Page 59

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Darien

I ’m up into P3, with Diana up ahead, and Miguel in P1.

We pit about a third of the way through the race, at lap twenty-six, and screw on a set of medium compounds. Diana, I get word, is going to go out on the same, which removes tyres from the list of things that I could use to get a leg up on her.

I manage the compound as long as I can, until I finally get my delta and my DRS.

‘There’s Peter about one-point-six behind. Be careful. On the attack,’ says Afonso.

With a grunt, I dart forward, trying to position myself directly behind Diana, get the slipstream while I can. The force is astronomically more than I’ve felt all race, and maybe, just maybe, that’s my dad helping me out, because it’s like a tow from an enormous hand tugging me forward when I move out and get right ahead of Diana on the straight.

‘That’s P2, P2, Darien.’

I don’t celebrate early this time. We’re racing for survival. We want P1. There’s a reason people like to say second hurts more than third. I can’t end this knowing there was something more I could have done to get that Championship. The Ring is at stake. My home is counting on me.

‘Can we … let’s gamble, Afonso. Can we do scenario D?’

‘Sorry, you said D? That’s … it’s a bit hot out here. Your delta is two-point-six.’

‘Cover ground now, switch out right before the overtake.’

‘Okay. Affirming, Darien, you … clear on D.’

Scenario D. The riskiest plan we have at Heidelberg, perhaps the riskiest of the race. I’ll have to pace myself and manage my mediums in hopes that my teammate, Miguel, in front of me, will suffer enough wear over time to slow down, and to get me ahead. His tyres have been on for a couple laps more than mine, which means now it’s all about strategy. If this is the right call, I’ll pit for softs and come out with a significant speed advantage, even if he goes in before me. No team will be using soft tyres in this kind of heat. It’s a big chance we’re taking. I can almost see my mom in the pits, biting her nails down to the beds.

I hold it together for another thirty laps, during which Miguel enters the pits and puts on a set of hards – the hope must be that they’ll last the rest of the race, but that’s even better news for me as I roll in and get my soft tyres. He’s going to be slower, especially when I initially get out: that’s my chance. I need to stay methodical, though. I have just about twenty laps left in the race and can’t afford to pit again after this.

On the exit, Afonso comes in with an update. ‘You’re going to come out maybe two seconds behind Miguel, Darien, two seconds. Still clear to fight. Let’s pace and push once we have the delta.’

It’s incredibly difficult, but I obey. Ten laps left, and I’ve paced myself enough while Miguel’s lost speed. I inch into the one-second range. Time to bring it.

‘Ten laps, make the move when you have the window.’

‘Sure. Searching for gap.’

Miguel favours the outside, with a slight weave that allows him to close the door on overtakes without disobeying the racing line. I imagine Shantal watching from the pits the way she always has, pointing out troughs and peaks in our charts to Afonso, learning the different modes we employ in the sport just so she can push both of us to our limits. In this moment, it serves as both an advantage and a disadvantage, because Miguel, to his credit, has a slice of my technique under his belt after the pre-season training. He’s had it all year, and it could very well end my Championship chances if I’m not careful now.

I close in on the straight, but the second I get to a turn, he refuses to give me entry. I’ll have to go from the inside.

I curse under my breath. ‘Well … if you insist.’

The next straight brings me so close that I could knock his right rear tyre with my left front one, but instead of doing so, I exit early into the turn, and bump around the kerb with a ferociousness that leaves my head pounding. Once I’m level, I see Miguel’s Heidelberg in my rear-view.

‘Yes! That’s in P1,’ reports Afonso. ‘Manage, manage, you’ll lose speed fast. Don’t want to let him close.’

And even though tyre management has never been my strong suit, I pull some kind of miracle out of my bag of tricks. The last lap, I pull across the finish line well clear of Mig and anyone else, with a whoop I hope they can hear in the stands, over the popping of fireworks that decorate the sky above the track, pumping my fist hard as I pull close to my team hanging off the fences to get my Brazilian flag, screaming into the radio in hysterics with my wonderful engineer.

‘DARIEN. DARIEN CARDOSO-MAGALH?ES—’

‘HAVE WE DONE IT????’ I nearly roar into the mic.

‘YOU ARE A FORMULA 1 WORLD CHAMPION, DARIEN!’

‘I’M A WHAT? I’M A WHAT , FONSY?’

‘CHAMPION, MY FRIEND!’

As I near the fences, it’s almost a mirage, the way I see her leaning over as she passes the banner over to me, blowing a kiss just before our hands brush, and she waves me off. God, I wish she were here. I wish Shantal were here.

And then I realize that I am wrong. She’s not a mirage.

It’s her.

I nearly shunt my car into the wall when it hits me, when I hear her voice behind me, so faint but so prominent over the growling of the engine, ‘IT’S OKAY! I’LL WAIT AROUND!’

‘Let’s send this car off in style,’ Afonso instructs me with a laugh. ‘Give me some big loop-the-loops, please.’

‘WHOO!’

I feel like I could probably burst from anticipation as I wrench my steering to the side and bring the car around for a doughnut, and then another, and then another. It’s the end of the season, and with no other use for the Heidelberg car, the tyre burnout and doughnuts you earn as a champion are some of the most fulfilling moments of your life. Except there’s only one moment I can think about right now, and it’s definitely not the doughnuts.

I pull up to the P1 board triumphantly, with my third consecutive win under my belt. My heart is pounding triple-time, my entire body weightless, my limbs shaking with an overload of adrenaline. It’s so bad it takes me an extra minute just to get up on top of my chassis, fists pumping as I raise the Brazilian flag, keep my neck on a swivel, in search of Shantal. Where is she?

‘DARIEN!’

It’s Miguel, who has climbed out of his car in P2. He tucks his helmet under his arm and gestures behind me with a broad smile on his face. ‘LOOK!’

My entire body turns involuntarily, on edge from the already insane day I’ve been having, but the seed of hope deep in my chest bursts open when I make out the figure far in the distance, the crowds parting to let her through.

She’s running down the track in a massive lavender traditional dress embroidered with flowers and leaves and peacocks, way faster than she should be with all the netting on the skirt. She grabs hold of it to give herself enough room to run, the soles of those white Hokas of hers slapping the asphalt. Her eyebrows are knitted out of exhaustion, and the lanyard of her paddock pass flaps about uncontrollably. I can see the tears shimmering on her cheeks as she storms towards us, a tempest of a woman.

Shantal Sanjeevani Mangal.

Before I can register anything, I’ve run towards my team. She smacks right into me, and I hug her tight, my eyes squeezed shut as she breathes heavily. She smells of expensive perfume and peaches, and she trembles against my chest, her hands digging into my back, her face buried in my shoulder. It’s been months, but we still feel right in each other’s arms, as if nothing has changed, and in a way, it hasn’t. I’ve still pictured nothing but her face before every race, and her face in the crowd after each one. It’s surreal that she’s back, that I’m actually touching her right now, that she’s not just a part of my imagination.

‘Dar, I’m … I’m so, so sorry—’

‘It’s okay. It’s okay, Shanni. Just stay with me.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Stay, just stay.’ I hold her tight, crushing the veil pinned to her head so hard that it slips down. I don’t ever want to let go of her again. ‘What happened? You’re …’ Hesitantly, I pull away to regard her get-up. ‘Tell me you didn’t …’

She shakes her head vehemently. ‘No, no, I just decided … I decided it was time to open my eyes, I suppose. With the help of a very, very insistent cousin.”

‘Well, don’t stop now.’ I let out a nervous laugh before taking her into my arms one more time, as if to confirm that she’s truly here. ‘I’m still fucking proud of you, Shanni.’

‘I’m prouder. Of you.’ She holds my face in her hands, presses her forehead to mine. ‘World Champion.’

‘I love you, Shantal,’ I blurt, and I’m not totally sure where the courage comes from, but it’s the moment – the cameras flashing behind us, the fireworks bursting above us. Everything is perfect, and she is perfect.

‘You make my heart whole . I don’t think the word has been invented yet,’ she whispers, ‘for the kind of love I feel for you, Darien.’

Maybe it hasn’t. But I feel every drop of that love when I bring my lips to hers, and I kiss her, wrapping my arms around her, unable to let her go. Part of me feels that even if I hadn’t gotten that Championship, I would still have won, because I have her here in front of me again, and that, in itself, is a miracle.