I cannot help but laugh.
“But yeah, to your question, Chloe, we have some sponsors, some moreupmarketsponsors, promising to come to Vegas if we can perform this weekend.”
“Oh, that’s good news.A bit of pressure, but good.”
“If we can secure a really top sponsor...”he says, his voice trailing off as he catches himself.
“I know about the money problems, Barry,” I say, hands balling in front of me.I don’t want to embarrass him, but also, I need him to share these things with me.
“You do?”he says, snapping his head round.
I nod.“Just...try to share the full picture with me, okay?”
“The press was fucking good last week,” he says, “but it isn’t enough, Chloe.We need big motherfucking headlines.We need something to make people want to be with this damn brand.We will never be Rossini or Red Bull.”
“We won’t.But we can be Arden.”
“Who the fuck is Arden?”
I suddenly hear the crash at the other end of the garage, which catches both our attention.Noah falls onto Matt after a failed chin-up, causing both of them to break out laughing.Noah’s green smoothie was knocked over in the process and spilled all over the mat, and in almost comedy sketch fashion, Noah slides on it as he tries to stand, landing him back on Matt.I see the pit crew laugh together for the first time since I joined, and I see Archie rushing over with paper towels, also slipping and falling to the floor in the process.Three grown men, a salad of arms and legs, smothered in green goddess smoothie.
“That’s our team,” I say wryly, and Barry giggles.“And we’re a family.”
“You feel like that?”he asks, his big eyes round with delight.
“I do, actually,” I say.
“And not just because you and Matt are, like...you know?”
I flame beet red.Holy shit.He’s noticed?
“We’re nothing.We’re old friends,” I say quickly.“Now, who is the sponsor?Shall we plan a night out with them inVegas?”I hope my speedy deflection moves the conversation on.
Barry grins.“Finally.You got something to wear that isn’t a pair of jeans?”
But before I speak, just behind us, I feel the atmosphere shift.
The sound of footsteps marching across the garage floor and a door shutting firmly.
I spin around to see a group of stern-faced officials filing into the garage, led by the chief inspector—a tall man with terrifying villain energy, who looks like he could part the ocean with one downward glance.
“The Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile,” I whisper to Barry.“The FIA.”
“I know who the governing fucking body of F1 is,” he shoots back.
The hum of activity stops abruptly, and I race over to protectively stand in front of the cars as a tense silence fills the garage.What are the FIA doing here?What is going on?Is this an inspection?
“Hi, all,” the chief inspector says, his voice cutting through the silence, his German accent truly not helping with the villain energy.“We have received a formal complaint and are conducting a surprise inspection.I need all the crew to step back.”
Matt, who is still paper-toweling the green goddess off his bare chest, spins around, eyes blazing with disbelief.“What?Are you serious?Qualifying is in a few hours.”
I feel my blood pressure spike as my outrage matches Matt’s.But I need to remain calm.
“Right, boys, you heard the man,” I say, as they put down their tools and moan.Matt glances sideways at Jasper, who shrugs it all off as if this justain’t no thing.
As the FIA officials begin methodically disassembling the car, our team of engineers and mechanics watch on, frustration etched on their faces as their hard work is pulled apart piece by piece.The chief inspector’s expression remains serious but impassive, as measurements and weights are cross-checked.
Matt paces back and forth like a caged tiger, the team behind us, his anger barely contained.He turns to me, his voice low but seething with fury.“This is a joke.Who the fuck complained?”
