His lips quirk. ‘I always think there’s a win on the table. If I didn’t, I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But it’s not always possible. What then?’
‘Then I make it possible.’
‘By taking steps other drivers won’t?’
‘Objection!’ sounds a voice from behind the camera and my heart stops beating.
‘It’s fine, Dad.’ Micah waves his hand, unruffled. ‘I know what you’re getting at. I’m a hard racer, I know I am. I flirt with track limits, I never yield a position, I overtake in tight spaces. Same as Ayrton Senna. Same as Sir Cliff Roberts.’ He gives me a pointed look. ‘I’m put in that car to win and I’ll do anything to get the job done. I care so much about this sport, this team, it can be to the detriment of popularity with the other drivers. But it’s a sacrifice I’ve made peace with. They don’t pay me.’
You know what, he’s right. I’ve never seen him do anything my dad wouldn’t have done. My dad was all about pushingboundaries. The amount he used to bitch about his teammates bordered on chronic.
‘The fans will certainly be behind you this weekend.’ I cross my legs. ‘Despite not being on TikTok yourself, you’re the second most popular driver on the app with almost a million posts. Does that not tempt you to get social media?’
He smiles. ‘No, but I’m grateful for the support.’
‘The British press would also love to see you on the podium. They can’t get enough of homegrown talent.’
His smile wanes. ‘Only if I win.’ His voice has a solemn edge to it. ‘If I win, I’m British; if I lose, I’m Nigerian.’
Micah’s comment’s still clanging through me as the Pagari crew give my helmet one final shake. Thankfully I can’t see Jack, but I know he’s watching from somewhere in the stands. Overprotective weirdo.
‘You ready?’ Micah beams. He’s smiled about thirty times in the last half hour, and it’s in no small part due to the cameras constantly pointed our way.
‘Ready, cap’n,’ I confirm.
‘You’re not scared, are you?’
‘Not really.’ Blatant lie, but no one wants immortal footage painting them as a scardy cat. There’s a reason my dad never drove a hot lap with me. Why did this sound like such a good idea when Micah proposed it? In the cold light of a dull Saturday morning, it’s looking singularly less good. At least it’s not raining.
The car gleams beside us in jewel red. Pagari are damn good at making supercars. The tyres are enormous, and with a six-litre engine, it’ll go like a rocket. I swallow the bile that’s worked its way up my throat. Why couldn’t he have chosen a Corsa?
Inside it’s just as stunning. As I strap myself in, I can’t help marvelling at the intricate design. It was brought out this year and yet the dashboard is almost analogue with a multitude of dials and switches, and a manual gearbox. The Pagari Aetheria was created for one purpose: the pleasure of driving.
The crew shut my door and oh god it’s time. Remember what Jack said:head against headrest, follow the racing line, lean into G-forces.
Micah glances over as the car rumbles to life beneath us. ‘Shall we see how she flies?’
I don’t like that word, ‘flies’. I prefer ‘cruises’, or even ‘pootles’. I don’t have time to reply because we’re tearing off the line. I’m thrown back in my seat like we’re in a jet fighter launching into the sky. My hands seize the sides of my seat and grip on for dear life.
I’ve saved my tricky interview questions like Jack said, but my mind’s gone blank. All I care about are the corners hurtling towards us that Micah doesn’t seem to brake for.
‘You good?’ he shouts above the roar of the engine.
I squeak something that sounds like ‘yep’ because there’s a camera fastened ten inches from my face. My seatbelt cuts into me as we veer around Brooklands, the wheels feeling like they’re lifting off the track.
‘Let’s get a bit more horsepower then,’ he says.
It’s ok. He’s a professional driver. Racing speeds are much higher than this. It doesn’t feel possible, but statistically it is.
My knuckles are white as we approach a straight. What did Jack say? Head back. Racing line. Lean?—
‘One-twenty,’ Micah grins like Pennywise. ‘One-thirty. One-forty!’
I plaster on a smile to mask that, inside, I’m saying my last prayers. It’s been a good ride. Probably spent too much money on skincare and not enough time with my grandparents, butthere’s not much I can do about it now. Goodbye Maple, goodbye Coco, goodbye?—
‘Let’s get a drift round here,’ Micah says as we near Copse Corner, and suddenly it feels like we’re skating on water.
