“It’s exactly that kind of cocky, arrogant attitude that is going to get you kicked off the team,” he scolded. “You’re running on borrowed time, son. It’s not just your pathetic performance this season, it’s your image in the media. Your blasé attitude towards driving is making the team’s sponsors reconsider their contracts. After the yacht incident over winter break, I can only keep your name out of the papers for so long.”
By my age, my father had won three world championships. My biggest achievement? I’d managed to steal a yacht off the coast of Spain… and get caught.
“Maybe Hermesshouldjust give Anthony my seat—”
“Luca Michael Rossi,” my dad cut me off. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t want to hear that crap come out of your mouth again.”
I pointedly avoided my father’s gaze, wishing for a moment that I had asked my mother to attend this race. After my embarrassing qualifying yesterday, I’d told her not to bother. Both my parents didn’t need to watch me disappoint them.
“Sometimes the car just doesn’t click with me,” I sighed.
“Then you need to work harder. Like Henri.”
Because my fucking teammate was so perfect.
Every muscle in my body tensed at hearinghisname. Last year we’d had a good relationship, a friendship even, but this year the team had made it clear that Henri was their number one driver, their priority, the future of Hermes Racing. My only job was to not crash the car and make sure Henri won, not the other way around. Why bother trying to win if Hermes were just going to take it away from me?
“What does the golden boy bring to the team that I don’t?” I crossed my arms, before sarcastically adding, “Definitely not good looks and charm…”
“Dedication,” my father deadpanned, ignoring the sarcasm oozing from my body. “Henri cares more about hisprofessionallife than hisprivate one. Something you could stand to learn from him.” My father didn’t give me a chance to respond before he slammed a photo onto the table with such force my water bottle flew off.
Shit. I knew that photographer from a few nights ago was a tabloid journalist.I grimaced. There, sitting on the coffee table, was a less-than-flattering photo of myself draped over not one but three women at a party that even I knew I shouldn’t have attended so close to a Grand Prix.
“Feel free to profusely thank me for shelling out tons of money to have this destroyed…” I peeked at the photo before sheepishly looking up at him.
“Thanks—”
“I mean it, Luca. This is the last time I’m doing this. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You used to love racing, but now… now I barely recognize this person sitting in front of me. Two years ago, you were second in the championship, and yet this season you’re barely holding on to fifth place. Keep this up, and not only will Hermes not want you next year, but no other team will either.”
Without another word, my father rose from the couch. He ran a hand through his graying hair, his lips pressed into a thin line, before striding out of the room. I slinked back onto my sofa cushion, grabbing the photo from the table. After giving it one last glance, I shredded it into pieces.
Chapter Three
Georgia
After sixty-six laps of white-knuckle driving at intense speeds, I should have felt calm. Steady. Triumphant. Instead, I was sitting in the center seat of the post-race press conference, gripping the edge like it might suddenly vanish beneath me. Not because I doubted I’d earned this spot—but because I knew exactly what came next.
Sitting in this chair was symbolic, the winner in the middle flanked by second and third place, but it also came with being the center of attention, something I was definitely not used to. Henri slid into the seat beside me with that insufferable mix of swagger and confidence, his face armed with a smug grin. He shifted his eyes, and I knew he was tracking my breathing, noticing the steady four seconds between each one, an exercise my therapist had suggested before media obligations to help relieve the anxiety that always accompanied these events. Like a gnat at a picnic, press conference anxiety always felt impossible to get rid of.
I never understood why my body reacted this way—heart racing, palms slick, breathing unsteady—the moment I sat down in a press chair and the stage lights turned on. Here I was with my first ever F1 win, but with each passing second, all I could focus on was the feeling of my profusely sweaty hands and blurring vision. That, and the creeping dread that any words to tumble out of my mouth were never quite what I wanted to say—or what the media wanted to hear.
Henri leaned over, his voice just low enough not to carry. “You’ve got this, Georgia. Just grin and bear it, yeah? They’re not going to be too tough on thewinner.”
“As long as they don’t ask me something stupid like ‘Should we have more women in racing?’ I’ll consider it a victory,” I grumbled. A crowd favorite from this group of journalists.
“Just keep it civil, please.” Henri shot me a warning look. At the start of the season, the media had dubbed me “Sissy Dubois,” a somewhat rude but boring nickname referencing the fact that I was the sister of fan-favorite Henri Dubois. By race three, I had become “Sassy Dubois”—which was definitely worse. Apparently, correcting reporters during press conferences did not make you friends. No one liked a know-it-all, especially not a female one.
I flashed my brother a small smirk, turning back to face the bright lights that were shining directly into my eyes as I fought to keep my breathing level.In.One. Two. Three. Four. Out. One. Two. Three. Four.
A hushed silence grew over the room, and a question broke me out of my breathing pattern.
Time for the vultures to descend.
“Georgia, congrats on your first win with the new Valkyrie F1 team. It must feel thrilling to be the first woman to win a Formula 1 race since 1980. How do you feel?”
It’s an easy one, Georgia, I reassured myself. After years of practicing this answer in the shower, this one I had locked down.
Ignoring my trembling hands, I answered, “Phenomenal.”
