“I spent the afternoon in the garage while the team worked on my car, then George and I went over some tweaks they’ve made since the last rounds of testing.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell her. “Is your suit for this weekend all purple like your kit?”
Abrams-Rhea has the most colorful, girlie-pop branding on the grid. Mia isn’t the first female driver in Formula 1, but she’s AR’s first female driver, and they’ve gone all out, creating all sorts of custom looks and livery for the season. My bestie is gorgeous, with her naturally wavy honey-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and delicate features. She’s also a pro on the business side of things. Sponsors love her and her fans adore her. Though she’s new to the grid, she already has incredible support.
She’s going to do great things for the reputation of women in motorsport. Like in many pro-level sports, there is a huge gender disparity between how male and female drivers are talked about, considered, and compensated. Gwen Ford, the first female Formula 1 driver to land a full-time spot on the grid, likes to say it’s not about breaking glassceilings; it’s about burning out the systems, standards, and expectations rooted in the patriarchy.
“My suit’s purple and pink,” she confirms. “It’ssocute, but really bold and unique. Honestly, I’m a little worried about what Kenji thinks of it.”
I scoff. Knowing him, he loves it.
“Hey, hey, party people.”
Speak of the devil. The last of us has finally arrived.
When strong arms grip my shoulders from behind, I tip my head back and am greeted by Kenji’s dark eyes and signature smolder.
Bending, he kisses my forehead. “Heard you weren’t sure about coming tonight. Glad you didn’t let that asshole stop you from being here.” He straightens and squeezes my shoulders once more. Then he makes his rounds to greet the others.
Warmth floods me, his assurance confirming what all my friends have been telling me.
I’m wanted.
I’m part of the Even Better Eleven and have been since the beginning.
I may have wasted two years of my life with Luca, and I may have even lost a bit of myself along the way, but I still have these people.
“Hold your nerve,” Mia mutters under her breath. My best friend knows me well and can surely sense I’m on the verge of tears because of Kenji’s kindness.
Beside me, she twists around in her seat.
I frown. “Who are you?—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Righting herself, she takes my hand under the table. “I want to hear all about your first day, too,” she says quietly, her eyes darting over my shoulder and back to me.
At the end of our table, Flynn and Kenji are having a heated debate and Shelby is showing Lincoln and Ren a video on her phone, their attention fixed on the screen.
“Later,” I promise Mia.
We’re both going to be busier than ever this year. She was a reserve driver last year, always ready in the wings, but rarely ever in a car. I flew out to several races throughout the season, both to be with Luca and to visit my friends, but working full time for a Formula 1 team won’t be anything like being a guest in the paddock.
Bea dives into a story about an ex who tried to gain access to the paddock this afternoon by showing the security guards pictures from their prom. As she goes on, I angle in, doing my best to focus on her.
When the server arrives to take orders, Saint leans into my space, the rich, smoky scent of his cologne infiltrating my senses. “Can I order for you, love?”
I nod, grateful for the offer.
Going out to eat with my friends without feeling like a nuisance is pretty much impossible. More than once I’ve panicked and blurted the name of a random item on the menu, only to spend the entire meal pushing food around on my plate.
Ordering and then asking for modifications is stressful and overwhelming for me.
Michelin Star chefs hate to see me coming.
When Luca and I would go out, I sucked it up and ordered the cheapest meal on the menu. It was easier to avoid the possibility that he’d tease me about my eating habits, and honestly, there was a likely chance I was paying anyway.
Last season, when the Eleven went out, Saint and Kenji, without prompting, started ordering for me. The purest form of relief hit me each time, the simple gesture freeing up so much bandwidth. They’re both so effortlessly charming that servers rarely have a problem when they make special requests. That, and the very nature of the patriarchy means it’s easier for a man to make a demand than it is for a woman to ask for a modification.
I studied the menu on the ride over, so I already know what I want. “I’ll have the fried cauliflower appetizer, extra hot sauce, and the soba noodles without the eggplant or peanuts.”
