Lips pressed together, I shake my head.
I texted Mia after the race, but she didn’t respond. That’s to be expected, though, given all her responsibilities, like talking to the media and debriefing with her team.
She finished the race in eighteenth place. Typically, that wouldn’t be bad for her debut on a newer team. But because six drivers either didn’t start or didn’t finish, P18 means Mia was dead last.
Abrams-Rhea has only been on the grid for two years. It would be almost unheard of if they were scoring in the points, and if anyone was going to make the top ten, Kenji, their veteran driver, would be much more likely than the rookie.
Because Mia has spent the last three years in development programs or waiting in the wings as a reserve driver, she hasn’t been allowed a lot of practice time in the car and on the track. While she’s had plenty of time in the simulator, nothing can replace hands-on experience.
My best friend has always been hard on herself. She gets in her head when a race doesn’t go well, so I assumed she’d need a little extra tenderness tonight. Hopefully she can relax a bit and let herself unwind.
She’s in the far corner of the kitchen, leaning over the island, talking to Prince.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
Shelby raises both eyebrows and shakes her head slightly. “No idea. They’ve been huddled up like that since I got here.”
I cross my arms and study them. They’re standing with their heads lowered and nearly touching, as if they’re the only two people in the room.
Prince finished P1 today.
He is the reigning world champion, so that’s no surprise.
He’s also a notorious fuckboy, known for casual hookups and intense partying. He’s one of the fastest drivers on the grid and has a smug, unwavering confidence that makes fans either love him or love to hate him.
With a reputation like his, he’s the last driver I would have thought Mia would approach for advice. But what do I know? He did land onthe podium today, and Mia’s shrewd and canny. If she thinks Prince has something to offer her, who am I to judge?
“Evan.” Stefan strolls into the kitchen area. “So glad you could make it.” Ducking a little, he gives me a side hug. “Do not forget to stash your phone,” he reminds me, nodding toward the bowl in the entryway.
Dutifully, I head over to the bowl, checking my phone on the way. Once I confirm there are no messages on the screen, I place it in with the others.
We’ve all had experience being photographed and have had unflattering pictures and videos shared on social media, so the cell phone rule isn’t only to keep us engaged while we’re together but to allow us to fully relax, knowing we don’t have to worry about what might end up on the internet.
The drivers tend to stay offline after races so they don’t get sucked into what the fans are saying about them and find themselves trapped in a doomscroll spiral. Everybody thinks they’re an F1 analyst after watching a grand prix. It’s really hard on the psyche to have to read so many mean messages and be flooded with so many opinions and insights.
Ironically, where they finish has almost no bearing on the commentary. I could go online right now and find dozens of posts criticizing Prince and Rampage Motor Sport for today’s performance, and they won the whole damn thing. Nothing is ever good enough. People seem to have no problem being nasty when they’re sitting behind the shield of anonymity the internet provides.
While I searched for and analyzed the chatter about Granata today, I came across dozens of posts and comments I wish I hadn’t seen. It would be hard enough if the criticism was only about the racing. But in Formula 1, it never is. Reading sexist, racist, and homophobic comments about my friends is a lot to filter through and process. I cannot imagine what it’s like to be the driver exposed to all that hate.
I can’t even count the number of times that Luca would be in a poor mood after doing really well in a race because of comments he’d read about himself online.
The phone bowl concept is the most logical way to keep spirits up, and it ensures we stay present and enjoy each other’s company.
“I got the popcorn you like.” Stefan points it out on the table.
Giddiness bubbles up inside me. He remembered? That’s so sweet. It may just be popcorn, but this brand is air-popped in coconut oil and has a really lovely taste that doesn’t leave a gross film in my mouth. It’s one of my go-to snacks, though I can’t always find it, even in Austin.
I practically skip over and scoop up a bag, then turn back and smile at Stefan. “I can’t believe you found it here. Thank you so much.”
He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, his cheeks going pink.
“Stefan,” I hedge. “You did find this locally, right?”
Lips pressed together, he drops his gaze and excuses himself.
Stefan is a sweetheart, but it makes me more than a little bit uncomfortable to know he or someone from his team was concerned about sourcing special food for me. As nice as it is for him to go out of his way, I hate once again being the high-maintenance burden of the group.
“Just eat the damn popcorn,” Shelby tells me as she joins me at the counter. The knowing look on her face makes it clear she can tell I’m ruminating.
