PROLOGUE
“People always think racing is about speed,” Reese Maddox said, her tone easy, practiced. She leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, her race suit zipped halfway, exposing the neckline of a black tee beneath. “It’s not. It’s about control.”
She shifted, the studio lights hot against her face. Someone behind the camera murmured an adjustment, and she gave a quick, camera-ready smile. She knew exactly how to deliver the polished persona they were after, having had lots of practice in front of a lens.
INTERVIEWER: “Control. That’s an interesting word. Why that one?”
REESE: “Because it’s the one thing that keeps slipping away.”
A beat passed. She laughed, soft and self-deprecating. “Not that I’d admit that to my engineer.”
INTERVIEWER: “You’ve got a reputation for charisma—fans love you, social media loves you. How do you feel about that?”
REESE: “Sometimes it seems like that’sallthey love: the smile, the brand deals, the posts. But when I’m on the track …that’s the part that still feels real. That’s where I remember why I started. But sure, it’s not awful.”
INTERVIEWER: “Let’s talk about that. You’ve been called the most marketable driver in Formula 2. Do you think that reputation helps or hurts you?”
REESE: “Depends on who you ask. The sponsors love it. The other drivers think I don’t belong. The truth’s somewhere else entirely.”
She shifted forward, elbows on her knees, expression sharpening. “But they’ll believe I belong when I start winning. That’s the plan, anyway.”
She glanced toward the crew, realizing her guard was down. Dangerous territory. “Anyway, control. That’s the thing, right? You lose that, and you lose everything.”
INTERVIEWER: “You’re coming to the end of your second season in Formula 2. You’ll likely finish near the top of the drivers’ standings. What’s next?”
REESE: “Good question.” She sat back. She had no shot at winning the season, given her point deficit. But she’d done okay. “The dream’s still Formula 1, same as it’s been since I was five years old. But dreams get expensive. You run out of sponsors, or patience, or both.”
But Reese had no plans to give up. In the last ten years, exactly three women had raced in Formula 1, and none of them had won the world championship. Reese aimed to change that statistic in the next few years or kill herself trying.
“I’m going to be world champion one day,” Reese said, staring straight into the camera. “I’m telling you that now.”
A pause hit as her words settled.
“Okay. I think we got it,” Samara, the interviewer, told the cameraman. She was also the producer of the film and the one who had recruited Reese to the documentary, which followed a handful of drivers on their quest to reach F1. Reese hadbeen part of the project throughout the season, and the goal was to continue following her progress over the next year. It meant squeezing in interviews both before and after races, not to mention little spurts in between to capture scenes from her day-to-day life. It was a bit more of a commitment than she’d originally realized, but it’s not like she could have said no. She needed the cash to keep racing. She didn’t come from money like so many of the other drivers.
Samara grinned. “Hey, thanks for the sit-down. I know your morning was stacked.”
Reese unclipped the lavalier microphone and handed it over. “Wouldn’t be my life if it wasn’t.” She adjusted her race suit, wondering what time it was.
“Think you’re gonna fare well today?” They were at Silverstone that weekend. The iconic track in Northamptonshire, England, was known for its wet weather, and the forecast called for rain that day. A slippery circuit would give Reese the opening she needed to move from her qualifying spot of P3 to, hopefully, P1 and win this thing for her team, Ravensport. God knew their second driver, Kevin Henry, wouldn’t finish in the points. His lap times seemed to get slower with each race, leaving Reese feeling the team’s success rested squarely on her shoulders. Frustrating.
“I plan to win today. And not just a podium finish, but P1.” Reese said without a moment of hesitation. And she believed she could. “Maybe I’ll see you after?” she asked Samara with her best lazy smile. She was an admitted flirt, dedicated to the cause and women in general. Couldn’t help it. She and Samara had known each other long enough to have fun with the energy. They hadn’t hooked up yet, but the season wasn’t over.
A pause. “You just might, Reese Maddox. Tell you what.” She looked over her shoulder as she collected her notepad. “You can buy me a drink. One.”
Damn, she had pretty eyes. “Anytime, Samara Idris.” Reese offered a playful head tilt before walking back to the paddock to prepare her mind and body for all they were about to experience. When she passed a small group of fans waving her over to the barricade, it wasn’t like she could ignore them. She chatted with a few, signed their programs next to her photo, and took selfies before finally pulling herself away, probably a little behind schedule now.
“We love you, Reese,” a woman with a Ravensport T-shirt yelled.
“Will you marry me?” a teenage boy yelled. She pretended to catch the kiss he blew. She didn’t date boys, but the world knew that.
“You’re gonna kick ass!” another girl shouted. “Mickels is on pole position today. Overtake him on the straightaway. He sucks on the straights.”
She looked back over her shoulder and grinned, purposefully showing off her dimple, aware that multiple cameras were grabbing the shot and wanting to make it good. “You know I will,” she yelled to the last girl. But as she walked back to the paddock, she knew she’d lingered too long, and concern blanketed her like the storm clouds already overhead. She’d wanted to be kind to the fans and give them the attention they asked for, but maybe the sacrifice had not been in her best interest or the team’s. The prep list was long, and Reese was behind. She had the track map to go over, her physical warm-up, reaction drills, contingency plans, target lap times, plus she needed to eat something and time it appropriately. There would be an official driver weigh-in before the race.
“Hey. Where have you been?” Julie Rennick asked when she arrived at the paddock. Her race engineer wore her blue Ravensport polo and had her dark blond hair up in her customary ponytail. With her cane in one hand and a tablet inthe other, Julie was dialed into race day with very little else allowed in her brain. Soon, she’d be wearing a headset and talking Reese through the hour-long race, the only voice in her ear.
“So sorry. The interview ran long, and then I got caught up with a group of fans, entirely on me. Let’s get started.”
