‘Earth to Minnie! Interview him!’ barks the voice in my ear.
CHRIST!I’m gawping on live TV. ‘Jack! Do you have a minute?’
An easy smile spreads across his face. ‘Shoot.’
What were my questions again? Oh yes. ‘Testing suggested Pagari are set for yet another incredibly strong season, and yesterday’s qualifying confirmed it with a front row lock-out. Is this how the rest of the season’s going to be? Another year of Pagari dominance?’ Professional, knowledgeable, steady.
I really can do this. I’m interviewing this weekend’s most important driver, and I had to use my (very new) journalistic integrity to secure it. Not bad for a first attempt.
Jack’s laugh is breathy. ‘Ask me in November.’ He rubs the back of his neck, and I nod along gravely. ‘It’s obviously a new car, and we’re still learning about it, as all the teams are. I’m not going to lie, we struggled more than we expected to in qualifying – we have long run pace but we have a fight with Martinelli in terms of race pace. It’s definitely something we have to keep an eye on.’
A thoughtful, detailed answer. I’m speechless. The petty part of me hopes Kurt and Étienne are watching.
Jack’s standing with a cool towel around his neck like he has all the time. Like he isn’t about to race in one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Like he’s not under the most pressure of everyone on the grid.
Hang on, as if I gotstar-struckby adriver. Between their egos and sweat, not to mention those hulking necks, they’re walking icks.
That said, ego, sweat, and neck notwithstanding, it’s easy to see why the media brand Jack a heartbreaker. Between the steady confidence, effortless charm, gorgeous face, and the small detail of him being one of the most decorated drivers in modern motorsport, girls must fall at his feet. Not this girl, though. She’s here to do a job and that’s it.
‘How do you think you’ll handle the first sector with two heavyweights behind you – your teammate, and the Martinelli of Étienne Blanchet?’ I say, relaxing into it. ‘Lest we forget, seven of the last ten winners here started from second.’
‘Yeah, but a P2 didn’t win last year, did they?’ Something wicked glints in his eyes and he blinks and it’s gone and did I imagine it? ‘Or the year before,’ he adds.
Did his voice darken?
And did my stomachflip?
Must be my lack of lunch. Three breadsticks and a squashed Babybel aren’t a meal, Minnie.
He opens his mouth to say something else but everyone’s drifting towards the start line for the Bahraini national anthem. I don’t want to spend a second longer on here than I need to so I throw some parting words to the camera and make like Road Runner. Thank fuck for that. I’m never volunteering for anything again. Ever.
Chapter 2
JACK
‘Best of luck, Mikey boy!’ I call after my teammate as we head to our respective cars.
I don’t consider myself a cruel guy, but the look Micah throws me over his shoulder feels sadistically good. It’s almost undetectable. A camera couldn’t catch it. If you’d just met him, it would pass you by. It’s all in the eyes – or rather, behind the eyes.
It’s still tickling me while I strap myself in. Never was there a Micah who was less of a Mikey. Zero sense of humour. More serious than an Old Bailey judge. I’ve been teammates with him for three years and I don’t even think I know what he does for fun. Pummel simulated me on his PlayStation? Make aSimsJack and force him to do hard labour? I honestly wouldn’t put it past him.
The crew are clearing the grid. Time to focus. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to centre. My hands flex around the new steering wheel with its different dials and buttons that took me three straight evenings to memorise.
The season stretches in front of me like the Great North Road. Nine months; five continents; twenty-four races one-to-two weeks apart with a summer break in the middle. Nowonder the second half’s such a pressure cooker; from jetlag to title contending, F1 demands the ultimate mental and physical sacrifice. But it’s worth it.
Man it feels good to be back. The familiar promise of speed, intensity and adrenaline hum through the car. Months of training and testing boil down to the next two hours. Racing in F1 isn’t like anything else on the planet – you’re piloting a fighter jet on wheels. I don’t know how to explain it.
Fuck me, it’s roasting in here. My balls are practically molten already. It’s not enough that I’m in thermal underwear and an airtight race suit cooking under nuclear sunlight, there are also two radiators either side of me, hybrid batteries behind my arse, and hydraulic tubes either side of my legs. When we get going, add burning rubber to the mix too. I’m hoping all the pre-season weightlifting in saunas and running in Dubai wasn’t for nothing. Come on, heat endurance. You can kick in any minute now.
My engineer pipes up over the team radio with coded strategy and set-up reminders – since everyone and their pet canary can tune in – and I ease on the throttle to begin the formation lap. I lead the pack leisurely around the first corner, weaving from side to side to warm up my tyres.
Beneath all the exhilaration – and I am happy to be back, course I am – I feel the tiniest bit…meh. Not ungrateful, I know how many drivers would kill for my seat, but I can’t ignore the feeling niggling away at me. It doesn’t mean anything; I’ll drive like hell all season, and I’m just as desperate to win the Championship as when I first made it to F1 six years ago. But…
There’s just a but.
Last season I didn’t exactly race hard. Pagari’s car was leagues ahead of any other – which is sick, obviously, but moseying along’s not what I’m paid eight figures to do. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I’m still the driver I was. I don’t know. Every time I feel like this, I remind myself if I was ina Leone, or god forbid a DFK, sitting in a Pagari on pole would sound pretty damn appealing.
Black and silver fills my mirror – which is where he’s going to stay. Micah will try everything he possibly can to beat me this year. The difference was clear in pre-season testing. He’s hungrier, and I don’t blame him. I know he thinks last year’s Championship was too easy for me, and he’s not wrong.
