Fuck this.I banish any thought of who’s behind me. I have to focus onmydrive right now. My back’s killing me as I push right up against the seat, like that’s going to maximise my speed. I know I can ignore it for two more laps and keep up the pace without flying off the track in a heap of metal.
‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this.’
The final lap is called into my headset and I’m really bloody pushing now. It’s not like other seasons where it’s felt like I’m fighting with the car by the last couple of laps, but I can still feel every bit of G as I tap the brake ahead of the corner to keep me from ending up too close to the wall. It’s painful in my neck and spine, but exhilarating at the same time.
This is what I live for.
‘How far behind?’ I’m asking as the last turn of the lap approaches.
‘P2 point eight. P3 one point four.’ It’s reassuring enough. I can work with that.
And I absolutely do. I floor it on the last straight and then I’m flying over that line like my life depends on it. Inside my ears, the garage erupts into a chaos of noisy celebration. I can’t wait to be out of this car and celebrating with my team.
‘Thank you, Cole,’ I murmur into the headset, beyond glad that one of my favourite team members is with me for the fifth year in a row.
‘You’re always welcome, superstar. Anders is crying. First race and he’s got both Hendersohm drivers on the podium.’ There’s still so much shouting going on in the background at his end that I have to check I heard him correctly.
‘Harper stayed in P3?’
‘Indeed he did. Everyone’s the best kind of shocked right now.’
It’s carnage in the garage. My back aches as much from the backslaps and hugs I’ve been pulled into than it does from the two hours I’ve spent enduring G-force speeds in my car. Champagne corks fly around the room, the popping sound only causing people to scream our team name more and more. I get handed a magnum with Hendersohm branding on it and I take a swig before handing it on to Ash. Seconds later he has Harper on his knees in front of him and he’s pouring the frothy bubbles down the rookie’s throat.
The Netflix videographer is floating around, so that’s going to make for some interesting footage.
Not my problem, I quickly remind myself.
I need to focus on what I’m doing and Harper James can take care of himself. If Anders is happy to take a chance on him, then that’s his decision.
Yet the frustration still threatens to ruin my joy. That Harper James can just waltz in here, treat all the careful training, scheduling, and clear instructions from the team principal like a joke, and still get on the podium.
Speaking of podiums, as Harper nudges past me to step onto the third-place box, he shoulder bumps me hard enough that I stumble slightly. In full view of all the fans, the press, everyone.
That’s rookie sportsmanship for you. He’s such a sore loser.
It takes grace, dedication and commitment to be a winner. He’s not mastered that yet as he proves what an arrogant little twat he truly is.
When I step up onto the podium and take the medal for first, I can feel the waves of annoyance coming off him. Yorris, on the other side of me, seems oblivious to the tension.
And then, when it’s time to shake hands with each other for the inevitable press photos, I turn to Yorris first and we congratulate each other. I don’t know him very well, but we’ve shared a podium many times before and we know the drill. Shake, eye contact, then look out at the press for the photo op. When I turn to Harper, though, and go to shake hands with him and do the same, he pretends not to see me – or to understand the established order of how this is done – and he reaches around me to shake hands with Yorris and congratulate him.
I’m left holding out my hand and looking like a total turkey in front of the thousands of fans and the global media. Cameras click and flash and I know this will be front-page news in the sports press.
Even when he finishes with Yorris, Harper acts like I don’t exist and turns to step off the podium.
‘You’re such a sore loser,’ I say under my breath and he turns to give me a look that would put me six feet under if such a thing were possible.
I can’t help laughing at his petulance, but I admit that it’s easy to be the bigger person here since I’m the one that got the win. But when I turn my head, I see Anders watching and I feel chagrined.
Anders is like a father to me. He’s certainly been more of a father to me than mine ever was. He has nurtured my career, and the way he supported me when Mum was diagnosed with Parkinson’s – and the way he continues to support me – will put me forever in his debt.
Now I feel bad for embarrassing him in this way. It matters how the team appears in public. It matters what our reputation is. It matters to the sponsors, to the team owners, and to the team’s bottom line. It’s not too much to ask that we keep private hostilities from spilling over. We’re afforded approximately thirty minutes of uproar to enjoy the celebrations, shake hands with VIPs, sponsors, and autograph-hunters before Anders waves me over to him. He’s already got Harper welded to his side with an arm around his shoulders that appears jovial but is probably like an iron band.
I already know this is not going to be good.
When Anders has us both in his grasp, amidst the deafening noise of the team’s celebrations, he says in a low voice so that only Harper and I can hear, ‘Great performance on the track, boys. An excellent start to the season. But listen carefully to what I’m about to say. No more dick swinging, no more petty infighting, no more bullshit. From now on, you put on a united front. This is your final warning. Fix it or fake it, I don’t care which, but if the press, sponsors and VIPs don’t come away with the impression that you boys are best buds, then you’ll both be looking for a new team. Are we clear?’
I feel a weight drop into the pit of my stomach. My throat feels tacky and I can’t swallow. I cannot lose my place on this team. Not that way. It would crush me.
