Page 24 of Downforce

“The feeling’s mutual,” I assure him. I’ve worked hard over the years to get along with Townsend. The motherfucker hasn’t made it easy ever since the incident that occurred almost seven years ago.

Admittedly, I’d be pissed too if I’d sustained the injury he did, but he healed. And no matter how many times I’ve said it, he refuses to believe that I didn’t cause the accident on purpose.

But I lost two years of my career due to the suspension I received. I barely made it into Formula 1 two years later as most teams were scared to touch me.

One team, Krämer, couldn’t refuse the lore of having Severino Ferreira’s son on their lineup. Yes, my name attached to the brand brought in more fans. Some of whom were genuine fans of the sport, some were fans of my father’s, while others were more fans of the macabre, as if I was some sort of fucking disaster waiting to happen and they wanted a front row seat to watch me self-destruct.

That thought brings up long buried memories. I turn away from Drake and Travis, squeezing my eyes before opening them again.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Drake says after a few pulses of silence. “We have a really great shot at winning the Constructor’s Championship this year. That’s not something I say lightly. Amato hasn’t brought home a team championship in over two decades. With the car we’ve got this year and the drivers …”

He pauses pointedly, looking between Travis and me.

“This company has poured millions into this, hundreds of employees have labored thousands of hours to bring us this far. We have a real shot. Don’t let your egos fuck it all up,” he finishes.

Travis grunts. “It’s not ego when I have the record to back up my confidence.” He gives me a pointed stare. “Can you say the same, Ferreira?”

My hands ball into fists.

He doesn’t say another word before he walks out of the room.

Drake looks at me. A beat passes before he opens his mouth. “I asked you to come over to Amato because I thought it would be good for you, working beside Townsend.”

I snort. That makes no fucking sense. Townsend isn’t some coach savant ready to step in and guide me and I damn sure don’t need any crumbs of advice he might be inclined to toss my way—not that he would.

Drake juts his head toward the door. “You need to get ready to test your car.”

There’s nothing left to say. Drake probably realizes whatever ploy he cooked up about me and Travis becoming friends is nothing more than a dream.

Summoning all of those hours of media training and coaching I referred to earlier, I prepare to get through the pre-testing interviews. An array of sports’ journalists jockey to get a quick interview with me and the other drivers. They all ask the same questions year after year, so none of it is new.

Except for everyone’s need to point out my obvious shift. While no one mentions my father by name, they all give me the same wide, plastic smile as they thrust the microphone in my face directly after asking how excited I am to be starting with my new team.

I know what they want.

They would love for me to bring up my father’s name. To confirm for their vulture arses that it was his legacy that prompted my decision as an excuse to jump into the grim memories of that day.

The day he was killed right in front of me in the middle of a race.

I won’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, I smile and talk about the need for a change, how great the team at Amato has been, and how much I’m looking forward to this season. It brings me pleasure to watch the look in their eyes deflate, knowing they didn’t get the soundbite they were looking for.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Drakes says sometime later, directing Travis and I to take our places beside our cars.

Travis will do his laps first, testing out the car before doing a full-on run. It’s the last lap that will count toward our times to show not only what the cars can do but how well we handle all of the power and millions that have been poured into these rockets on wheels.

I watch on the same monitors that the rest of our team have their eyes glued to. Travis’ car glides like melted ice on the corners and moves lightning quick on the straightaways. Almost everyone collectively holds their breaths during the final lap. Their hopes and dreams for a record book season weigh down the air.

Once Travis passes the finish line of his final lap, a few of the engineers whistle, high fiving one another.

“And he was holding back,” someone behind me says.

“Your turn, Ferreira,” Drake encourages, still grinning at the stopwatch in his hands.

I intentionally force my mind to go blank. This is what I do at the beginning of every test drive. I rid my mind of all expectations or past experiences. Nothing matters now more than me and the car.

Once I rev the engine and pull out of the pit, the adrenaline starts to kick in. I think back to the time Travis just put up but try to push it aside. My first task is to get a feel for the car.