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“What’s that?”
“I’m old. I want to bloody retire one day. I have a wife I’d like to see more of. Travel with her when we actually have time to stop and see the sights. Play golf or some shit,” he laughs.
I grin at him as big as I can. I don’t think Edmund will ever be a golfer, but I like the thought of him relaxing and puttering about with someone he loves. He’s taken care of Cole and Dante since they were just teens, and I’ll be eternally grateful to him.
With that, I cue the pit crew to get ready and push the button on my desk to broadcast my microphone to Cole’s car.
“Now that things aren’t so wet let’s get you slicked up. Box, box, box.”
“Emily?” He responds half a second later.
“Copy that. Come in this lap so I can service you.”
Edmund lowers his head, and his shoulders rack with silent laughter.
“What if I like it wet?” Cole responds.
“Plenty of wetness forecasted for this evening. Box, please.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles back.
My face is beet red, and I don’t dare turn around to see what’s happening in the garage, but I can hear the crew laughing, even over the roar of the cars screaming past us.
The British broadcast networks are probably having a field day over this. I imagine they’re apologizing for more suggestive content right now.
Cole’s car comes in a moment later, and in the two-point-three seconds he has before the car launches again, he sees me out of the corner of his eye.
We’ve double-stacked the pit stops, and Dante flies in right behind him, then they’re both gone in the blink of an eye.
The crowd is on its feet and screaming for Cole, the only American driver on the grid right now. I know he can hear them inside his helmet, see them waving flags in the stands, as he and Dante make their way through the pack.
We’ve made good strategy calls on the tire changes, and both have made up several places. They’ve cleared the back-markers, and their tires are heated up.
“How’s the car feeling?” I ask him to make sure everything is stable before I give the next or
der.
“Car feels better now, feels like it’s with me.”
“Well, then open that baby up and give me everything you have. Push hard.”
There’s a long pause. And by a long pause, I mean maybe one-second because, in Formula 1, one-second is a lifetime.
“Uh, confirm if that was real or…”
Edmund laughs and pushes his radio button, “Bloody push, Ballentine.”
“Not as much fun when you say it, Edmund,” Cole responds.
The laps tick by, Edmund and I watch the data and run all the numbers. If he keeps the pace up, he may be able to win again.
“Can we turn the engine up?” Cole asks over the radio. He knows a win is in sight, too.
“We can. I’m turning it up right now, Cole.”
I do actually change his engine mode, give him more power. But I have something else in mind, too.
“How’s that feel?” I ask when I see his data change under the extra horsepower.
