‘Yeah, you’re definitely in a fit state to race,’ I comment as we leave the room.
‘Fuck, this is so fucking dumb! Stupid fucking rookie! Who let him do this? It shouldn’t be allowed so close to the end of the championship. Can you get the guys to look at the chair? A small crash shouldn’t have broken my ribs.’
‘I’m not sure a double-impact crash could be classed as small, but I will obviously get the guys to look at the seat design if you think it had a bearing on the pain you’ve ended up in.
‘Nathan’s going to throw a fit. Having to put in a reserve driver with no practice is going to tank us today.’ He’s not wrong about Nathan, and I don’t want to be the one to have to tell him this.
‘Have some faith in Anton.’ I try to sound confident, but the test practices he’s done this year have not been great, and to be honest, I’m surprised there hasn’t been a bit of a swap around with where he is in the rankings to come up to the main team.
Five seconds later, Nathan’s barrelling towards us, blustering about us being late for the meeting. Best to just get this over with.
‘Sorry we’re late, but unfortunately Johannes won’t be driving today. The doctor has recommended he doesn’t drive because he has two fractured ribs that almost punctured his lungs.’
‘How bad’s the pain?’ Nathan asks, turning away from me and practically glaring at Johannes.
We’re all silent for a moment or two and I wait to see if Johannes will downplay it and convince Nathan to go in there and fight the doctor for some strong painkillers, but his shoulders slump and he finally stops being stubborn. ‘About a nine when I move. The doctor’s right, I don’t know how I’d drive right now.’
‘Fucking brilliant. That’s just fucking great. And three hours before qualifying. This is a joke.’ Nathan storms off, but out of the corner of my eye I catch the documentary camera crew capturing every moment of this, so he’s only fucked himself over here.
The crew chase after him to catch all the reactions– and the way he slams the meeting room door shut, cutting off their access to him.
‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ Johannes mutters to me. ‘I don’t think I can stick around to watch this, and I think I might be sick.’
‘I’ll get the doctor to draw up a prescription to ease your pain and then I’ll find someone to drive you back to the hotel to get you settled.’
Then I really have to get to that meeting, because Lord knows I’m going to need all the car stats today to figure out how to guide Anton to any kind of success during qualifying today and the race tomorrow.
‘This is the fucking worst day ever.’ Johannes stomps off to who knows where, because he can’t leave without his meds and a bit of assistance to get him back to the hotel, and he could probably do with being snuck out the back door before the media starts running wild with stories of why he’s leaving. The PR team haven’t even had a second to write up a press release yet.
Thankfully, the doctor releases the medication straight to me, which I hand to two of the PR team who’re going to get Johannes covertly back to the hotel and then write up the confirmation about him not driving this weekend for the press and our social media accounts.
Everywhere is a shit show, the engineers trying not only to sort the damage to both RBF cars, but also to refit the seat in Johannes’s car– because Anton is four inches shorter than Johannes and we need it to suit him as well as possible to stand any chance of points this weekend.
When, three hours later, I finally settle at the pit wall for qualifying, I’m more than ready for this circus to be over. Especially when I have to give Anton an earful for blocking someone on a flying lap in Q1– and even more so when he doesn’t even make it into Q2. I still have to stick around for way too many hours to do my job, when all I really want to do is sneak away and make sure that Johannes isn’t too mad at me for pushing him into not racing today.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Johannes
Ican’t believe two broken ribs are stopping me from racing this weekend. I’m furious to the point that I would love to trash my hotel room– but even shuffling along the floor hurts right now.
Not only that, but Nathan’s pissed. I think even he knows that Anton isn’t ready for today, especially without any practice, and even more so on a track like Brazil’s Interlagos when the race tomorrow is destined for rain.
I’m trapped in the hotel room, my phone blowing up with notifications after the team put out the statement that I wouldn’t be competing. My Instagram has never been so popular, and I’ve put out many a nearly-naked campaign shot in my lifetime. I can’t bear to look at any of the comments– too much pity, and probably way too many fans of the other teams celebrating my demise because it gives their favourite drivers more of a chance at a podium today.
I have to turn my phone off an hour into being on bedrest. I’ve managed to give myself a stress headache worrying about what this means for my standings. I need the points. God knows I really need these points but there’s just no way. It’s difficult enough to get comfy on the plush bed without the pain reducing me to nausea, never mind squashing my body into the tight confines of the cockpit.
It’s just one race. That’s what I have to keep reminding myself. One race, and then by the time we get to Qatar I’ll be on the mend and it won’t hurt to fucking breathe. I eye the painkillers the team doctor prescribed. I don’t want to take them, but there’s also no point punishing myself anymore. Forcing myself to sit in agony just to suffer is not the kind of guy I want to be. So I open one of the many bottles of water within reach and pop two pills into my mouth before swallowing them down.
I don’t even know what to do with myself. I don’t think I could sleep if I tried. It would be far too uncomfortable right now. I don’t want to watch qualifying. I can’t bear to see everyone on track when I can’t be. Plus, I’m not sure I even want to know how Anton gets on. Nice guy, but he’s not ready for this. He looked green when he was told he’d be going into qualifying in just a couple hours’ time.
I’m sure Caleb will look after him just fine, but more than anything and very selfishly, I wish he was here looking after me instead. It’s not that I want him to play nurse, although him in that uniform, I could get on board with that. Mostly I just want him here with me because I love his company.
At some point, the first round of painkillers makes me drowsy and I actually fall asleep. When I wake up the room is much darker and as I try to get back into a comfy position I see the clock on the bedside table reads after 8 p.m.
Okay, so I slept for like five hours. That’s something, at least. Plus, I don’t even feel guilty about not watching qualifying now because the meds knocked me out.
I grab my phone from under my pillow, turning it back on and trying to ignore how the notifications roll in. Yet another reminder than I’m not racing tomorrow with all of the commiseration messages. Except, as I start to close them all down there’s one that catches my eye. It’s from a number I don’t have saved.
