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A COLD DAY IN HELL
Georgia
The night of my race win in Barcelona was indescribable. Spain was a beautiful country, and the weather was not as cold as it typically was in early spring. Not too long after I arrived at my hotel room, Henri was banging on my door, a champagne bottle in one hand and a slice of my favorite chocolate cake in the other.
“So, did you bring this cake all the way from Monaco in case I won?” I asked, aggressively lunging towards the cake.
“No, I brought it in case I won,” he replied snarkily, winking at me as he lifted the cake in the air to a height I couldn’t reach. “But since you won, I figured we could share.” I chuckled at his poor attempt at a joke and nodded for him to sit on the bed, offering him a spoon.
“So…” Henri began, and I knew exactly what he wanted to discuss. We didn’t need to be twins for me to know he wanted to address the press outburst.
“… so I shouldn’t have yelled at the reporter. Yes, I know,” I groaned as I shoveled another large bite of cake into my mouth.
“What did Isabelle have to say about it?”
“She was displeased, obviously. We have this huge Maison de Klotho sponsorship deal in the works, and I know she’s worried it will fall through. It’s a huge brand, one of the largest fashion houses, and the brand will be exclusive to Valkyrie F1. I just… I wish sponsors cared about my racing potential and wins instead of my ability to bat my eyelashes at the press.”
Even as I said the words, I knew in my heart that this wasn’t the case with any athlete. Even Noah Hendriks, the current holder of the last three World Driver’s Championships, had to woo sponsors and show up at events with a smile. Being talented was one thing – being talented and able to manage a crowd was another. I just wasn’t so good at the second one.
“Just raw talent doesn’t get you sponsors, Peaches. In fact, it seems to mean less these days. I mean, look at Oliver. He’s struggling in this year’s Wilmington F1 car but still holding onto all his sponsors.” I gave Henri a slight nod before shoveling another bite of cake into my mouth. I knew Henri was right, and we often discussed Oliver’s situation.
As much as Henri wanted to understand what I was going through, he didn’t get it. He had always been the one to shine in front of the camera; even at a young age, he loved getting interviewed and discussing his racing, the car – anything. On the other hand, I had mastered running to the bathroom any time a camera got within ten feet of me. Before joining Indy Car, my social media probably had fewer than twenty posts. I was a private person, and I hated being put in front of people I didn’t know, only to be asked questions to which everyone already knew the answer. I felt like a monkey at the circus, on display for everyone to see.
“You had to deal with this in America,” Henri mused.
“I did, but it was more behind closed doors. Oddly enough, the American public might have been interested in how one deals with their menstrual cycle while racing, but no one was bold enough to ask me on national TV. Bit of a squeamish group of people – Americans,” I said, earning a chuckle from my brother.
My first year in Indy Car had been tough, but after my first win, things settled down. I was impressed at how much respect I began to receive once the public started to see the real me, and most importantly, my team and the media loved the number of female fans I was bringing to the sport. If there was one thing Americans were good at, it was making money off of sports teams, and no one was looking to piss off a new segment of fans who were buying up merchandise and subscribing to the journalist’s streaming channels.Money talks in America, as my manager liked to say.
After munching on the cake and drinking the rest of the bottle of champagne, Henri left for his hotel room so we could both get ready. I had agreed to push all my negative thoughts out of my head and instead focus on enjoying my race win, something easier said than done. As I reviewed the afternoon’s press footage, I kept debating how bad my outburst had actually been.I knew it wasn’t great since I was too much of a coward to check Twitter or read the comments on the team’s most recent social post.
When my alarm went off at 9 p.m., I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed towards the elevator, fumbling with my wallet along the way as I frantically looked for my keycard. As I approached the elevator doors, I felt my body crash into something hard. Before I could fall backward, a large hand grabbed onto my waist, pulling me forward. Without thinking, I put my hands up to steady myself, making contact with a chest that my romance books would describe as ‘built from solid muscle’ – or perhaps built by Apollo himself. The next thing I noticed was the smell – cologne that smelled like a mixture of lilacs and pine. I saw his Cheshire Cat grin as I looked up to see who had just saved me from falling on my ass.
LucafuckingRossi. Playboy of the year and bane of my existence. How my brother dealt with Luca Rossi as his racing teammate at Hermes each week was beyond me.
“You know, Cara, if you wanted to be close to me, you only had to ask. I’m always here for support,” Luca said with a wink and a voice much too sultry for my liking. He made a show of letting his eyes rake up and down my body, and I suddenly felt naked in front of him. I chose to ignore how my body went a little warm at the attention, and I quickly straightened my dress, forcibly removing his hands from my waist.
“Luca, flattering yourself as always, I see.”
The elevator doors opened, and Luca motioned for me to go in first. I obliged, standing on the opposite side of the elevator as Luca followed me in, smirking at my visible discomfort. Fortunately, we continued the elevator ride down in total silence. I could feel his eyes look down at me occasionally, but I refused to face him out of fear that I would make eye contact with the Italian.
It didn’t matter that Luca was undoubtedly the most handsome driver on the grid; he was definitely the most insufferable. He knew he was handsome, and girls threw themselves at him everywhere he went. Last year, he had been caught ‘borrowing’ a yacht off the coast of Majorca, a total embarrassment to his family, who were racing legends in Europe. The amount of messes his public relations team has had to clean up should have that company advertising as a janitorial service, not a PR firm.
The elevator dinged as we hit the ground floor, and when the doors opened, I quickly bolted out of the elevator, practically running to where I could see Henri, Éliott, and Oliver waiting for me. As soon as he saw me, Oliver greeted me with a huge hug – picking me up and swinging me around.
“Congrats little Dubois!” Oliver announced, putting me down with a thump.
“What a nice surprise, Oliver! Sorry to hear about P12, but better luck next race. I think Miami will be your race. You strike me as a Miami kind of guy,” I said with a wink. Oliver chuckled as he thanked me, still grasping me in his warm embrace.
“Yeah, a bit of a rough one. The Wilmington F1 car isn’t what we had hoped, but I am excited to celebrate the first female winner in over thirty years. I could have come last, and I still wouldn’t have missed celebrating with you.”
When asked to describe Wilmington F1 driver Oliver Williams, I think of the scene where the Grinch’s heart grows three times its original size. Oliver’s heart was three times the size of a normal person’s, and he was nothing but love and laughter. I always enjoyed hanging out with him. When my seat at Valkyrie F1 was announced, he had been one of the most supportive drivers, constantly texting me congrats and asking if I had any questions. His mentorship was endearing and greatly welcomed. He was having a hard season at Wilmington, and I could see that he was grappling with the fact that at thirty-two, he had fewer F1 days in front of him than he did behind him.
“Well, well, well, the Dubois family now has two Formula 1 race winners. How exciting.” I turned around to face whoever had congratulated me and saw Éliott Simon, another racer and close friend of my brother’s, standing there with a massive smile as he gave me a pat on the back and a quick hug.
“Congrats Georgie,” he whispered. “By the way, the parents said to tell you that they are so incredibly proud of you.” Éliott’s parents had been there through every step of my journey. They had even traveled with my mother to see me race Indy Car during my winning season. The Simons were close family friends, and it meant a lot to me that they were at this race, cheering me on.
“Tell them thanks, and I hope we will all have dinner together in Miami.”
