining any questions from the press.
As we file out, I catch fragments of conversation:
