Page 145 of First in Line

Three cars have gotten ahead, but they’ll all need to turn into the pit soon. I hate being stuck behind them, though, so once I catch up with them, I seek an opportunity to overtake them. The Kemmel Straight allows me to get into third position, passing one of them. It’ll be harder for the other two, since the second one is right on the lead’s gearbox, looking for their own opportunity to take first place. I can wait. I’ll let them sort it out, then overtake them both when they’re done.

It happens during the Stavelot turn, when the lead overshoots their curve and gives number two an opening to the right, which is immediately used. Now that they’ve done their thing, I get closer, ready for my opportunity. I should be able to pass them right after the chicane, on the straight where the bleachers are.

I wait for that, biting back the impulse to do it now. I could pull it off on dry asphalt with soft compound tires, but doing it now is too risky. I’m not getting into an accident. Not when Tuscany awaits.

We all have to slow down drastically for the chicane, and I position myself in a way that’ll allow me to sneak past them before they can see it coming. In Formula 2, we all have the same chassis, same engine, and same tires. It genuinely comes down to which driver is the best. And I’m the fucking shit. Especially on my turf.

The moment we’re out of the chicane, I speed up. But I’m not the only one to do so. Nor am I the only one determined to retake the lead. The driver that was just passed makes a maneuver I didn’t expect, swerving out of their line abruptly. I adjust, instantly braking. But the current lead reacts too aggressively, swerving across to defend. It’s the wrong move.

Their wheels make contact, and chaos ensues.

The first car spins out of control, and the second one slams into it at full acceleration. Debris flies around as the cars crash together, and I’m right behind the mess. My tires lose their grip when I brake harder, not warm enough from having just been changed, and my own car smashes into them, sending even more pieces flying. Everything seems to go in slow motion, but it all goes down too fast at the same time. Before I can realize what’s happening, I’m fucking airborne, my cockpit upside down.

Pain reverberates through my entire body as the car returns to the ground sideways before slamming down on its tires. My grip on the steering wheel is useless as I spin over the wet track. I can’t see fucking shit. I think my visor is broken. And my eye hurts. Why the fuck does it hurt like that?

When everything stops moving, I try to assess the damage. My engine’s on fire behind me, flames licking at my sides. I can vaguely hear the voices in my ear. My team is panicking, trying to get me to respond. But it’s like there’s a ringing covering everything. I can’t make out what they’re saying. And I can’t see out of my right eye.

Instinctively, I bring my hands to my helmet. That’s how I realize there’s a sharp piece of debris that tore through the visor. Right over my eye.

Fuck. No. No, no, no.

I can’t lose my fucking eye. They won’t let me race without it.

I open the visor and blink. I can’t see. It’s all black. Or red. I can’t tell. I unbuckle my harness, but when I try to pull myself up, a sharp pain tears through my side hard enough to force me back down.

“Fuck!” I groan.

“Jackson, don’t try to move!” someone shouts in my ear. “They’ve just red-flagged the race. The marshals and the medical team are on their way!”

Between the pain, the disorientation, and the ringing, I completely lose sense of time. I can’t tell how much of it goes by before they reach me. Probably seconds that feel like a lot more. The marshals get to me first, one kneeling beside the cockpit while another immediately sprays the fire with an extinguisher, making quick work of it.

“Can you hear me?” the one near me asks.

I nod weakly.

“Any neck pain?”

“My eye,” I rasp. “I can’t fucking see.”

“Okay. Stay with me.”

Blood keeps dripping into my mouth. Or maybe it’s coming from inside it. I can’t tell.

When I instinctively unclasp my helmet to remove it, the marshal catches my wrist. “Don’t take it off yet.”

“Did I lose my eye?”

He leans in to look, but it’s dark and rainy, so he can’t see clearly. “I can’t tell. There’s blood everywhere.”

Nausea rolls through me. I let my head fall back against the headrest and glance toward the grandstands through my good eye.

Fuck. Evie …

She saw everything. She must be so fucking scared for me. “My wife,” I tell the marshal. “She’s on the rooftop. Tell her I’m okay.”

“We don’t know that yet. Here are the medics. They’ll take a look at your eye.”

A woman and a man rush to me and kneel. He asks me a bunch of questions, and I try to answer the best I can while she feels the back of my neck, all the way to the base of my helmet. When her colleague hands her a neck brace, she takes it and carefully passes it around.