“You tell me.” She gnaws at the silicone straw with a taunting look.
I focus on my shoelace again, buying time, then finally sit up primly straight. “What did you hear, and where, exactly?”
Iris shrugs. “Thought you’da heard the goss already. From the blond slag with the Turkey teeth who writes the sport blog. No specifics, but said you’ve a new fella and he distracted you so much in Italy that your drive was pants.”
“Oh, CJ Ardley can get fucked. I got four points for Emerald at Imola.”
She squints. “Yeah, but you qualified in sixth, so the eighth-place finish was…” Trailing off, she leaves the rest painfully implied.
Truth is, Iwasmajorly in my head at the last GP because of all that emotional drama with Sandy. I’m glad we have a month off from each other.
Today I’m feeling a crisp, blue-sky-to-the-horizon’s-edge clarity, despite the shock of finding out about Jules from Mom a few days back. I’m full of inspiration. But the news that Maya’s mother is shitposting about me again isn’t exactly great. And unfortunately, she always stays on the other side of the line where I could sic Emerald’s legal team on her.
“Aw, don’t believe everything you read,” I tell Iris with a flap of one hand. Shoe adjusted, I stand and jump up and down in place a few times, checking the fit. “Everyone can watch my fuckin’ dust. This is my first home race since I got a seat, and I’m not accepting less than P3.”
A few factors in the third qualifying session set me back farther than I was hoping for—seventh—but I’m trying to see it as a challenge. I came into turn 13 a second after Mateo Ortiz hit the wall in Q3 and it had just started raining, so the slick conditions plus debris on the track slowed me down. But my car’s setup is beautifully balanced today and I’m gonna fight like hell to advance.
The straight from pole to turn 1 isn’t long on this track, and there’s always a fucking free-for-all leading into it. But thissection is one of my secret weapons down the road. It’s a DRS zone, and on another lap I might be set up for a pass.
At lights out, I stay clear of the chaos, then make my first pass at T11. Climbing into P6 on the first lap gives me confidence. Everything else falls away and it’s just me and the car, one body, working together to devour the track.
On the third lap, after the uphill twisty bits in turns 12 to 15, we exit T16 into one of my favorite spots—the nearly mile-long straight where I’ll be flying at over 200 mph before hard-braking T17. Ahead of me, avoiding a tussle between Drew Powell and Cosmin causes Akio Ono to drop back. I stay on his ass around the tight turn and into the DRS detection zone, then pass him at turn 1 as the fourth lap starts.
I opted to start the race on hard tyres because of my position farther back. Every driver in front of me started on mediums, and the race will be a one-stopper for most. My passes thus far on the harder tyres have owed to two things: the gorgeous car Basil Rowley has put under my ass, and my pushy, risk-embracing, late-braking driving style.
My tyre management is solid, and the track’s surface temp is taking a toll on everyone. As the race progresses and the frontrunners start boxing for new rubber, I build up distance while I can. For one lap I’m even in the lead, and lemme just say… Alexander is a great lay, but leading a grand prix will always be better than sex.
My pit window is between laps 35 and 41, and I push it as late as I can. I’m all but limping at lap 40. My best chance is staying in that clearer air as long as possible. Just as I’m starting lap 41, there’s a dustup between Anders Olsson and one ofthe rookies, and I’m blessed by the Yellow Flag Goddess and get a sweet deal on my pit stop. I gain three seconds before even exiting the pit lane.
I retain P4 with sixteen laps to go. Owen Byrne is in P3 right now, six seconds ahead of me, which feels like an eternity. But my mediums are faster than his hards, and Team Easton have been having trouble this season with their Energy Recovery System overheating. It’s cost him positions twice already this year.
For the next dozen laps, I work my way up until I’m right on Owen’s gearbox. His car is strong, and he’s just not making any damned mistakes.
Until lap 54.
After the balls-out speed of the sector 3 straight, we roar into turn 17, where a combination of my late braking and Owen going too wide gives me an opportunity. I cut past like an Iron Chef showing off flawless knife skills. Cosmin and Drew are too far ahead for me to get higher than P3, but my podium is a sure thing as long as I don’t fuck up.
Which I don’t. I polish that scorching, rubbered-in track with the glide of a surfer, wasting no movement, no breath, existing in the natural space created by driver, car, and hot ground. When I cross the finish line, Imani lets out a giddy laugh.
“Fifth race… podium, baby!” she says.
“Told you I would,” I shoot back, elated. “Jules, if you’re watching, this one’s for you.”
It’s not until an hour later when a journalist asks me who “Jules” is that I realize I probably shouldn’t have drawnattention to him. Someone might get curious enough to dig around, wondering what’s going on with my brother.
I decide I’m being paranoid, and just allow myself to enjoy the day. The press is predictably going apeshit over what they’re now calling Formula 1’s Leading Lady. Of course, the first time a journalist brings it up, I have to sass. “I’m no lady… What’s the fun in that?”
It’s a great fucking weekend.
I can’t wait for Spain.
22
BARCELONA, SPAIN
ALEXANDER
Even with nearly a month to plan, it was still devilishly hard to find anyplace with a vacancy in Barcelona the week of the Grand Prix. But I found out about a friend of a friend who lives in the city and isn’t a racing fan—an artist with a studio flat in the El Born neighborhood—who was willing to shove off for the week and let me stay there.
