Page 12 of Spin Control

On screen, the other driver gets out of his car and officials run toward the collision. In my headset, Wes’s engineer mentions a red flag, and Wes asks who crashed.

“It’s Hyunjoon,” the engineer says, his voice steady, but laced with horror.

“Damn,” Wes says. “Is he okay?”

The engineer doesn’t respond, but soon, Wes’s car is stopped out front and the pit crew snaps into action, bringing it into the garage. Wes hops out, and removes both his helmet and balaclava. He’s sweaty and his dark hair is wild, but he doesn’t reach for a towel. He walks directly to Hyunjoon’s side of the garage, coming to stand right beside me. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him and I’m surrounded by the earthy aroma of sandalwood and salt. When he sees the screen, he curses quietly. On my other side, Sora is trembling violently. “Say something,” she pleads.

Wes moves so that he’s standing in front of her, blocking her view of the screen. “Hyunjoon will be fine,” he says, his voice soft, but assured. “The car is built for speed, but also for impact. Hyunjoon is wearing a fireproof suit, a HANS device, and monitors that are sending his vital signs to the team. The medical team is already there. He will be okay.”

But as soon as the words are out of Wes’s mouth, the car on screen goes up in flames. Several people in the garage scream, and Wes turns to see what’s happened, then wraps his arms around Sora, pulling her into his chest. She drops my hand, clinging to her boyfriend’s teammate as she weeps.

I’m suddenly aware of television cameras in the garage, of a photographer’s lens trained on Wes and Sora. I want to scream at the broadcast director who has told his crew to be here so he can package this moment as entertainment, to put my hands over the camera lenses, to growl at them to go the fuck away.

But then I see Hyunjoon climbing out of the car. Everyone is glued to the screen, watching Hyunjoon move slowly as the fire rages around him. Once he’s out, medics help him to a vehicle while marshals continue working to put out the fire. There’s applause and long, relieved exhales from most members of the team, and an F1 official calmly speaks with Sora and Hyunjoon’s parents before they all exit the garage, their arms around each other.

“What a shitty way to end a race,” I murmur.

“Yeah, watching someone’s race end like that never gets easier,” Wes says.

“What do you mean ‘someone’s’?” I ask. “Isn’t the race over now?”

“Oh, honey,” Wes says, his Boston accent out in full force. “The race will resume as soon as the track is clear.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Welcome to F1. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a race to win.” He shoots me a cocky grin, then walks over to his performance coach, completely unfazed by the fact that his teammate could have died mere minutes ago.

Just like he said it would, the race restarts, exactly the way it did an hour and a half ago. It’s pandemonium as the drivers push to gain positions and make the most of the last 12 laps. But just like he said he would, Wes manages to get ahead and goes on to win the race.

He stands on the podium with his hand over his heart as the U.S. national anthem plays. He pops the bottle of carbonated rosewater—no Champagne in Bahrain—and sprays it everywhere, a smile on his face. He dedicates the win to Hyunjoon during the interviews in the media pen.

And no one asks him about Elio, Stas, or his possible involvement in an international scandal.

6

You’d think waking up after winning a grand prix would be the stuff of Bacchanalian dreams: a smile on your face, booze still sticky on your lips, a gorgeous person or two in your bed.

But though I won the Bahrain Grand Prix—my first win in over four years—I did not celebrate. Oh, I went out. I showed my face at the official after party, took photos with beautiful people, and shook hands with motorsports officials. But the second my obligations were fulfilled, I parked myself in the hospital waiting room, right beside Sora.

The verdict is that Hyunjoon will recover. But for now, he has a broken collar bone, a bone bruise at the base of his spine, and a pretty gnarly concussion. He’s lucky, that’s for damn sure.

I check the time, blinking at the hotel room clock that tells me it’s past 3pm. I didn’t go to bed until nearly 8am, so I figure that’s acceptable.

I ignore the staggering number of notifications filling my phone screen and go straight to my messages. Mondays are usually rest days, but considering everything Martine is dealing with, I assume I’m needed today. Sure enough, there’s a message from Baz: Be at the hotel conference room at 4pm for a crisis meeting.

I throw off the covers and sprint to the shower. Despite walking out the door eight minutes after getting out of bed, it takes me until almost 4pm to locate the right conference room in this massive hotel. I nearly weep when I see that Sarah is sitting outside of it with the entire coffee bar from the motorhome beside her.

“My kingdom for a coffee,” I say, and she laughs. “Big night?”

“Of a sort. Probably not the kind you’re thinking.”

“I know, Wes,” Sarah says, placing a black coffee with one pump of sugar-free vanilla in front of me. It’s not how I prefer my coffee, but it’s the way Camden allows me to take it.

“Need anything to eat? Protein shake? Omelet with peppers and mushrooms? I can order from the hotel kitchen.”

“You are a goddess. And both, please.” I take my coffee and head into the conference room, only to find that I’m interrupting a meeting that’s already in progress.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to David, Marcus, Baz, Albrecht, and Elizabeth. “The message said the meeting is at four o’clock.”