Page 31 of Downforce

She lucked up and married one of the best drivers of all time. Her super model looks were probably what initially drew my father in.

“Who the hell are you to determine where she belongs?”

There’s that fire again in her eyes.

No. Definitely not contacts. That’s her true color. Only natural color would reflect real, genuine emotion like that.

A crack in her perfectly put together appearance.

“One of the majority,” I reply. “Since obviously I’m not the only one who recognizes the truth that women don’t belong in Formula 1. Otherwise, there would be more women on the grid. Bree Walters won’t be the first.”

The words escape my mouth before I think about them. I’ve seen Bree on the track. Who hasn’t? She came damn close to winning the title last year. But Matt Hayes out of Canada squeezed out the win.

He’ll likely be on the F1 grid sooner rather than later.

“No, she won’t.” Annalise’s words surprise me as she steps closer, hand on her hip and anger in the pinched skin between her brows. “Because Suzanne Phillips, Gina Guisseppe, and Tara Carlins all have competed in F1 races.”

I have a vague recollection of the names she mentions.

“If I recall correctly, only two out of the three have scored more than five points in their entire F1 careers, one failed to ever finish a race, and precisely none of them ever made a podium, much less became contenders for the championship. In the past fifteen years there hasn’t been a female driver who’s come close to reaching Formula 1. That won’t change any time soon.”

Her lips fold and eyes narrow. “Sexist prick.”

My head juts backwards, a thrill coursing through me.

“Sexism isn’t the same thing as telling the truth,” I contend. “Your tendency to throw around such accusations proves my point. Women are highly volatile and emotional. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I hold up my hands in a surrendering motion.

“That’s simply how it was meant to be. Women are to be protected, cared for. Not on a track going two hundred miles an hour. They belong in the stands or in the paddock rooting for those of us doing our job.”

By the time I stop talking, Annalise’s eyes have ballooned to twice their original size, her cheeks are stained red, and the clenched fists at her sides lead me to believe that she is seriously debating not if but where to punch me.

I don’t move.

Not one muscle, leaving me exposed to her potential attack.

When she takes a step closer, I brace myself for the contact. But it doesn’t come.

Disappointment, like that of a false start at the beginning of a race, overcomes me.

“You’re not worth it,” Annalise claims, tersely, practically spitting the insult at me. Those are her final wounding words before she spins on her heels and leaves me standing there.

They shouldn’t rattle me.

But when they collide with words she’s said about me in the past. Things like, “He’s a joke, not good enough,” they magnify other comments I’ve heard over the years.

“You’ll never be as good as your father.”

“He would be so disappointed in you.”

“I don’t know why your team principal even wastes his time with you.”

I watch Annalise as she disappears behind the doors of the restaurant. The comments circling the drain of my mind cause a stiffness in my neck. I turn my head left and right, cracking my neck, but that doesn’t do shit to discard the unease running through me.

I’m no longer in a position to be here.

I pivot to head toward the lot in search of the car that brought me, but run directly into Edwin.

“Good, I found you. William Cole is inside and he has a few minutes to meet with you.” That reminds me of why I even showed up today. Edwin set up some meetings with sponsors.