I glance at the pit crew, embarrassed by the tone of the exchange.
“Then wear the fucking sponsor helmet,” Barry shoots back.“And try to do better than eighteenth place so we can get more sponsors,” he says.
“I can’t do any worse,” Matt replies, shrugging playfully.
“Who can’t do any worse?”says Noah, who has also just arrived, box-fresh cowboy hat on, which he takes off and frisbees across the room, landing it perfectly in an open bin.
“You.Seriously, man, you can’t do worse than that hat,” Matt says with a slight smirk.Noah’s face splits into a grin as he joins us.If this is Matt’s attempt at comradery with Noah,it might just work.
“All right, let’s try to look forward,” I say, holding both my hands up to try to keep everyone focused.“There’s no point in going over and over things.”
I hear a scoff half-heartedly disguised as a cough from one of the pit crew, then a snigger from that damn strategist.Now it’s my turn to shrink a little inside.An angry owner who doesn’t listen to me, two drivers who need to gel, fast, a crew who doesn’t respect me because I’m a PR hire—how am I going to manage it all?
“Chloe is absolutely right,” Matt cuts in loudly, in a deep, commanding tone, which triggers even Barry to adjust his posture.“We should be focusing on the race ahead.I knowI’vegot work to do.And...um...sponsors to attract.”
I glance at him gratefully, but his eyes are on the crew, shooting any unrest down with a pointed glare in their direction.I am almost loath to admit it, but having Matt tuned in, focused, and on my side isa godsend.
I turn back to Barry.“We have the upgrades coming next week, but we really need someone who can approach the entire car with that holistic view on drag to keep developing into next year and beyond,” I say, tipping my head, slightly widening my eyes.Fuck it, I’ll use all my resources to get what I need, even the girlish pleading puppy dog look.“It really would impact our results.”
Barry is onto me right away, and half grins at the audacity of me trying to sweet-talk him.“More, more, fucking more,” he says, sighing.
“You can hire him outside of the budget cap,” I remind him.“We are allowed to have three people outside the budget cap, and we only have the two right now.”
“So out of mypersonalmoney,” Barry says, scoffing.“Theaudacity.Meeting adjourned.I’m going to get some air.”
Matt sucks his smoothie loudly through his straw, watching Barry leave, then he looks back to me.
“We need sponsors to take the financial pressure off Barry,” I say pointedly.“He’s not the bottomless pit of Rossini.He’s one guy.”
“One billionaire,” he shoots back, unsympathetically.But I can see a hint of sheepishness on his face.So much hangs on his performance and his ability to attract sponsors.He tosses the rest of his drink in the bin.“Kale, cucumber, avocado, wheatgrass, sea algae, hemp powder, andveganprotein powder.I’m doing enough today.”
“Matt,” I scold, trying not to smile, as two of the garage technicians tut away behind me.He might be showing me some support, but he’s going to have to work hard to undo the damage of his behavior from last race weekend.
“I’m doing my job, happily drinking the damn pond slime,” he says, raising both hands in the air.“No worries.”He shoots me a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling.
“Well.I’m pleased to say your seat molding arrived,” I say.“We can do some checks and make sure you’re a good fit.”
“About fucking—” Matt stops himself, appears to take a breath, turns to the crew, who look braced for more criticism.“Sorry.That’s great news.Can’t wait to check it out.”
Three hours later, we’ve made some great pre-race progress.Noah and Matt are on an iPad watching some of the footage from Singapore, whooping and groaning intermittently.The pit crew are doing drills and Barry has mercifully left for a seven-course dinner across town withVanity Fair.A dinner he wanted me to attend to shmooze, but I declined.
Around seven, I get a call from the reception of the pit garages.
“Ahh...Did someone order dinner?”I say, holding my hand over the phone.“There’s a dinner delivery?”
I turn to the pit crew, who don’t hear my small voice as it’s swallowed up by the sound of drills and crashing metal.“Guys!”I shout louder.
They stop their drills and turn to me.“Anyone order dinner?”
“Nah, we’re going out for tacos,” says one.“Last night of fun before we got to knuckle down for the race.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I joke, and when they look incredibly shamefaced, I wave a hand.“Don’t worry.I’m just joking.Have fun!
“Matt?”I say, turning to him.
“Oh yeah,” he says, closing the iPad and looking a little flustered, as he springs up, patting his trousers down looking for his wallet.“That’s my dinner.”
“Do you mind if I take that as our cue, chief?”says Noah.“I got a date.”
