Page 15

The week leading up to the Austrian Grand Prix is a blur of press appearances and meetings. My days are booked from dawn to

dusk, and in a bizarre way, the distraction is helpful. Every night when I get back to my hotel, I phone the hospital for

news. The first night, I made the mistake of asking the ICU clerk how Jacob Nichols was doing. She told me coldly that no

information was being given out over the phone, and that the family would release a statement to the press when it was appropriate.

I didn’t dare call back straightaway, in case the same clerk picked up, and spent the night worrying about Jacob and cursing

my own stupidity.

The next morning, I called and asked for the nurse Jean, and by a stroke of luck was put straight through. Once he realized

who I was—which took a lot of very rapid Google Translate searches on my end—he told me that Jacob’s pressor had been stopped,

and that his blood pressure was doing well, and that the doctor planned to do something called “spontaneous breathing trials”

in the next few days, to see if he could get the breathing tube taken out.

Every day since, the news has gotten better. His blood counts have been holding steady without any more transfusions, his kidney injury has resolved, and yesterday Jean said Dr. K told his family they had “reason to be hopeful.”

I cling to this notion all through free practice on Friday, and my race engineer, Freddie, slaps me on the back as I get out

of the car and tells me he’s glad I’m finally getting over my illness.

A lot of the press ask me about my migraine, because it’s news, at least in F1, when a contender for the championship gets

a headache.

“I get brutal migraines once or twice a year,” I tell some reporter after practice on Friday. “It’s not a big deal, this one

just knocked me out a few days.”

“So you’re not expecting any difficulties this weekend?” the reporter asks.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And tell me—” The reporter pauses mid-sentence, cocking her head to one side like she’s listening to something in her earpiece.

“Tell me—”

She breaks off again, her smile dropping, and murmurs into her earpiece, “You’re sure?”

All around us, a strange silence is spreading through the press, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.

“Sorry,” the reporter tells me. “Sorry about that. Thank you for talking with us, Travis, and good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say through numb lips. The reporter has hauled out her phone and is typing rapidly, muttering “Wait for confirmation”

to her cameraman. I glance around, already reaching for my phone, but before I can get it, another reporter steps up to talk

to me, with a face like death warmed over.

“Travis, give us a word,” he says, pushing his mic in my face. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’ve just learned that Antony Costa passed away about an hour ago.”

It’s so unexpected—so horrifying—that for a moment I’m paralyzed. I stare at the reporter, who’s reminding viewers that Antony

was one of five drivers involved in the Formula 2 crash in France two weeks ago.

“He was improving initially, and doctors had hoped for a full recovery, but unfortunately the family has just released a statement

confirming his passing.” He looks to me. “Travis, what do you make of this devastating news?”

I stare at him blankly, my mind jerking back and forth, until words spring forth from somewhere in my brain.

“It’s horrible,” I choke out. I remember Antony’s mother, and the way she’d stroked his hair in the hospital, like he was

a little kid. “It’s... I can’t imagine what his family is going through.”

The reporter opens his mouth to ask another question, then seems to think better of it. “I think we’d best leave it there.

Our thoughts and prayers go out to Antony Costa’s family during this tragic time. Travis, thanks for speaking with us.”

Dimly, I realize the other reporters are wrapping up interviews around me, the other drivers being led off by their trainers

or PAs, all of them frowning, some of them shaking their heads.

“Motherfucker,” my trainer, Brian, says. “That’s crazy. Two deaths from one crash.”

He’s texting on his phone while he walks, pushing me forward with one irritating hand. I can tell he’s just dying to go gossip

about this with the rest of the team.

“I’m going back to my room,” I snap, striding ahead of him without waiting for an answer.

I weave my way through the crowds, flinching from fans who try to approach me for a selfie.

I close the door to my room and sit down on the small, padded bench across from the closet.

I put my head in my hands and close my eyes.

Antony is dead.

I can’t believe it. I saw him days ago, and he looked so good. He was weak, sure, but he was talking and laughing and sitting

up in bed to eat the food his family brought him. What the hell happened?

I rub my arms and punch the temperature up five degrees on the thermostat. It doesn’t help. I’m frozen with terror. I had

always thought that if Jacob woke up, that would be it. He would be safe. Antony looked so much better than Jacob, I was actually

jealous of his family. A small, awful part of me had almost resented them for their good fortune. If a driver could recover

that quickly, I wanted it to be Jacob.

Now, even if Jacob does wake up, he still might die.

I thought I’d already learned the depths of fear and grief, but now I’ve plummeted to some new, darker level. My insides are

cold and hollow, and there’s a horrible static filling my mind. I sit in my empty room, staring at nothing, and the hours

tick by, one after another, until I finally fall asleep.

I wake up stiff and disoriented, slumped uncomfortably on the tiny bench in my room. For a moment, I’m not sure what’s woken

me, then someone raps sharply on the door. Heather, the PA who flew with me from France, is standing outside. Her brown eyes

widen when I pull open the door.

“Are you alright?” she asks, looking me up and down with faint alarm. “People have been looking for you all morning.”

“I’m fine,” I say shortly. “Where do I have to be now?”

She raises an eyebrow at my tone and then clicks her tongue. “Brian is ‘sick’ again”—she traces her fingers around the word—“so

I’ll be with you today. There’s a quick bit of press to do, then they’re having a ceremony and a minute of silence for Antony

Costa before qualifying.”

Great.

I blunder through the press, handing out stilted, one-word answers until the reporters give up and move on to more well-spoken

drivers, then everyone gathers for a ceremony at the front of the grid. I pull my cap low over my eyes and speak to no one,

but I’m still put in the front row, where I have an unobstructed view of Antony’s racing helmet.

As a band plays his national anthem, I stare at his helmet, an inexplicable fury spreading through me. I can’t stop thinking

how unfair it is that he died. How pointless. If he hadn’t tried to pass Jacob on that corner, if Parrot’s brakes hadn’t locked

up, or if they’d locked up a half second later... it was the sum of a thousand random things, any one of which done differently

could have prevented all of this from happening.

The minute of silence ends, and someone gives a speech, but all I can hear is the slow, angry thud of my pulse. I head to

my car and sit in it silently while I wait for Q1 to start. I’m so angry, if anyone talks to me, if anyone even looks at me, I’m going to lose it. Antony’s death has erased all the progress I thought Jacob was making. How can Jacob survive,

if Antony couldn’t?

He can’t. He can’t survive. Which means every moment I sit here is a moment I should be at his side.

When I go out onto the track, I feel entirely disconnected from my body, like I’m watching myself from ten feet above.

I don’t hear anything my engineer says over the radio.

Later, I’ll thank god the track was almost empty, because I’m not sure I would’ve had the wherewithal to avoid other cars on their out lap.

I end up in P1, somehow, at the end of it. I sit in my car in the garage, fury burning a pit in my stomach, and wait for Q2.

When it starts, I go out for another lap and set a new track record. No one speaks to me as I sit in the garage again, waiting

for Q3. I beat my Q2 time, setting another new track record, and end up taking pole position.

I wish I could go back to the garage, throw my helmet off, and head home, but that’s not how things are done. I pull my car

in front of the “1” flag and get out of the car to a roar of applause. I know my every move is being broadcast on live TV,

and on every enormous screen around the track. I ignore the crowd and pull off my helmet, swallowing the urge to fling it

angrily to the ground.

Someone touches my arm and points me to James Riley, the TV reporter who was there when this whole shitshow started. He’s

waiting for me with a camera and microphone.

“Travis, congratulations,” he says. “Another pole position—your first in Austria, and your tenth, I believe, overall. How

do you feel?”

“Fine,” I say.

He looks surprised by my curt tone, but after a second he recovers. “Hard to celebrate after yesterday’s awful news, I’m sure.”

He’s giving me an easy out. He must know what it’s like to have a mic shoved in your face when you don’t feel like talking.

Still, that’s not how most drivers feel after landing their tenth pole position.

“Hard to celebrate,” I repeat.

“How do you feel about your chances for a win tomorrow?”

I couldn’t give a shit , I think.

“Alright,” I say out loud.

James hesitates, studying my face. I’m sure he has more questions to ask, but after a moment, he gives a small shake of his head and says, “Well, congratulations again and good luck tomorrow.”

Mahoney from Crosswire Racing comes forward to take my place. As I walk away, I nearly collide with Josh Fry. He must’ve finished