Delaney, proving her poise, jumps right into manager mode all while ignoring the camera. “I’m so excited. It’s been far too long since fans have seen Arthur behind the wheel. He’s going to crush free practice.”
“And free practice is…?”
Silence. Delaney and Arthur exchange a look, and yeah, I said something stupid. Cameron is the one to speak first, shyly waving my camera his way. “Welcome to Formula 101. Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ve been researching how all of this works.”
“Sorry, doesn’t count. Life is complicated, but F1 is worse.” He smiles at his own joke. “First thing to know is that each season has twenty-something races, all around the world. Races happen on the weekend. First there are practices, then Qualifying, then the Grand Prix. Sometimes a sprint—”
“Fuck a sprint,” Arthur interjects.
“—but winning a race or scoring in the top ten gets you points. Each season has a world championship for the drivers, so the individual with the most points. The Constructors’ Championship is for the rest of us, the team, and that’s where the money is. It combines the points of both drivers. And even if Ignition did make ourown cars, money is the lifeblood of Formula 1. You need sponsorships, merch sales, weird old wealthy owners.”
I’ve read about Ignition’s owner, Bob Burroughs. Old money, the only son of a Texan oil tycoon, kindly shelling out his own millions to make energy drinks and fast cars. Ignition as a drink brand has been a hit for the last two decades. The whole Formula 1 thing has had a slower start, no pun intended.
“But every F1 team is selling something,” Delaney adds smoothly. “Cars, mostly. For our sponsors, nonsensical data software suites. For the countries we visit, prestige and tourism. And for Ignition, the American dream.” She smirks. “And caffeine.”
“But obviously, I want to win. That’s important,” Arthur says impatiently. “I won two championships with Leone before I—came here.”
I pan to him. “So, each team’s two drivers compete against each other as well?”
“In theory…” Delaney starts.
“Absolutely,” Cameron finishes. “We may need them to work together, but they’re really racing against each other, too. I’m Arthur’s race engineer only. While he’s out there driving, I pay attention to him and his car. Plus, every team has a main driver—one they throw more money and stronger tech behind. Nobody admits it, but it’s strategic. And in Ignition’s case, it’s Fausto Ferreira Sanchez, the sole reason any international F1 fans root for us.”
“Well, that and Arthur. And Holmes,” Delaney continues dryly. “Benedetto ‘Holmes’ Bianco wasthedriver a decade ago. Everyone knew him. He was a legend for staying pragmatic and avoiding accidents, but still winning. That’s how he got the nickname Holmes.”
“And that’s not Arthur’s style,” I think out loud.
I zoom the camera out, quick enough to catch Arthur’s gazefalling to his empty glass, then Delaney’s speaking again. “No, but people like Arthur’s style. Or they hate it, if he’s driving their team off the track. But either way, they talk about him when he drives. Andwhenhe wins at Silverstone, not if, Holmes will realize that he needs to give Arthur a seat. You should be prepared to follow us to the next four races, Lilah.”
Click.That’s why Arthur is desperate for a spot on Leone. On this team, he’s living in his uncle’s shadow, fighting to prove his own worth.
I understand that.
Lowering the camera, I catch Arthur’s eyes, lens-free. “Where’s the next race after this one?”
He tilts his head to one side, almost imperceptibly. “Hungary.”
“And after that?”
“The summer break, then Belgium, the Netherlands, and—Monza.”
“Great,” I say, smiling. “I’ll keep my suitcase packed.”
Warmth dances over Arthur’s features, curling up the corners of his mouth and sparkling in his eyes, and I hold the camera tighter to myself. One smile like that on film would sell this documentary in minutes. “Hold that,” I demand. “Please.”
I pull my camera to my face, adjust the settings, get him into focus. The dark lights, the flowers behind him, his photograph on the wall. My red recording light blinking off and on. Off and on. “Can you repeat that schedule again on camera?” I ask, hoping he smiles one more time. Warm, and optimistic, and happy.
Arthur stares me down through the lens, blinks, then looks away. His smile is gone. “It’s getting late. Who wants to grab a cab home?”
Chapter Seven
In the week leading up to Arthur’s big English comeback, I learn a lot more about Formula 1. Mostly that it’s exhausting.
Staying in a luxury hotel with an F1 team is like temporarily living in a very expensive college dorm. My room is on the pit crew and marketing floor, and I meet more people walking by open doors than I have in my whole life. Thankfully, my beige room—with its free skincare routine and bathtub the size of my first apartment—is Max-free; an only-one-bed situation would’ve been my final straw. Arthur, naturally, is booked in the quieter, penthouse-level suite far above our heads, a floor only accessible by authorized key card.
And I use that card. A lot.
