‘Maybe you didn’t.’ I set my jaw. ‘But when you put bad energy like that out into the world, it tends to come right back to you.’
The second we arrive in Bahrain, fresh from the airport in a new limousine, it’s like Darien’s done a shot of espresso. He hops down from the limo with raised arms, both hands waving wildly, a huge grin on his face. He’s so genuine with his fans. He jumps across the line of barricades and officers to grab phones and take pictures, sign shirts and posters. Miguel is much thesame way, and Henri mimics the two of them, his eyes wide in awe at the sheer number of people here calling his name, waving his photo around on massive boards. With a chuckle, I grab my suitcase to follow the rest of the team into the hotel, but then I hear Darien’s voice.
‘Shantal!’ he calls.
I tentatively head over to where he stands with a family that’s talking to him in rapid, excited Portuguese. He has the dopiest smile as he interacts with them, pulling the hat off his head and fitting it on the youngest of their kids’ heads.
‘What’s up?’
He shouldn’t be able to hear me over the clamour of the crowd, but he turns around immediately, a silver Sharpie marker and a photo in hand.
‘Please,’ he says.
It’s a photo of the two of us on the pit wall together at the Heidelberg Hybridge Ring, across from the practice track, and it appears we are each giving the other a fairly dirty look. I remember this one clearly because it had been taken when we were first reviewing the drivers’ stats from last season, just before I pulled Darien aside to talk about the Cantagalo fiasco. Before things between us started to change in the strangest of ways.
‘Come on,’ begs Darien. ‘Pleasedo me this little favour. You’re a part of team Heidelberg now. You’re gonna get asked for autographs. And besides, I’m a Shantal fan. Would you turn down a fan who just wants you to sign a photo?’
I accept the Sharpie and photo from him with a heavy roll of my eyes. ‘Oh, my god.’ I’m using all the energy I have to keep a straight face, but I feel my cheeks going pink. After all the antics I had to put up with at practice and everything riding on this race, I should still be upset at him, but I can’t be. It’sadorable.
I scrawl my name across the bottom of the photo in flyaway cursive with theSas a big swoosh and the remaining letters crowded up against it.
Darien gives the photo a big, tacky pat. ‘Thank you, Shantal.’ He catches my eye, and his smile only broadens.
Chapter Twenty-One
Darien
Qualifying is no small affair in Bahrain. It does, however, end up yielding results incredibly similar to our winter testing line-up. The hourlong session determines start order for race day, and in this case, Miguel, king of the Saturday affair, ends up sitting on pole – first – for the weekend, with me on second position, making for a Heidelberg front-row lockout. Diana’s on third behind us, Nic fourth, Alex in fifth. It’s a fun little arrangement we have going on as we storm into Sunday: first race of the season, and my first race back. This won’t be like quali, with sessions that offer us relief in the form of intermittent breaks or out laps. This is a straight two-hour marathon, and I’ve got to pray my nerves will hold up through it all.
The chassis of my HH-08 shudders around me as I pull into my spot on the grid: second. It’s always an uncomfortable place to be. Either you get ahead, or you don’t – there’s no in-between here. People watch your car with even more intent than they dothe pole-sitter’s; you have the say in how this race is going to go. I’ve never loved it.
My engine growls greedily as I glance over at Miguel across from me. This isn’t my first rodeo with him as my teammate. Miguel absolutely thrashed me last season, finishing almost every race ahead of me, except a chance poor performance and one DNF. I don’t know if it was driving so much as what was in my head. I shook when my car just neared his. Now, my hands are steady on the steering. It’s Heidelberg’s legacy on the line; Heidelberg’s legacy in my home country. It’s do or die.
The red lights overhead go on one by one. My heart pounds, and my vision tunnels with each light. By five, I can’t see anything except the track ahead of me.
And when the lights go out, it’s instinct.
I slam the throttle and surge forward, picking up speed going down the straight. All the while, I’m praying I’ve got enough of a jump on Miguel, but it’s not quite enough. I stay on the inside, eking out my ground and turning with just a feather of the brakes. It does the job. I slip through the gap, swiping in front of Miguel going into the second turn of the track. It’s sure to cause some chaos around the field, but that’s not my concern now. I’m leading the Bahrain Grand Prix.
‘You are P1 at the moment, Darien, P1,’ confirms Afonso through my radio. That’s all I need to get me through the rest of this race. The heat is scorching, the conditions abysmal, but in that moment, I’m the highest I’ve been in a long, long time.
‘Let’s get it,’ I reply.
We do. I’m taking turns even faster than last year in this car. It’s like I’m driving in the Corvette with my dad, the only thing I’ve ever wanted, the only thing I never got to experience. The track morphs into the streets of Cantagalo, the turns into winding paths down hills dotted with vendors and houses andstray dogs. It’s going as well as it could until the second pit stop of our race looms before us, and just ahead of me, a yellow flag comes out. Moments after I’ve slowed for the flag, it’s inevitable:SAFETY CARflashes across my steering display, coupled with the arrival of a new car to the track just ahead of me, a Hybridge 250 with flashing yellow lights.
‘Car,’ I groan over the radio. ‘There’s a car. Dude, I had such a delta!’
‘I know,’ Afonso returns my sentiment. ‘Let’s just stay ready to box. Box on next lap, box.’
I bring the car into the pit lane the next time I pass the exit, and my team gets us all set up in good time. We’re back out, back behind the car, and back in place before we know it.
‘Miguel out behind you, also on new tyres,’ says Afonso.
‘Shit.’ I keep my eyes on my line, but that signature numb feeling in my hands is starting to creep in. Crumbling at the wheel is every driver’s worst nightmare, because every driver has once crumbled at the wheel. It’s embarrassing to lose control on the track, lose form, but the part about it that remains a long time after is the shame. It’s the weight of knowing that you were expected to perform, and when that moment came, you just … couldn’t.
I take a deep breath.Get a grip on yourself, dude. Come on. You were leading. You are leading. You can do this.
‘We’ll try to get ground when the flag goes up. Darien, listen to me, he is going to fight you.’
