Page 19

Chapter Eighteen

Darien

S omehow, Shantal is still able to go right back to the divisive anti-Darien wall the next morning, as if we didn’t just dance without room for so much as a grain of rice between us. But I know I’m not just imagining it now: we absolutely had a vibe going on all night.

I’m convinced she has an evil twin standing in for her between the hours of eight a.m. and five p.m.

‘Hey, Shantal.’

I approach her as calmly as I can outside the Ring’s conference room, where the entire team is slated to sit for a presentation on our newest car’s stats with seven days until the testing sessions. I even get there early to make sure I can catch her, because I don’t know what she’s had on her mind, but I think I desperately need to debrief.

‘Hi.’ She throws back a huge gulp of coffee as per usual, training her eyes on me for a few seconds before clearing her throat. ‘The meeting isn’t for fifteen minutes.’

‘Well … uh, I actually wanted to talk to you. About last night.’

I think she’s going to choke on her coffee for a minute. Her eyes go momentarily wide. ‘What … oh, the dance?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh nervously. ‘That. I feel like after something like … that, it’s only fair of me to ask you …’

‘What we are,’ she finishes. I hear it in her voice for a split second; in fact, I even see it on her face. It’s a minuscule hint of the same kind of nerves I have, mirrored in her demeanour. But then, like someone’s flipped a switch, it’s gone. ‘It was just a dance.’ Her tone is casual. She busies herself checking the papers in the file folder she holds. ‘We were drunk. It happens.’

I’m not going to lie, that one definitely stung.

I agree, we were drunk. But I like to think I was sober enough to have sensed something . Right?

Her eyes flit back up to me, and this time, they’re full of guilt. It’s like watching a prisoner’s steely exterior crack to reveal a human being desperate for a minute of freedom, a sliver of sunlight. And that, I’m definitely not imagining.

For the next week, I try to avoid thinking about both what I’d seen on Shantal’s face that day, and the fact that the Ring’s destiny being in my hands means this season has to go off without a hitch. I push on with training, to take the moments of laughter and chaos I share with the guys in stride, but the night before pre-season testing, none of it does me any good, and I toss and turn in bed.

So naturally, the next morning, when the first of four days of testing dawns on us, I feel like I should’ve taped my eyes open for it. I’m hoping the double shot of espresso I down on arrival at the Ring’s track will hold me over.

Thankfully, once I leave the compound, I realize I didn’t need the espresso. The cameras are everywhere, and all the additional pit-lane and paddock set-ups that had been placed the night before have completely elevated our backyard practice track. The press pack rolls in early on, and the teams follow soon enough, funnelling in around the back of the compound as they look up at it in amazement. Fans have completely flooded the area outside the Ring gates to get photos and autographs as motorsport royalty arrive – they won’t be allowed in until the last two days of the testing. I have to sit in the Heidelberg garage for a minute and just take it all in: the bright colours of the nine other multimillion-dollar teams off to my sides as they ready their cars and drivers to compete, right here, mere miles from where I grew up. A swell of pride fills my chest when I see the way it’s all come together. Full circle, and I’m praying this is only the beginning.

I pull on the sleeve of my racing suit, the new white livery with ice blue and black racing stripes as well as our sponsors’ branding. Conquest is now the next largest logo aside from Heidelberg’s own and the Hybridge sector.

Our new livery isn’t the only change that’s hit the paddock. There’s a couple of new drivers down in the smaller teams. Vittore has one rookie. Wilson Nitro has two, and a new name – Flashpoint SwipeIn Robinson Racing Team (it’s a mouthful).

I catch sight of Diana far across the row of motorhomes, darting in and out of her own garage, helmet in hand. I almost shiver – as much as she’s like family to me, she’s going to be terrifying this season. The Championship, currently kept at our headquarters in Germany, is up for grabs from Miguel, its previous winner, and there’s no better motivation than taking the title from your fiancé, of course.

The air of tension isn’t helped by the sponsors who – as reward for embellishing our suits – mill about the garage of the practice track. I try to simply smile and say hi. It should be so easy, but this feels like the eerie calm before a real race. It’s nothing, just the Formula 1 pre-season testing. It’s only life and death.

Celina gives my arm a gentle tap. ‘Hang in there. You know the stakes, but you know you’ve prepared . Remember that this is just practice. We’re looking at the car more than you. You’ll be just fine, yeah?’

Her reassurance goes slightly in vain. I know as much as anyone else that the pre-season test is for the car, which is why we deck it out in ridiculous gear like the massive grates we call aero rakes attached to its front, but it feels like I’m starting over and making a first impression – like a rookie. And on my home turf, no less.

‘Just breathe.’

I turn to find the owner of the simple advice: Shantal, armed with a massive bottle of water and sunglasses. She gives me a small nod, brushing a hair from her face. She’s wearing it loose today rather than in a little ponytail, and the slight waves brush barely past her shoulders, skimming the fabric of her white team T-shirt, which is tucked loosely into denim shorts. ‘Are you panicking right now?’

‘No,’ I bluff. As much as I’ve come to trust her on so many levels, fear is pretty strong, and no fear is greater than that of failure.

‘We are all here if anything happens.’ The light lilt of her English accent soothes me like some sort of lullaby. ‘And you didn’t put in weeks of work just to lose your composure now. Make it count.’

Her advice must be what I need, because I return her nod and finally get moving on prep before hitting the track. My heart thuds hard in my chest as I walk towards my glittering crash helmet. Got to make this count.

I’ll be doing the winter testing alongside Miguel, as it will be on-track for the races. Miguel, for his part, is currently out running time, a good half-hour of asphalt to get a bit more car data, mostly. So far, he’s been flawless, keeping the sponsors, cameramen and the celebrities scattered through the garage and under VIP awnings happy. There are only a few grandstands crammed into the corners, because a practice track can’t accommodate more than that, and this one’s totally cordoned off, but aside from those already packing the benches, more clutches of loyal fans have gathered behind the second layer of fencing, far out past the gravel traps, beyond the catch fence, where they can watch safely.

Shantal heads to her spot on the Heidelberg pit wall, where she’ll be able to watch us, hear us, and see the data come in. I wait for the car to return. The livery is beginning to take shape. Since Heidelberg has chosen to support Viva Brasil this series, an environmental initiative dedicated to preserving our rainforests and natural diversity, as an ode to the location of our new complex, we’ve had some changes made to the paint. The car is a beautiful frosty white with sky blue palm fronds and small silver macaws flying across the side. The shimmering silver will stand out well during the night races dotting the Formula 1 calendar.

Soon enough, Miguel pulls into the main garage with his car, clambering out once he’s given the go-ahead by mechanics. ‘It’s really fast, but it’s smooth.’ He yanks off his balaclava, and his shock of dark hair stands on end. ‘If I was okay, you’ll be awesome.’

I’m at a loss for words, partially out of nerves, so I hold out a hand. He takes it and pulls me in to clap my back with a small tap. ‘Show them,’ he says quietly.

I purse my lips as Miguel goes to get some water. I’m rooted to my spot. My first kart race is all I can think of. I’d never told Miguel about that, never told a soul.

Mostre a eles quem somos. Pa’ Papai .

Show them who we are.

I don’t believe in signs. But if this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.

I take a deep breath as I lower myself into my car, emblazoned with my number sixty-seven, and strap in.

Slowly, I leave the garage and turn into the pit lane. I exit the box onto the main track, and I will the car around me to disappear. I let it turn to nothing but the blue skies and asphalt track beneath my racing boots, until I’m standing there with silence all around me. It’s like I’m here on a track walk, but there’s no team to prod me about my worst turns or take embarrassing videos. It’s tranquil, and it reminds me of why I put myself through the annual hell that’s pre-season to begin with. The drive is beautiful.

My car is weightless. I glide around the next turn, soar onto the straight. Just you and your four wheels, the beautiful world flying by at two hundred miles an hour. This was how I fell in love with racing: I got to see Rio de Janeiro every time I looked at the track ahead of me.

I see it now, too. I lap at speeds beyond my usual with a smile on my face. This can’t get any more perfect.