“What matters is that we were there together.” Sloane met her friend’s gaze, still reveling in all they’d accomplished and all they’d been so close to achieving. “We’re part of history.”
“Damn right we are. Now, let’s help a few of these up-and-coming drivers do the same.”
“No. Let’s go one step further and make one of them the world champion,” Sloane said, focused on a mission greater than all of them. They let the words hang in the air, glistening in possibility, both realizing their importance. Then she offered a smile. “And we can maybe throw a few more tennis balls in the process.”
“You’re on, Foster. Holding you to it.”
Sloane decided to watch the beginning of the race from the Ravensport pit wall, where she could focus on their two drivers, Reese Maddox and Delaney Rhodes. She took her spot in front of a series of timing screens that provided access to sector times and live TV feeds. With her headphones on, notebook open, Sloane waited quietly for the start of race one of two that weekend, her heart thrumming with anticipation as sheremembered the adrenaline spike that hit when she slid behind the wheel. The measured control it took to keep her wits about her and her reflexes focused and sharp. Those drivers were experiencing it now.
The cars, following a formation lap, assembled one by one on the grid. Marissa Giovani, driving for Vantera, was on pole position after qualifying in P1. Reese Maddox was in the P2 slot, and thirteen other drivers fanned out behind them. Sloane watched intently, her heart hammering with every bit of excitement those opening moments always brought. Two seconds later, the lights came on one at a time until they were all solid. Three seconds later, it was lights out, and the cars roared to life, leaping forward, surging for space on the track. The crowd erupted as the drivers maneuvered for the best placement possible, the perfect time to overtake another car. Reese attempted to move around Marissa for the very early overtake but was shut out. Sloane nodded. Good for Marissa, defending adeptly.
She flipped to the radio communication for Ravensport to hear Julie Rennick, the engineer, say, “Nice try, Reese. We’ll get her soon.”
“Copy,” Reese said, likely very focused.
“Sprint race, remember,” Julie said as a reminder. It was her job to keep Reese focused. “That means twenty-five minutes. No tire changes. Just a push to the checkered flag.”
“Got it.”
“You’re at a good pace. Quicker than every other car. Let’s keep an eye on tire temps.”
“Who’s behind me?”
“Joanna Abrahamian. A half a second slower.”
Sloane was interested to see how Reese would fare in the race against this particular group of drivers. Marissa, in front, was hungry. She’d been racing most of her life but had only recentlybegun to mature as a driver and really come into her own. Her father was an olive oil mogul with a racing fixation. From what Sloane saw in the media and the research Ronnie had sent over, she didn’t have an easy time of it with him. If Reese could hold off Joanna and hang in there, P2 would score her team quite a lot of points. Hanging in there didn’t seem to be a strong suit of Reese Maddox. She was known to start strong and lose her grip on her lead as the race went on. She checked her watch. Time would tell.
Wanting to cover more ground, Sloane moved on to the next garage, hoping to spend a little time observing each team. It would tell Sloane a lot about how each driver operated in the midst of a cutthroat, high-stakes race. It was while listening to Emma Vanover report on the radio that she was losing rear grip on Turn 3 that the crowd cheered loudly, then gasped into silence. What had Sloane just missed? She scanned the monitors for the one showing the TV broadcast, which replayed the moment. Reese Maddox had attempted another overtake in which she didn’t have enough room, tapped Marissa’s front wing, and sent them both careening off track. What an unnecessary waste. Both cars sustained damage and had to be retired from the race, costing both drivers a shot at points.
“What in hell?” she murmured, questioning everything about the decision and the desperation that seemed to motivate it. She watched the replay a second time, and the new angle showed even less room. It had been an unwise call. Reese had been either reckless or unfocused. Maybe both.
“That one’s on Maddox,” a nearby mechanic said to his buddy. The race stewards must have agreed, because Reese was not only out of this race but also penalized five spots on the starting grid for the feature race the next day. Her truly poor decision-making had now cost Ravensport points inboth races.Unbelievable. Sloane knew exactly which driver she’d like to start with for her one-on-ones later that day.
Sloane gave Reese time for the post-session weigh-in, the mandatory check to be sure her weight and the car’s met the regulations. After that, Reese would need a few minutes with the team’s higher-ups, and a little space to decompress in the drivers’ room, before Sloane arranged for them to meet in the conference room Veronica had set aside in the paddock.
When Reese finally walked in, she was still in her blue race suit. She’d pulled her dark hair loose from the ponytail—probably in a moment of frustration. It fell around her shoulders, messy but effortless, catching the light in a way that made Sloane pause, without quite knowing why.
“Hi,” Sloane said, standing. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” Reese said, eyes brushing the ground. She was quite the contrast to the surefire version of herself from the bar. Defeat wasn’t easy for any of them, and it would likely hover just over Reese’s shoulder until she could get in the car again.
“Well, I’m sorry about the race. The way it ended.”
“Yeah, me too.” She hooked a thumb behind her. “Um, Ava, the PR rep for Ravensport, said you wanted to have a chat?”
“I did. I hope I didn’t pull you away from any postrace responsibilities.”
Reese shrugged. “I’m good. Already went before the firing squad.” It was a reference to the press and the likely brutal questions Reese would have been doused with. Sloane remembered how the reporters and bloggers would seize on any mistake on the circuit and have a field day making you explain yourself to the world. She and Ronnie used to call them beatdowns.
Sloane offered a smile, hoping to reset the mood. “This is my first chance to see everyone in action, and I thought we could debrief.”
“Right. The mentorship.” She sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair, tousling it so it fell in a haphazard cascade like a hair product commercial. It was truly something to behold.
“Why don’t you sit?”
Reese did, waiting. Sloane didn’t want this to feel like a kid called into the principal’s office and did what she could to speak as casually, yet as impactfully as possible. A tricky combo. “I could tell you what I saw out there, and maybe we can come up with a strategy for next time. I think that’s the crux of my new job here.”
“You are incredibly kind. I’ll obviously listen to any and all advice, but I think today was just a fluke.” It was a form of a brush-off, likely because Reese wasn’t ready to take full responsibility for the crash. Interesting and a comment on her confidence level. Or perhaps, she should say, heroverconfidencelevel.
