SAGE
If it’s a relief that he’s gone, why do I feel kind of awful? I have to focus for the rest of this week. Guest-dick services are not needed.
As Pri and I are walking to the elevator the next morning so I can go to the press meeting, we pass Alexander’s room, and there’s a gray-haired French-speaking couple standing in front of it with their bags, having some sort of simultaneous bicker-fest as the husband opens the door.
I slow my walk and strain to peek inside as we pass. The room is pristine, and unless he’s got a kinky thing for threesomes with elderly French people, it looks like Alexander’s gone.
“He checked out,” Priya tells me.
“What? Who?”
She rolls her eyes, holding the elevator door for me. “Quit it. Your dumb boy toy.” She prods the button for the lobby. “Isaw him leaving when Julian and I were catching a cab to the airport for… you know.”
At the mention, her face goes all haunted. I hold back my quip, instead slipping my hand into hers and giving an encouraging squeeze. “Now’s the part where you canstopworrying, babes. Jules is in a nice place, working through his shit. Probably already in a flotation tank with soothing affirmations and whale songs being piped in or whatever the fuck they do.”
I definitely feel better knowing my brother is somewhere safe. He’d fuckin’ better be, at €17,000 a week. I considered only pre-paying for one month, and they could ask me for more if he’s still there after that point, but I didn’t want to do anything that might demonstrate a lack of faith in him. So, the full twelve weeks it is—€204,000. Priya cried, but I shrugged it off, saying,What else am I gonna do with money, buy a new vibrator? I don’t need anything.
This morning I looked up books on addiction and how to support someone struggling with it, and Priya’s gonna go to a bookstore here in Melbourne and get as many of them as she can find for me. A lot of my assumptions about the issue are clouded by emotion, and I’d like to be useful in some way other than the money, so I plan to read up while Jules is doing his program.
Today’s a busy day. In addition to the press bullshit and hours of training, I have a meeting at the paddock with Phaedra and my race engineer and a team of strategists (including a guy who didn’t want me on the team—chief strategist Erich, kind of a sexist dickwad) and our new technical director, Basil Rowley, who’s a fucking wizard.
I’m always stoked to talk with him, because part of how Emerald lured him away from Coraggio was… well, hiringme. He’s such a rockstar engineer that everybody wanted the guy, and Allonby has way more money than Emerald because they’re the current constructor’s champs, plus they have rich sponsors out the wazoo. But Basil Rowley has four daughters, has worked in F1 since the 1980s, and is into the idea of getting a woman onto the podium. He’s my champion, my favorite egghead nerd. The guy loves the challenge of designing a car around a woman driver, fine-tuning all the minuscule details necessary to the construction and setup to make the playing field as level as possible.
I’ve tailored my body to do this job, starting from well before puberty. Even though I’m short as hell, I’d take on any woman athlete in a test of strength with confidence. The g-forces of braking and cornering in F1 are insane. Your average Jane or Joe can handle about 8 kg of lateral push, and I can takefive times that, piece of cake. But there are still some things that can’t be influenced by a driver’s physical conditioning alone, and that’s where Basil’s magic comes in.
It’s gonna be a full day. And this evening is my favorite part, because I’m doing an event with a group of girls from Emerald’s Jump Start program for disadvantaged youth. I have to say, when the criticism and condescension and misogynist shade finally builds up enough to penetrate my armor, spending time doing mentoring and seeing young women inspired… that repairs the armor and polishes it to a sassy shine.
Phaedra catches up to me as I’m heading for the garage after the meeting.
“Hey, Sage? Quick word…” She points toward the hallway leading to her office and peels off, and I follow. Inside, she shuts the door and sits on the edge of her desk. “I wanted to apologize for that shit from Erich. Holy shitbiscuits, I’ve warned the guy, but he—”
“It’s fine,” I dismiss with a tired chuckle. “I can give as good as I get. Fuck him.”
Phaedra draws in a long breath. “Well, I’m still following through on the consequences and fining him every time he says shit like that.” She rubs her forehead. “The guy’s good at his job, but I can find someone just as good who isn’t a piece of shit.” She plucks up a bottled water and strangles the cap off, shooting a smirk at me. “You really did dish it back at him today. Fucking poetry.”
The tense exchange was when Erich said the group should address the question of “whether Miss Sikora’s performance might be impacted by her womanly cycle.” I asked him to clarify, and he said,We should track your menses in anticipation of increased hormonal impulsivity and emotion. Perhaps Dr. Brunner can report to us about that.
Phaedra’s hand closed around her coffee mug as if preparing to fastball it at him. Basil gave an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. My race engineer, Imani, got a look on her face like she’d stepped in something. I sweetly told Erich,If hormones play into it, are your strategizing abilities impaired by the fact that you probably haven’t gotten it up without pharmaceuticals since 2005? Maybe your wife can report to us on how often you manage a poke.
So much is riding on this next grand prix. Two poorshowings in a row might be excusable, especially since one was unavoidable. But three would look like a pattern, and my figurative “stock” would dip. This race has to be a banger.
In the evening, after the Jump Start event, Priya and I are walking out when I hear an enthusiastic, “Sage!” from the crowd of fans and press folk. I know that musical voice, and I freeze to swivel around.
Before I find the source, Priya’s phone jangles and her face falls. “Oh God, what’s…?”
I see my brother’s name and a selfie of the two of them on the screen. Priya’s staring at it, and again I hear another call of “Sage!” from nearby.
“Why is Jules calling you?” I demand in a near-growl. “He’s not supposed to have his phone while he’s in there.”
“I’ll… I don’t know why! Jesus, quit scowling. I’ll handle it.” She flaps an arm to wave me away and scurries off several yards to answer.
As I’m staring after her—wondering why my idiot brother is making calls rather than having someone put heated rocks on his chakras or whatever—someone loops an arm through mine and I turn to see Maya Ardley, all smiles.
We’ve known each other forever from karting, then raced together in F3, both eventually testing for Harrier as a potential reserve driver. When I got the seat, Maya was so thrilled for me that I could tell it was partly relief. Since then we’ve kept up with each other as casual friends but haven’t hung out as much as either of us would like.
Even though Maya and I aren’t sporting rivals anymore, her mom, CJ, has kept up an imagined feud, blaming me for herdaughter not “making it.” But if you ask me—and surely if you ask Maya herself—shedidmake it. She moved to Australia with her boyfriend, professional surfer Tau Murray, and is enjoying a quiet life out of the limelight.
I throw my arms around her and we both do a little foot-dance hugging thing. I pull back and size her up. She looks great. Her blond hair is grown out long and she’s got a glowing tan. There are sun freckles across the slightly crooked nose Maya wouldn’t let her mom bully her into changing with surgery.
