Page 59 of Spin Control

I usually love everything about the Canadian Grand Prix.

But for the past two days, the only thing anyone has asked me about is if I’ll be racing with Martine next year.

I should have seen this coming. It’s no secret that my contract is up in a matter of months, and “silly season”—the time when rumors start to fly about team changes—is in full force. In the past, I’ve taken it all in stride. But this year? Things feel much more aggressive.

When a reporter who often has very juicy and shockingly accurate scoops cornered me after the first free practice on Friday and asked if Baz had talked to me about the team going in a direction with “less baggage” next year, I knew we had a real problem on our hands. I immediately called my agent, who was just as surprised as I was. I asked if there’s any indication that Martine wouldn’t be extending my contract. His answer was a very firm no.

I’ve been around long enough to know that though reporters in this sport can be real assholes, they don’t make shit up. They’ve heard this from someone they deem worth listening to. And my money is on a certain Italian who desperately needs some good press and is pissed I didn’t give it to him in Monaco.

Luckily, qualifying goes well. The upgrade we introduced in Barcelona is still going strong and I’ll be starting in P2 alongside drivers from my former teams, Orion and Sterling. Despite that, during the post-qualifying interviews, yet another reporter asks me about my future at Martine. So I give her my brightest smile and let every ounce of my Boston accent loose. “I’ll let my driving be the answer to that.”

The next morning, Andrew tells me the clip has gone viral. While he’s pleased about it, it puts even more pressure on me. I can’t fuck this race up. I can’t make a laughing stock of myself after getting a little bit cocky. But I also can’t let the pressure get to me. I can’t psych myself out. I can’t let anyone other than me control this race.

On Sunday afternoon, I get in the car, take a deep breath, and visualize all the open drawers in my mind. But every time I try to close them, they don’t budge. I push and push, but none of them move at all.

During the formation lap, I’m more nervous than I’ve been before a race in years. I need a pep talk—and not a sweet one.

I freeze. Because that’s an idea.

Once I’m back in my grid box, I say, “Hey, Paul?”

“I’m here, Wes.”

“Can you get Jacobs on the mic?”

“We’re almost at lights out.”

My stomach twists with anticipation. “I know.”

“Hold on.”

I keep my eyes on the lights in front of me. My heart is galloping, my breathing is shallow, and both my fingers and toes are twitchy. It’s not a good sign.

“Wes.” Elizabeth’s cool balm of a voice washes over me. “You rang?”

I husk a laugh. “I’m nervous. I need you to tell me not to be.”

There’s a pause. I wonder if she understands what I’m asking.

“Listen to me, Wes. You’re not allowed to be nervous.”

Her voice is sharp and edgy. It’s not quite the commanding tone she used that night in D.C., but it’s close. And somehow, hearing her tell me I’m not allowed to be nervous, makes me want to put an immediate stop to it.

“In fact,” she adds. “The only thing you’re allowed to do is win this race. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, right as the first light goes dark.

The drawers slam shut.

“Good,” she says, her voice harder now, a little bit vicious. “Go win, Wes.”

When the last light goes out, I hit the accelerator.

As I snake through the first turn, I overtake Thad in the Orion—and then there’s only clean air in front of me.

It’s not an easy race. In addition to the mandatory pit stops, there are two collisions and a groundhog that pops up on the track, triggering a virtual safety car that slows the race down for three entire laps.

Even so, I don’t get nervous again. I don’t lose focus. I don’t forget that I’m not allowed to be nervous today.