‘Johannes doing okay?’ he asks.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I mumble before letting Johannes know the track will soon be clear for another formation lap. He’ll be headed back to his spot on the fourth row– exactly where he doesn’t want to be right now.
‘He can pull this back,’ Ian says. ‘He won from eighth last year.’ Not here, though. Not on this track. Not at Harper’s home race, where he’d probably run even his best friend off the track to win here. His fiancé will no doubt be watching on from the garage like the proudest man possible. Harper’s not losing today.
Even if we could just climb to the top half of the points, that would be better than last weekend. I know he’s capable of it.
Except, of course, we aren’t that lucky. The lights go out for the second time, the track roars back to life, and Johannes can’t get out of eighth position, no matter how hard he tries.
And he tries– he really tries– but his frustration gets the better of him and he gradually falls even further back, the gap between him and P7 increasing with every turn. He slips back closer to the driver in P9 and if he’s not careful he’s going to lose P8 to him.
If Johannes were on top form, we’d be enjoying the British battle at the front as Elijah tries to force his way into first, Harper defending his position like his life depends on it. Except we can’t enjoy it, because I have my foul-mouthed driver on the radio cursing out his car, the other drivers, the officials, the course– and eventually the whole world– as he battles the demons inside his head.
I keep checking and rechecking the technical data and I can’t see any issues with the car. On screen and on paper, everything looks good right now. Which means it’s driver error. But I could have told you that without even looking at the stats. He’s pushing hard, but it’s like he’s fighting himself instead of the other nineteen cars on track.
The crowd is going absolutely wild for a British 1-2-3 as Harper leads, Elijah trailing just behind him, and Jon trying his absolute best to keep up in a position he’s completely unused to. The atmosphere is electric.
But my focus is locked on my own driver as he catches gravel at turn one, steering back onto the track in a cloud of dust. It’s exactly what he doesn’t need, and he quickly loses a place to Ogum. Johannes is now P9.
‘Fuckkkk,’ I grunt under my breath. This can’t be happening.
Now he’s left battling Nils who’s closing in behind him like the up-and-coming driver he really is. While it’s good for Nils personally, this is not in the best interests of the team. Of course they want Nils fighting for points, but they don’t want it to be with the driver who’s their best chance of being the championship winner this year.
I want to slam my head down on the desk and throw my headphones across the paddock. This sport, no matter how much I love it, is the most frustrating thing in the world. One millisecond can change the outcome of a race, and one race can change everyone’s opinion of you. For better or worse.
Two bad results in a row means we have a serious problem.
‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ Johannes groans into the radio, just when I think things surely can’t get any worse in this race. ‘Why is my steering so heavy?’
I look to our pressure notifications and half a second later it’s flickering away as his front right tyre pressure drops completely. ‘Box, box!’ I call out almost immediately. ‘There’s a puncture.’
It’s the worst news I could be giving him right now. Any chance of a one-stop strategy is now completely out the window as we have to pit on lap ten. Even if we go on hards right now, it’s going to destroy his race to try and catch up. But if we go on to softs, we’re fucked in fifteen laps’ time and he’ll have to come back in. The call needs to be made fast and it’s up to me to make it.
‘Let’s go hards. He can do this. He’ll ease the tyres back in and there’s a chance he might not have to stop again.’
We should have started on hards like most of the rest of the grid, but no, we went a different way, hoping for a free pit stop at some point if a safety car came out. It turned out to be a bad call, but it’s not just the tyres working against Johannes. I can feel the race slowly but surely slipping away.
Johannes is furious as we attempt a fast stop, but can only make it three seconds short before he rejoins the race. Luckily, when he does rejoin the race, he’s in P10. He’s at the back of the pack, struggling to keep any kind of pace behind the top of the grid.
Johannes doesn’t climb any spots. The hard tyres take too long to wear in before he can find his true race pace behind Nils in ninth; and at that point, Nils is long gone and too quick to catch. Nathan’s practically spitting venom before the chequered flag even drops for Harper to take it home.
It’s the first time Nils has ever finished ahead of his teammate so the mood is going to be bittersweet in the RBF garage this afternoon. Of course, I’m happy for Nils, but I’m beyond gutted for Johannes.
Johannes almost finished outside of the points and I’m dreading what this means. For him, for the team, for me…
Surely the only way from here is up.
ChapterThree
Johannes
Pfucking 10. My worst finish in longer than I care to remember. Everything from climbing out of the car tobeing weighed and then dragged in for some doping tests is a complete blur.
Until I walk smack bang into my supposed secret boyfriend who’s clapping my best friend on the back.
Jackson’s gaze on me is cold, the way a stranger looks at you. I don’t know if he’s in control of it anymore. It’s like a role he automatically slips into every time we meet in a professional capacity. I’m not close enough to hear the words exchanged between him and Harper, but as I approach, Jackson makes a hasty exit.
Harper hauls me into his arms and I cling to the warmth I’ve known from him for so much of my life. It hits me in a zap of bitter ice down my spine how much I miss him right now, how much our gradual drifting apart has impacted me.
