“Fuck the strategy!” I shouted, infuriated. Sometimes we were hamstrung by our teams, and this felt like one of those times. But unless the pit crew were already standing out in the pit lane waiting for me with tyres, there was no point in me even trying.
“Max is now fourteen seconds behind. He’s passed Graham and is gaining on Sebastian,”said my manager.“Be prepared to defend.”
I watched in my mirror as Sebastian did his best to keep Max behind him.Come on. I just needed him to hold Max off for a little longer or for someone at the back of the pack to have an accident that would bring out the safety car.
I glanced into my mirror. Was Sebastian having trouble? He seemed to be swerving erratically, in a way that stopped Max from passing him, but was also pretty illegal if he was doing it on purpose.
“We’re hearing Sebastian García is having issues with his steering. Prepare to pit if Max drops more than twenty seconds behind,”said the voice in my ear.
“I hear you.” I’d normally be grinning into my helmet. But I didn’t want Sebastian to have a bad start to the season. I wanted to beat him, of course. But it sucked when the cars misbehaved. If a runner failed at a hundred metre sprint, they could hardly blame their trainers. But if a Moto 1 driver failed, it could be any number of reasons. The car, the pit stop strategy, the weather.
As we pulled around a particularly tight street circuit corner, I watched it happen in the mirror. We all steered almost as one, but Sebastian’s car smoked as he locked up the steering wheel, and it still came off the track, crossing the track limit lines and hitting one of the barriers that separated us from the rest of the world with a horrible crunch. Max expertly swerved past him, but that didn’t matter. A safety car meant my odds just went up.
I wanted to cry for Sebastian, to jump out of my own moving car and check that he was OK. But now was not the time to sympathise, that could come later. I had to win. And he’d just given me my chance. A safety car would definitely be called, and as I came around the corner I noticed the yellow flag that signalled for us all to slow down.
“Box, box, box.” Came the command almost immediately, and I pitted the car at the earliest opportunity. I only lost ten seconds of time in the pit lane and came out ahead of Max by six seconds. By the time Sebastian’s wreckage had been cleared and we were cleared to pass the safety car and race again, I was ready to race, and to win.
I flew around the track, listening to the screams of the crowd as I added an extra second to my lead with every lap. I crossed the finish line with a heart in conflict with itself.
After the celebrations, the popping of the champagne and the gratuitous back-slapping from wealthy sponsors who probably knew nothing about racing, after I had called my family, and after celebratory drinks with the Spanish Royal Family, I lay in my bed late that night with a cold sliver of sadness marring the joy. I rolled over, picked up my phone and texted Sebastian.
Sebastian
Barcelona
Isat in the darkened restaurant and waited for the victor to arrive and claim his spoils. He was late, and hadn’t texted. But Theo was a nice person. He would have texted me if he couldn’t show up. I knew that to be true.
I did check my phone, just in case. But I looked up when I heard the hushed tones of the maitre’d, and he was leading Theo towards my table. He had dressed nicely in a linen button-down shirt and cream trousers. I was dressed in such dark clothing I almost blended in with the dark velvet of the seats. Theo’s eyes lit up when he saw me, and he moved as if to hug me, but the maitre’d had pulled out a chair and gestured pointedly at it. Theo gave him a nervous grin and took the seat.
“I hope this isn’t too sacrilegious,” he said. “Italian food with a Spaniard in Barcelona.”
“We can try mymadre’s paellaanother time,” I said with a conspiratorial grin, and his cheeks darkened as he perused themenu. How my mother would love him if I brought him home. But that was a silly little fantasy. I didn’t know if he blushed so much around me because he felt remotely the same way about me or if he was simply embarrassed by how much I pushed myself into his presence. Until he said as such out loud, I would take every chance I could get.
“Vino para ustedes, señores?” said the waiter. Both of us looked up and shook our heads at the same time.
“Agua para mi,” I said.
“Cheap date,” quipped Theo.
“You know we cannot drink on a race week,” I admonished him.
“You could at least stretch to alemonade,” Theo whispered. “I’ve seen how much they’re paying you over at Remini.”
“True. We must toast your victory,” I said, calling the waiter back over.“Queremos dos tés helados.”
“OK, my Spanish doesn’t stretch that far,” Theo said.
“Iced tea. Caffeine might keep us both awake for a little longer,” I said.
Theo yawned and then caught himself. “It’s your fault. You made me remember that I’m tired.”
I chuckled. “I know the feeling. Two more races until we get a gap.”
“Two more races and I can have adrink,” said Theo. “I miss margaritas, but I’m not one to have a drink on race week.”
“Margaritas? I’ll have to remember that for next weekend when you lose,” I said with a grin.
The waiter came over with our sweet iced teas and we both ordered our pizzas. I wondered if Theo had chosen such a relatively random restaurant because he felt pity for me crashing out. I was sure if we had raced well right until the end he would have chosen the most pretentious and expensive restaurant he could to humiliate me.
