Formula 1 drivers, unlike the athletes who play just about any other sport, are competing against their teammates. Ferris and Heath have to work together to score points for Granata in the Constructor’s Cup, but they’re also vying for individual positions in the Driver’s Championship.
Since they drive for the same team, their cars are nearly identical, meaning neither has a mechanical advantage.
There’s always a top driver, even when a team says there’s not. There is too much data and statistical evidence to pretend that everything is fair and even on a Formula 1 team.
Ferris did well in yesterday’s practice sessions, but Heath is consistently clocking sixth-tenths faster around this circuit.
Which is why I came to Ferris first. To show him that I’m confident in his abilities. So he understands that despite his slower times, he’s an essential player on this team.
On my way to Heath’s side of the garage, I bump into Sandro.
“How’s he feeling today?”
“He’s ready,” the performance coach assures me as we stand side by side and watch Heath lower himself into the car. “Sharp. Well-rested. Riding the high of those lap times from practice.”
I grin. “He should be proud of that.”
An F1 driver who is really locked in with their machine is damn near magic. The foundation of competition in this sport is built in the garage. Every team designs and develops their own car within the Formula’s regulations. Designers, technicians, and mechanics play crucial roles in building out the amazing vehicles used for this sport.
But it’s the optimization between the driver, their car, and the engineers that thrusts a good team into greatness.
I approach Heath’s vehicle and lean over the halo to snag his attention. “Let’s go racing.”
He gives me a thumbs-up, eyes bright through the opening of his helmet.
Satisfied the team is ready, I make my way toward the pit wall. As I round the corner, I catch sight of a flash of leopard print, and my muscles lock up. Frozen to the spot, I scan the surrounding area. My chest constricts, a heady pressure that has nothing to do with today’s race pressing against my sternum.
How is it possible that this woman has such a visceral hold on me? Because I swear I just had a Pavlovian response to animal print.
I’m still stuck in the same place when I find her again. She bounds toward me, sporting a red Granata team shirt and an adorable animal-print sports skirt.
“Hi.” Her bright smile is accentuated by her bold red lipstick.
I stammer a quick “hello,” entirely too fixated on her perfect mouth to come up with anything more clever.
If possible, her smile grows.
And my mind blanks. I don’t even remember where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing right now.
“Happy quali.”
She’s adorable. Genuinely excited. And my god, does she look good in Granata red.
Without my permission, my body gravitates toward her. “We’re about to find out just how happy it’ll be.”
Her eyes shine as she surveys our surroundings, taking it all in. She shifts from one hip to the other, then peeks back up at me, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, that elation transforming into uncertainty.
“So,” she hedges, “I made you something.”
Curiosity rolls over me, along with confusion. “You made me something?” I repeat like an idiot.
She nods. “Last night, you seemed nervous. I figured you were probably stressed, or pent up.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Pent up” is an understatement when it comes to how I feel around this woman. Irritable and unbelievably horny are more apt descriptions.
“I packed up my work supplies and tools and brought my show on the road. Although I guess my business is more of a side hustle for now, considering I have a full-time job. Granata is definitely my priority.”
The last several words rush out of her as she sweeps one hand down her outfit as if I haven’t already memorized every detail of her on-brand clothing.
