Two more laps and he’s right behind me. He doesn’t want anything risky either so he’s waiting for a safe overtake. His straight-line speed matches mine and we’re coming up to a DRS zone. I need new pissing tyres but I can’t afford to pit.
I’m royally fucked.
‘Alpha Prime in the wall. Repeat, Alpha Prime in the wall,’ says my race engineer.
My eyes bug out as I rush through possible consequences. ‘Copy.’
‘Red flag. There’s debris across the track.’
‘Copy.’
‘Box, box.’
This is great. Kind of. Temporarily. Actually not really. Étienne can’t overtake and I can change my tyres without wasting lap time, but we’ll need to restart. No race leader ever wants a restart, they’re carnage. The pack bunches up and it’ll be the opening lap all over again, except now, everyone’s more aggressive, their preferred position within touching distance, and on warm tyres. It could be worse, I guess, if I was leading by a big margin.
I slowly make my way back to the pits, Étienne so close behind me I can’t see his front wing.
Too soon, the track’s cleared and we’re back on the grid for the restart. I look over at Étienne. His and Tom’s performances today will decide whether Martinelli have a shot at theConstructors’ Championship. And since Tom’s way back, it’s on Étienne, the same as it’s on me.
The pressure’s almost reaching breaking point. It’s suffocating me. How can the dreams of five hundred people boil down to one man and thirty-one laps? I don’t know if I can do this. After twenty-one races and a rivalry with my own teammate, I’m knackered. Thirty-one perfect laps steering clear of trouble, managing my tyres and fending Étienne off feels like an impossible task. Jesus, I’m sweating through my race suit.
‘Jack.’ It’s Lorenzo coming on the team radio.‘Forza.’
Forza.
It’s what Luca used to say before every race. When he passed away, my engineer took up the mantle – a come on, go for it sort of thing – but they never say it mid-race. I normally barely register it, a formality like brushing my teeth, though now I straighten up.
‘Forza,’I repeat.
I will do this for that smug Italian who had the dickheadedness to leave me before I said he could. It should be him in that Martinelli. It should be us fighting wheel-to-wheel for the Championship. I shouldn’t have to do this alone.
But I’m not alone. He lives on through a single word, and he’s telling me I’m being a self-pitying knob.
The lights cut out and we launch for the second time. I’ve fended Étienne off all season, I can do it again. He’s fast to Turn 1, but I’m faster. I can play dirty; I can make risky overtakes; I can outmanoeuvre anyone, even in the final races of the season. I’m Jack motherfucking Bowden. I’m the reigning Formula 1 World Champion, and I drive the fastest car on this track. I have a title to defend. I’m not giving it to a young French twat and his dad. They’ll have to take it from me.
He tries for my inside but I force him wide. We round the corner and I put everything I have into this straight, making surehe’s never close enough to benefit from DRS. He’s almost caught up by Turn 5 when we meet traffic from the back of the grid. Despite them having to give us room, it’s a street circuit so we lose time around corners until the track widens enough to clear them. I take advantage of Étienne being stuck behind both DFKs and power off like I’m trying to put in a fastest lap. I’ve got fresh tyres and an opportunity to put some solid distance between us. I pass a Tenzing on the straight. By the time Étienne reaches him, the Tenzing will have reached the next corner.
Étienne falls two seconds behind. Six seconds. Nine seconds. Hell yes.
‘Eilo’s in P2,’ says my race engineer.
Shit, Étienne’s been overtaken. The racing gods are smiling down on me. Or maybe just a smug Italian.
With five laps to go, Eilo’s twelve seconds behind and Étienne’s two behind him. Luca’s not the only one smiling; I’m smiling too.
Chapter 49
JACK
The race is complete. I lap a Maxim Performance and weave over the finish line to chaos in the stands.
‘You’ve done it, mate!’ laughs my race engineer as I begin my victory lap. ‘What a class drive in a tough race.’
‘Hell yeah! Woo!’ I punch above my head. I’m a mixture of relief, triumph, total exhaustion and sweat all bottled in an airless race suit. Getting undressed is going to be fun.
I glimpse my cheesy reflection three-storeys tall on The Sphere in the middle of the track. It’s only visible for an instant, but I couldn’t mistake my name even if I was eight drinks deep.
‘Jack Bowden,’ says Lorenzo, jumping on the radio. ‘Campione del Mondo!’
