Luca’s part of the “Elite Eight,” as the media dubbed them: the eight drivers who, five years ago, were all new to the grid. It was the largest rookie class in Formula 1 history, and remarkably, all eight drivers are still driving today.
Once the stress and tension of rivalries of that first year passed, the group got into the habit of hanging out before and after races. Most of them, anyway. Luca has always been on the periphery because, for him, everything is a competition. Matty Olsenn from Relic Racing also keeps his distance.
The six other drivers from the Elite Eight make up about half of the Even Better Eleven. There’s Prince Marceaux with Rampage Motor Sport, Saint Lavoy with Lutero, Kenji Diallo with Abrams-Rhea, Flynn Turner with Kelly, Stefan Chapelle from Prismatum Motors, and Lincoln Grant with Helios.
Shelby was a year ahead of the Elite Eight, then Ren Diallo drives for Trinity Elite. Mia is the final driver in the group. Beatrix and I are the only nondrivers included. She’s been by her brother Flynn’s side throughout his whole career.
I consider every member of the Even Better Eleven a close friend.
But they’re also Luca’s colleagues, and most of them have known him since before they met me. I was the drifter of the group… often tagging along with Mia and Shelby, sometimes around the paddock to visit my sister, then most recently at the grand prix to support Luca.
“Shelbs. Evan.”
A streak of pink flies past us, the sight of Stefan on an electric scooter snapping me out of the war raging inside my head.
He circles back, doing a wide loop around us. “I’m late for media.” He doesn’t stop as he explains, the words melodic in his French-inspired Stellatorian accent. “You’ll be at dinner tonight, yes?”
Shelby elbows me in the side in an unspoken “see?” She takes it a step further then, calling out, “I’llbe there for sure, but I can’t speak for Evan.”
Catching the emphasis on that first word, Stefan slows to a crawl and scoots alongside me, scrutiny in his expression. “Evangeline?”
“I plan to be there,” I offer noncommittally.
He brings his scooter to a full stop, scowling. “It’s tradition,” he reminds me, an out-of-character hardness to his expression. Stefan won the Driver’s Championship four years ago. He’s a fan favorite because of his spontaneous acoustic guitar live streams, his perfectly tousled hair, and those dreamy bedroom eyes. He’s a notorious playboy, but he doesn’t put out harsh, asshole vibes like some of the other drivers.
“I have to get to work,” I tell him, side-stepping him and continuing on my way.
As if anticipating my move, he steers his scooter along with me and turns the handlebars hard, halting me in my tracks.
“Evan, please. Many of us have discussed this scenario, and we are all in agreement: we do not want anything to change among the Eleven. In fact, Prince has offered to dine with Luca tonight to ensure you feel comfortable joining the rest of us as planned.”
Oh.
I guess that answers one of my questions. Looks like everyone already knows.
“You’re sure?” I hedge as the Australian sun shines down on us, causing beads of sweat to gather along my hairline.
“Beyond sure.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You will dine with us tonight. The Even Better Eleven lives for another season.”
Before I can argue, he’s gone, scootering through the paddock.
“Told you.” Shelby elbows me playfully as we continue our trek to our respective headquarters.
The next several hours fly. I spend the afternoon getting acclimated to my new job and all things Granata. My team is small, consisting of myself, a woman named Marisol, who is in her mid-thirties, a mannamed Silas, who’s around my age, and our team lead, Mauricio. Each one of them seems excited to be here and eager to put in the work.
For the first couple of hours, we go over typical first day stuff. From there, we spend an hour recapping the public relations nightmare that was Granata’s last season and the departure of Bolton Reynold.
The way Mauricio speaks of Reynold is eye-opening. The man was beloved by the media, always hamming it up for the cameras and giving quippy sound bites to reporters. When all the sexts and inappropriate requests were exposed, the media’s bias caused so much of the vitriol to be aimed at Granata rather than the man behind the offenses.
According to Mauricio, the internal investigation and massive leadership overhaul Granata has gone through have turned things around. Employee safety and satisfaction surveys are trending positively. It’s not perfect yet, but it’s progress.
The new leadership is heavily invested in culture, team morale, and public opinion.
Our team’s job is to collect and analyze insights. How are Formula 1 fans talking about Granata? Where’s their focus? What do they care about, and how do we, as an organization, foster trust and good faith after letting so many people down?
The job seems both easier and more nuanced than I expected.
Mauricio will create templates for us at each race and dole out assignments. Marisol, Silas, and I will be tasked with collecting data and looking for patterns and trends. One-off comments on social media aren’t statistically significant, but others’ reactions and responses could be insightful. Our job isn’t to engage or change opinions; we’re responsible for capturing what’s said, then analyzing and categorizing it.
