My brows slam down. “I’ll be giving you advice that you should feed Asher. It’ll be directly from my model.”
“I have a model, too,” Ethan responds drolly. “And I’ve been working with mine for years. Stay in your lane, greenie. If you don’t get in my way, we won’t have any problems.”
“Ethan, you’ll want to hear my input for Asher—” the pit lane light goes green, and cars start filing out onto the track.
In qualifying, there’s no grid or formation—drivers just head out whenever their team sends them, chasing the fastest timed lap, orflying lap, they can manage within the session clock. I gaze down at my tablet, where I’ve already made notes for a broad strategy based on everything I’ve collected from Asher’s time in the simulator. My fingers tighten around it so much it’s a wonder the screen doesn’t crack.
“Disaster time,” Ethan mutters under his breath.
I glare at him. I donotlike his tone, or his assumptions.
“For strategy, you should recommend—” the session clock starts counting down from the eighteen minutes allotted to Q1.
Immediately, Ethan starts speaking rapid-fire. They’re standard—get the tyre temperatures up, warm the brakes, make sure the battery’s fully charged before the flying lap—so I don’t interject, but nerves flutter at my breastbone.
Asher’s under the impression that Ethan and I are collaborating. If Ethan gives an order that my model and I both disagree with and Asher does poorly because of it, he might take it out on me—like he did two races ago. He mightblameme. Back then, that just pissed me off; now it wouldhurt.
“Alright, we’re going to start with two out-laps,” Ethan says.Two warmup laps to bring the tyres and breaks up to temperature before Asher even attempts a timed run. In an eighteen-minute session, that’s over four minutes gone just circling the track at reduced speed.
“No,” I cut in, even though Asher can’t hear me. “One out-lap, then a flying lap.” That’ll work with Asher’s habits and strengths far more effectively than wasting track time.
Ethan lowers his microphone. “Shut up,” he hisses. “This is the way he always does it.” Ethan’s voice is low, but not quiet enough to avoid attention. Declan’s eyes flick toward us. Elio’s engineer pointedly turns away, pretending not to hear. The space on the pit wall suddenly feels too small and cramped, like everyone is aware I’ve overstepped.
Maybe I have, but the way he always does it hasn’t been doing him any favors, now, has it?
My jaw clenches. Waiting an extra lap before having Asher push isn’t theend of the world,but it’s not optimal, either.
“Then have him do back-to-back flying laps,” I say, trying to think on my feet.
“Again,no, and for the love of god,shut it. You’re here to observe, not direct.” Ethan flips the microphone back down. The wordobserveis filled with derision and lands hard.
Intern.
Girl.
Extra body on the wall meant to be invisible.
And, as always,second best.
My blood just about boils, and I bite my tongue until I taste blood. If I make a stir, I’ll get kicked off the pit wall, and then I won’t haveanyinput.
But I don’t have any input now, either. I’m standing two feet from the man effectively holding Asher’s fate in his hands, and I may as well be invisible.
After his two out laps, Asher does his first flying lap—a full-speed run that’s timed and determines his placement in the grid—before Ethan immediately brings him back down. “Cooldown lap.”
That’s standard. Drivers need them to manage tyre wear and let the brakes cool between flying laps. But one cooldown lap bleeds into two, which bleeds into three. I watch the session as the clock ticks while Asher just… circles. Lap after lap at gentle speeds, until his car cools far past the point of any benefit.
This isn’t just a conservative strategy; it’s not a strategy at all. Ethan’s doing the absolute bare minimum to get Asher classified. His flying lap places him at P20, but Iknowhe could do better.
I gaze down at my algorithm and find that its suggestion is in line with my intuition.
“You have to send him back out,” I say urgently. We’re running out of time to make real progress. “Have him do a banker flying lap,” a safe, fast lap that locks in a decent time, “then go all-out for a second flying lap. He can do better than P20.”
Ethan doesn’t respond. On screen, the session clock ticks under six minutes. Every second Ethan wastes is a second that Asher will not get back.
Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Five fifty-eight. The numbers keep bleeding down, and my anxiety shoots to the sky.
“Ethan,” I hiss. Hestilldoesn’t respond.
