‘Ok, continue.’
‘We good?’
‘Yup.’
I don’t know what test I just passed but I’ll take it. I make for her bedroom, giving her ass a spank for good measure. She yelps and my chuckle’s hoarse.
‘So we’re not going to be one of those boring couples, then?’ she asks mildly, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
‘Mami, you have no idea.’
Chapter 48
TIAGO
SÃO PAULO
Three laps to go. That’s all that’s left of the Brazilian Grand Prix. Three laps to complete one overtake. Three laps between sixth and fifth.
The flashing butt of Gustaf Henriksson’s RaceX is 2.5s ahead of me. I need to be closer to challenge him. I put in the fastest lap of the race earlier – once again a tyre gamble that paid off – and I can do it again.
As I put pressure on the throttle, my car groans, and I don’t blame it. The track feels hand-built – it’s bumpy as shit, rising and dropping like no other. The car hasn’t settled for the past sixty-eight laps. My forearms are burning from gripping a relentlessly vibrating wheel.
But we have to hold a little bit longer.
Brake. Rotate. Power. That’s all there is to it. I’m an apex predator, stalking a little Swedish dude.
0.82s. That’s more like it. We’re approaching the long, downhill run from Juncão to the start-finish straight. Perfect.
Sweat pools at the base of my spine as I pick up the slipstream, his rear wing open. Henriksson lurches to cover his inside, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter which side he chooses, I’m flexible. The outside line has better grip anyway. The crowdroars as I scoot around him, momentum inching me ahead, boxing Henriksson in at a shallow angle. I’m already ahead before Turn 2 finishes.
I don’t let myself celebrate – the finish is rapidly closing in, and he’s going to do everything in his power to win that place back. It’s not a simple game of Cabrera vs Henriksson. It’s bigger, more expensive. If we beat Volare for fifth, we can beat RaceX for fourth one day.
There’s no way I’ll reach any of the top five – most have already finished, and they’re all from top three constructors anyway. P6 is it for me, but it’s enough.
The gap between me and the RaceX is widening. My guess, his tyres are spent. They were probably worn before, but after a little defending, they’re dead. Suits me.
The sky sits heavy overhead as I cruise across the finish.
‘YES!’ I yell, tears stinging my eyes as I let out airy laughter. ‘Sixth, baby!’
‘Excellent work, Tiago,’ says my race engineer, and I can hear our garage celebrating behind him.
‘We’re fifth in the Championship.’ I can barely believe it.
‘We are.’
From fireballs to brake failure, who’d have thought we’d finish the season in fifth? I mean, the season’s not over yet – there are still three races to go – but I’m not worried. Our garage is full of competitor analysis, and RaceX’s trajectory is down, while ours is steeply up. We just need to maintain, which is sure as hell easier than clawing tooth and nail.
Fifth. Fuck me. We’re the best of the mid-pack. A dangerous wild card. And next year, with our extra funding, we’ll be shooting even higher. The fact that we’ve stolen the spot Volare’s held for two years makes it all sweeter. Oh how the tables have turned.
I’ll be a permanent feature in the media pen. The press can stop treating us like a lucky underdog. We deserve to be here. We’ve gone from joint tenth to fifth in the space of eight months. What can we do over the winter break? I really do believe the sky’s the limit. I can’t help beaming knowing I’ll be around next season to see it.
By the time I get to the garage, it’s a full-blown party. My family are dressed in branded polos, dancing to a boombox playing ‘Fireball’. Being the only race in South America, all my extended Colombian relatives are here too. Most importantly, Jules is here. She’s been commandeered by my abuelita who speaks no English but is talking animatedly to her anyway.
‘Congratulations, big brother,’ says Isa, grinning as she claps me on the back. ‘You did good.’
I ruffle her hair and she squeals. ‘Thanks.’
