“Amended Plan A,” Antonio says flatly.
Right. Plan A is soft tires until lap twenty one at the earliest. Then switch to mediums. Billy to pit first. Antonio to hold position and hopefully be in a spot to give Billy a lap of help or two before he’s brought in.
Amended Plan A is same tires and lap count, but free-for-all when it comes to pit strategy and defense and overtaking. Great. I fight the urge to tell Antonio he’s a little bitch and just say, “Amended A. Of course.Bonne chance mes amis.”
My father always said that to them when he was Principal, and I’m delighted when Billy answers back the way he would if it was my dad. “Don’t need luck, but I’ll slap it on like aftershave for the hell of it.”
“Sounds good.” I smile, and the radios go silent as the drivers line the cars up on the grid.
Lights out, and both of them get off to a brilliant start. Billy is forced wide by Luke Hannaford, an American driver who is always way more aggressive than I think is safe. He’s a contender, I get it. He hasn’t had his first championship, but he’s always in the top five every year. He’s hungry, but he lets that hunger make him dangerous. As Billy is almost pushed into the wall, Hannaford gains the lead.
“That was bullshit,” Billy’s voice booms over the radio.
“We know it,” Dario says, and he immediately calls the stewards who tell him they’re investigating.
“He should get to retake the lead,” I tell them. “That’s what we want.”
Dario looks at me like,duh, and continues pleading our case on the phone. I grit my teeth and try to take solace in the fact that Antonio has moved into third. If Antonio wanted to be a team player, this news would sit better with me, but he won’t do what I want, which is help Billy regain the lead. So now I have to manage my own drivers racing each other.
Antonio is within DRS of Billy, and they battle through the long straight. Antonio almost passes, but Billy manages to hold him off. There’s a tense moment when it looks like they might touch, which would likely cause one or both of them to careen off the track.
“Antonio…” I just say his name, warningly through a clenched jaw, into the radio. Rocco glances over at me. Dario actually shushes me. I ignore it.
“It’s a race, Frankie, so I am racing,” Antonio responds, and his jaw sounds clenched too, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with the stressfulness of the actual race.
I turn to Rocco and give him a WTF gesture with my hands because if I speak anything out loud, the cameras and mics will pick it up. Rocco stares back passively and shrugs before turning back to the monitors.
By the time we’re almost halfway through the race, both Antonio and Billy have pitted once. We’ve moved them to soft tires, which won’t last the whole race. We’re on a two-pit strategy, which everyone knows now by the tire choice, but the key is when we pit them again. I scribble a note to Rocco that says Billy is the priority because he has managed to hold onto a very close second against Hannaford. The stewards did not, in fact, give him his position back, which Dario told them was not the right call, but as usual, they give zero shits what we think. Antonio had fallen to fourth but just overtook again to reclaim third. He’s back to gunning to try and overtake Billy, which is putting unnecessary wear on his tires.
“Antonio, we need some good old fashioned restraint from you for the next few laps,” I say over the radio.
“It’s a race.”
“I am aware, but perhaps your tires didn’t get the memo.” It’s bitchy, and I want to regret it, but I don’t. He’s being an ass. Joaquin snickers beside me on the wall. Rocco shoots me a disapproving glare for a second, which I ignore. “We need these to last a little bit longer than your current strategy will allow.”
“I need to concentrate,” Antonio barks. “Please stop yapping.”
The rage is instantaneous, like a firework discharging in the depths of my gut, and it spreads like wildfire through my body. That fucking asshole would not have said that to a man. I’ve heard him get frustrated before in a race, with Bash and with Rocco, and the condescending tone and a word like ‘yapping’ would never have left his mouth.
I rip off my headset and stand up. I close my eyes and take the deepest breath I can without choking and then I let it out as slowly as possible. I am firing him at the end of the season whether Lucia is ready or not, I think to myself. At least, I’m going to tell him that at the end of the race so he has ample warning. Maybe that’s the reality check he needs to get the fuck on board.
And then, as my eyes open I watch everyone on the wall cringe simultaneously. My eyes fly to the screen. Another driver has crashed in the third turn. After spinning out, his back end plows into the barrier. He’s already getting out of the car, so he’s fine, thankfully, but there are car parts littered over the whole track as soon as the drivers come out of the turn.
I jump back in my seat and shove my headset on in time to hear the yellow flag announcement. Rocco covers his mic and turns to me. “Pit?”
I shake my head. “Give it a minute.”
“But it’s the perfect opportunity to get them fresh tires that will last the rest of the race,” Rocco argues, and I shake my head firmly. He frowns. “You’re gambling.”
“I said give it a minute,” I repeat.
“Box,” Antonio says it. He doesn’t ask it, which fuels my rage further.
“Please hold, Tony,” Rocco grumbles back into the radio.
“Tires are struggling,” Billy warns.
Hannaford has a good two seconds on Billy, and I know Billy can’t pass him on a safety car. And I also know that if he stays on these tires for much longer, he won’t have enough grip to overtake when they pull the safety car. So yeah, I’m gambling, but when Hannaford approaches the pit lane and pulls in, I get back on the radio in the calmest but sternest voice I have and say, “Do not pit.”
