Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I manage a stiff nod, though the sting doesn’t fade. Because the truth is, in racing no one cares about traffic. All they’ll see is that I didn’t make it through to the third round.
Our media liaison comes over, tapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s get your interview done.”
I suck in a breath, trying to control my face. We always have post-track interviews standing in front of an FI banner with some posh British journalist asking me to analyze how poorly I did.
Helmet hair plastered to my forehead, fireproof still zipped up to my neck—I don’t have the luxury of a shower and a smile before facing them, but this is part of the game. “Let’s do it,” I tell her.
Stefan Wagner of Rosso Corsa GTX is just finishing his interview. He also got caught behind the red flag and based on his pinched expression, he feels as bad as I do.
Stefan finishes the last question and walks off after a half-hearted wave to some of the fans behind barricades.
The reporter turns to me, and I’m struck with a case of nerves. We do these all the time down in FI3 and FI2, but it’s more pressurized here. I know there are certainly many more people around the world who will be watching me.
I inhale deeply and let it out just as fast, moving in front of the banner as someone shoves a microphone into my hand.
“Francesca, there’s a photo circulating of you and Ronan Barnes holding hands in the paddock. Are the rumors true?”
I blink at him in stunned silence. I expected this to come, but not as the first question following my qualifier. Luckily, Ronan and I agreed on the answer last night, so I plaster on a polite smile. “We’re good friends. But we’re also competitors, and that’s where our focus is this weekend.”
It should end there, but he hits me with a blindside. “Speaking of Barnes, what about the scene earlier with his mother? There seemed to be a very loud argument between them. He left and you ended up handling her. Should fans be concerned about his focus?”
Heat flashes across my chest. My mouth is moving before my brain can stop it. Instinct. Loyalty. “That was a private family matter,” I snap. “And shame on you for trying to exploit it. Maybe you should do your job and ask about the race instead.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the little crowd. The reporter looks as if I just slapped him in the face, which I would, if I could.
“Um,” he stutters, looking down at his notes to regroup. I don’t feel sorry for him at all. “Um… can you talk us through your qualifying session? The red flag was a spot of bad luck.”
I exhale, forcing myself back into neutral. “We had traffic at the wrong time. It happens. Frustrating, but tomorrow’s another chance. That’s racing.”
I don’t wait for the next question. I hand the microphone to someone and duck out of the pen, tugging the zipper of my suit down just far enough to breathe. My skin buzzes with anger.
“We have another interview,” our media girl says, but I shake my head and she goes quiet.
“Not now.”
“Okay,” she replies quietly, and I move through our garage and out the back side of the paddock.
All my frustration over my qualifying performance is now mixed with fury over that reporter’s audacity to attack Ronan, and I’m a hot mess of jumbled emotions. I walk with purpose, almost defying somebody to look at me wrong, but I have no clue where I’m going. Just walking.
“Hey, Accardi.”
I hear my name called and recognize Carlos’s voice instantly. I turn to see him perched on a low barrier outside his garage, helmet in his lap, looking like the calm to my storm. He grins when he sees me.
“You look pissed,” he says.
“Aren’t you?” I ask almost combatively as I lean against the barrier beside him. “You got caught up in the same bullshit I did and now we’re hugging the middle of the pack.”
He nudges me with his shoulder. “Some days it works against you. Some days it works for you. The key is not to let it mess with your cool. Let it go and figure out how to get from P14 to P1.”
I snort. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.” His dark eyes gleam, steady and certain. “You aim for it every time. You give everything you’ve got. One day, it works.”
I shake my head, the sting of P14 still raw. “Come on, Carlos. You and I both know there are limits. Starting that far back? The numbers don’t lie. Strategy only gets you so far.”
He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his smile deepens, calm and sure. “Numbers are only half the story. The other half is the race you haven’t driven yet. Safety cars, weather, someone else’s mistake—it changes everything. If you’ve already decided it’s impossible, you’ll never see the door when it cracks open.”