We enter the turn, and I move off the racing line to claim the inside track, forcing my teammate wide. René and I are running almost side by side now, but I don’t dare risk a glance at him. It’s not like I’d be able to see anything anyway with his face hidden by his helmet. And even if I could, I know exactly what his expression would tell me. It would say he’s fucking furious, just like I’d be if our positions were reversed. But all’s fair in love and F1.
Time to make my move.
I wait until I’m almost at the apex—the midpoint of the corner—before I hit the brake. Just as I predicted, René’s older, slower tires force him to brake earlier, and I start pulling ahead of him as we exit the turn.
“Yes!” I shout as I shoot past him. “Bye, bye, buckeye!”
“Nice work,” Ben says without about a tenth of my enthusiasm. “René is .2 behind.”
It’s not over yet. We’re fractions of a second apart, and I still have to fend him off through the final turns before I get the checkered flag. But thanks to our pit strategy and my fresh rubber, I’m able to cross the finish line ahead of him and take P3. My first podium in F1.
“Fuck yeah, boys! And girls,” I add quickly, not wanting to leave Bernie and the other women on the team out. My heart is pounding, I’m short of breath, and my palms are so sweaty I’m afraid I might lose my grip on the steering wheel. That adrenaline rush I got when I finished P8 in Monaco? That’s nothing compared to this. “I don’t want to celebrate too much yet, but—”
“Let’s wait for it to be confirmed, but yes, mon gars.” It’s Jacques’ voice in my ear, not Ben’s, telling me bravo in French. He must have taken Ben’s headset from him. “What a drive. What a race.”
“Good job, everyone,” I say, knowing the rest of the team can hear me even though they can’t speak on this channel. “Thanks for all your hard work.”
And for not giving me team orders, I want to add. But I save that for later, when I can talk to Jacques without the rest of the team—especially René’s people—listening.
“Congratulations, Grady,” Ben says, apparently having reclaimed his headset. “Excellent racing. You can cool the car down and head to parc fermé.”
“Thanks, Ben. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I slow down and pull closer to the pit wall so I can wave to him and the rest of the staff gathered there. There’s a lot of high-fiving and back-slapping going on, what with both René and me finishing in the top four, netting the team a sweet 27 points. It’s our best result all year and the kind of thing that can propel us out of the F1 basement.
Ben’s taking part in the celebration, but he’s more subdued than the others, his jaw set and his mouth a thin, harsh line.
Fuck. I knew he was going to be mad at me. But I didn’t know he was going to be this mad.
“Look, I get that you’re less than thrilled with me for the whole overtaking thing,” I continue, embarrassed at how panicked I sound. “But—”
“We can discuss that later,” he interrupts gently. “Right now the only thing you need to do is enjoy this moment. Your first podium.”
He’s still angry and I’m definitely going to get my ass handed to me for ignoring him, but along with the gentleness there’s a hint of pride in his voice, too. The panic starts to recede, and hope takes root in its place.
“Will you be at the awards ceremony?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He clears his throat. “Now go greet your adoring public. I’ll see you up there on the podium.”
When I climb out of my car in parc fermé, I’m mobbed by my fellow drivers before I can even get my helmet off.
“That’s the way to do it,” Yanni exclaims, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me off the ground.
“Put me down, you big idiot,” I say, laughing.
He does, but not until he’s spun me around several times. “P3. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I take my off helmet, HANS device, and balaclava. “Sorry about the DNF. I’d much rather have you up there on the podium with me.”
“We’ll get there,” he promises. “And when we do, I’m going to shower you in champagne.”
“Right back at you, gym shoe.” I shove my balaclava inside my helmet and stick them both under my arm.
Yanni rolls his eyes at me. “I swear, your rhymes get stupider every day.”
“Maybe that’s the secret to his success,” Gabe chimes in, throwing an arm around my shoulders with so much gusto I almost drop my gear. “The more stupid the rhyme, the better he drives.”
“Yeah,” adds Cristian. “I should try that sometime.”
