I rolled my eyes as his friend laughed, and I moved on to the other pile of pens to suffocate with an elastic band.
But my heart soared because Nix was right. Zolt would recover, and then he would qualify at least third every race. He didn’t need his brother. He didn’t need me. He was capable of whatever he put his mind to.
“He’s just overtaken Dickinson. That was smooth. There we have it. Zoltán Farkas, after this track nearly killed him three years ago, is now in second place within the first four laps. He only has to overtake my fellow Italian, Cesari.”
“Well, my fingers are crossed. We love an underdog — wait, what?” There was a pause. “Zolt’s just taken off to the pitlane. They’ve flown the black flag.”
That was only used to pull a single racer off the track. I’d only seen it used once this championship so far.
I pulled out a headphone. “Ever, Livie, I’ll be back— I’ve got to— I won’t be long—” I was already gathering my phone and shoving it in my bag, rushing off, not waiting for their response.
“Technical error, right? Something’s got to be wrong with the bike.”
“Yeah, must be…” Nix trailed off.
I needed him to sound more certain as I jogged through the tunnel towards my pit box.
“Though nothing’s come through,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “But, that’s it, the black flag has flown, and for unknown reasons, Zoltán Farkas is out of the race.”
26
Chapter 26
Fia
Veltar’s pit box was chaos.
Patrick was shouting into his headpiece. The sports analyst was tapping with a furious finger on his iPad. The organisers whispered amongst each other. The mechanics were looking over one of the three bikes.
And it all passed me by. I hardly let it fall onto my senses, as if a forcefield held the noise, the people, the worry at arm’s length.
I made my way to the bike. Zolt’s bike. I traced the 91 on the engine, ignoring the mechanics at my feet, feeling the heat of the metal on my palm.
He’d only just come in.
Imre, at my knee, looked up. “No mechanical fault. Not why he came off track.”
There was silence.
So no one knew.
“What happened?” I asked, turning to fifteen pairs of eyeson me.
“Brilliant,” Patrick spat. “So no one knows a damn thing. Where were you?”
“I was in the PR tent.” Zolt didn’t need my help for track-talk.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Fuck sake.”
“So, we don’t even know where he is now?”
“He got off the bike and legged it through the tunnel, ignoring every shout his way. There was nothing on the pit wall. We heard no radio call. He must have had one, though.”
But who it was from or what was said was anyone’s guess.
“And he was riding okay?”
“Flawless,” the sports analyst said. “No rules were broken. He didn’t have any ride-through penalties. That wasn’t the issue. Seems there wasn’t a technical issue either.”
