I overshoot the pit box by several metres but manage to cruise to a halt without destroying anything. The team are ready, jumping into action with heat-resistant gloves and wheel dollies to push the car back into the garage. I thump my head against the wheel, letting adrenaline and terror seep from my body.
What in the Mary Mother of Christ was that?
The crowd sound like they’re underwater as I get out and remove my helmet. I’m shaking all over. My heart’s pounding in my ears. I lean against the wall and run a hand over my sweaty face. I don’t know how to feel. Relieved at not crashing? Disappointed for not graduating to Q1 in front of my home crowd? Frustrated because no matter how much we improve, we’re still back in this position?
‘I’m so sorry, Tiago,’ says one of the brake mechanics, looking distraught. ‘We thought we fixed the overheating issue.’
‘It’s cool. We’ll figure this out.’ I give her a sad smile.
She’s not the only one to apologise. They all come over one by one, but they don’t need to. It’s no one’s fault. We’re a team. Blame isn’t doing anything to help morale. We shouldn’t be pointing fingers, we should be lifting each other up.
Leone’s crew are underfunded and fed up – they aren’t incompetent – and I don’t appreciate the press insinuating as much in my post-quali interviews.
‘Another promising lap ruined by Leone’s reliability. You must be so frustrated carrying a team that keeps letting you down like this. That racecraft you showed going back to the pits was magnificent,’ says a journalist in Spanish for ESPN Latinoamérica.
‘Look, we win together, we lose together. Sure, it hurts – the lap was looking really promising, and the crowd were incredible – but nobody in that garage wants a failure. We’re all working with what we’ve got, and every single one of us is giving everything. They gave me a car to fight in today, and we’ll fight again tomorrow.’
Chapter 16
JULES
‘Hey,pal.’ Tiago’s beam is a big American falsity, and I want to slap it off.
‘I’mnotyour pal,’ I growl, hoisting my tiny handbag higher.
‘Y’are today.’
We’re meeting outside the Hard Rock Stadium in the unrelenting midday Miami heat. I’m not wearing much and I’ve still soaked through the fabric enough for it to feel part of me. All I’ve been doing is walking from one air-conditioned building to another – Lord knows how the drivers are supposed to compete in this.
There’s not even light beading on Tiago’s forehead. He’s completely composed, his Leone polo faintly clinging to the toned plane of his pecs.
Excuse me, why am I looking at his pecs now? Look away. What’s neutral territory? His… two cans of Riot. Yes, cans are good.
‘Is one of them for me?’ I ask, bowled over by this unexpected show of gentlemanliness.
He glances down at them and scoffs a laugh. ‘Hah! No. You’re funny.’ Why am I not surprised? ‘Sponsorship duties. This one’s water. Sweet, naïve Julie.’
‘Jules isn’t short for Julie, you idiot.’
‘It is now.’
Fine. Two can play that game. I reposition my sunglasses. ‘Alright,Tio.’
His smile sputters. ‘Julie’s a name; Tio’s not. You’re calling me uncle. Now,PapiI can get on board with…’
‘Can we just go in please?’
He throws a hand towards the stadium, and we start walking in silence. F1 weekends are wild. There’s a bush in the shape of a race car next to us, and a DJ for the walk inside. I take some sneaky photos as fans corner Tiago.
We’re off to a rough start. This is a business arrangement and I need to act professionally, even if he won’t. We’ve got to cobble together some sort of working relationship or neither of us will get what we want.
‘I watched your interviews,’ I offer as we show our passes and enter the paddock. ‘Your tone’s changed since even our meeting on Wednesday. Good…’ I swallow. ‘Good work. That must’ve been hard, doing a U-turn on Leone.’ Almost as hard as it was for me to say that earnestly.
‘I don’t give a shit about Leone. I was defending my team in the garage.’ When I glance up, his expression’s grave. ‘It’s not a PR stunt. I don’t like hearing smack about my guys. They work hard.’
Wow, he’s thinking about someone besides himself. Personal growth?
‘Although, they don’t work as hard as you,’ he continues, voice taunting, and I know every resolve I had to be professional is about to melt. ‘We can’t all give dry brushing advice and Photoshop ourselves for a living.’
