Page 100 of Spin Control

“Yes, well, I thought you’d want to know you’re not a full-time WAG quite yet,” my boss says. “Martine’s keeping you on through the end of the season.”

Though it’s a surprise, it’s not one I’m mad about. Logically, I know it’s smart of them to keep me in case of fall-out. And personally, I’m downright delighted that I won’t have to go back to New York yet.

For the rest of my vacation, I don’t think much about that conversation, let alone keep up with the news or social media. But when Wes and I arrive in the Netherlands for the Dutch Grand Prix on a Wednesday at the end of August, it becomes very clear, very quickly that we are still extremely big news.

I guess that’s what happens when your relationship announcement is followed by the story of how an organized crime boss moonlighting as an F1 team principal kidnapped you to blackmail your boyfriend into being involved in the assassination attempt of a king who was about to dismantle his criminal enterprise.

It does sound rather dramatic when you put it like that.

On Friday, David messages me at 6:48am and tells me to get to the motorhome ASAP. I walk in twenty minutes later and Sarah doesn’t even have to tell me which conference room to go to since it’s the one where men are arguing loudly. After stepping inside, I do the only useful thing my dad taught me: whistle. The sound pierces through the voices and all three men go quiet, turning in tandem to look at me.

“Gentlemen,” I say primly. “What’s the issue?”

“Freddie has norovirus,” David says, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

Karma is truly a beautiful thing.

“The doctors say there’s no way he’ll be able to drive this weekend,” Albrecht says, sounding as annoyed as he looks. “How has modern medicine not cured this yet.”

A joke about this team’s recent history with designer drugs floats through my mind, but I know better than to say it out loud.

“These things happen,” Baz says before taking a long drink of his coffee. “And I’ve already gotten us an exemption to the four driver rule due to our extenuating circumstances this year.”

It’s then that I realize what Freddie having norovirus actually means. “Oh my God, Lu gets to race!”

“Told you,” David says to Albrecht. “If we don’t put Lu in that car, the backlash is going to be out of this world.”

“Wait, what?” I ask, my voice louder than I meant for it to be. I suppose I now understand why there was yelling.

“It’s not that I don’t want Lu in the car,” Albrecht says calmly. “It’s that I don’t think we should introduce a rookie driver at a critical point in the season when we have another option.”

David pulls out the chair next to him and I sink into it. “Who?”

Albrecht lets the moment stretch before he says, “Stas.”

Oh.

While it would be amazing to for Lu to race this weekend, I can’t deny that a choice between the reigning world champion and a reserve driver is an easy one.

I look at Baz. “Is Stas actually an option?”

“No,” he says immediately. “He will be coming back to the team—just not yet. Besides, even if he were willing to get in the car, he wouldn’t get here until after FP1.”

“Lu can fill in for FP1,” Albrecht says. “That isn’t an issue.”

Baz shakes his head. “I don’t want Stas in the car before he’s completely ready—mentally, physically, emotionally, fucking spiritually. He went through some real shit, Albrecht, and I get that you think world champions are wired differently—”

“They are,” Albrecht says. “He was going through real shit when he won world championships. Now that the real shit is over, it should be easy, no?”

“No,” Baz, David, and I say in unison.

Albrecht makes a frustrated noise, and I decide to put an end to this once and for all. I call Stas Dubinsky.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he says on the second ring, sounding incredibly awake and not at all surprised to hear from me. It almost makes me wonder if this gamble is about to bite me in the ass—if perhaps he already knows Freddie is currently puking his guts up, highly contagious, and unable to drive.

“Hi, Stas,” I say, giving the men in the room a pointed look. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were asked to race this weekend, would you do it?”

“No. I will let Baz know when I’m ready.”