Page 6 of Spin Control

“Us girls have to stick together.” She gives me a look that communicates precisely how sick of misogynists, bigots, and trolls she is. It’s one I know all too well. “I have to get to a prep meeting, but it was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” I say. “Enjoy the weekend.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says with a smile. “See you around, Elizabeth.”

When the drivers walk in, there’s a palpable shift in the room’s energy.

My brow furrows when I see a wide smile on Wes’s face as he chats with the driver next to him. This is not the behavior we discussed. We agreed that he needed to be sharp and serious today rather than a himbo who provides comedic relief.

As the press conference gets under way, the reporters start with Hyunjoon. He’s asked about making his F1 debut, and he comes across exactly as he is: earnest and a little overwhelmed, but focused. When the journalists exhaust their questions for the rookie, it’s like someone flips a switch. Suddenly, every reporter has their hand in the air—and it’s easy to guess who they all want to talk to.

The first few questions for Wes go well. Though they’re harder hitting, Wes handles it all gracefully, reiterating that Martine Racing is united, that of course he’s looking forward to working with Albrecht, that though the circumstances are horrifying, he’s happy that Hyunjoon has the opportunity to drive.

One of the other drivers—a blond man with a mustache and a Scandinavian accent—quips, “Should the rest of us just go or do you have questions for us?” Wes turns to him and says, “I did warn you,” which makes the journalists laugh.

It’s a nice break in the tension, and from there, questions go to the others. Though I do my best to stay focused, my mind wanders as words like “downforce,” “pace,” and “delta” are thrown around.

“This question is for Wes Grant,” a journalist says, and I watch as Wes sits up straighter, his eyes trained on the man speaking, his jaw set—as if he already knows this question has been designed to piss him off. “You and Stas have been close for years. Are we to believe that you truly did not know about his connection with organized crime?”

This is something we talked about. Wes’s long history with Stas is a huge red flag, and journalists are going to be combing through their friendship to determine if Wes is involved, too. He’s sworn up and down that he had no idea, that Stas never confided in him or asked him for any odd favors. We figure that if Stas is guilty, Wes has likely come in contact with some of these criminals over the years—and we are prepared if something comes out that ties him to this organization. But we were hoping it’d be at least another week before questions like these came up.

Wes takes a deep breath. “You know, this is something I keep asking myself. Because you’re right, I have known Stas for a long time. I’ve been going through my memories, trying to figure out if maybe there was something that might have tipped me off. And you know what? There was a dinner a few years ago that I thought was weird. Then, this other time, Stas and I were out in Dubai and he very literally gambled away a Bugatti Centodieci. Seriously! But he said the car was a gift that he didn’t care about, and I believed him because…I mean, y’all know Stas. He’s aloof like that. I guess what I’m saying is that, with hindsight, maybe there were signs. But at the time, even if there was something illegal happening right in front of me, I had no idea what was going on.”

Rage so hot it could melt a precious F1 engine courses through my veins. He was supposed to say, ‘No, I was not aware’. That’s it. A brief, succinct sentence that gives the reporters nothing to work with. Instead, he told two stories about times he might have very well been an accessory to big-deal crimes, but maybe it’s okay because he simply didn’t realize it!

Wes’s gaze meets mine across and I narrow my eyes. He has the audacity to grin.

When a sandy-haired Australian driver says, “Mate, now that you mention it, there was a night out with Stas that never sat right with me,” and then goes on to give his own example of some borderline shady shit the Russian driver pulled, Wes meets my gaze again and lifts his eyebrows.

As each of the drivers on stage relays their own story about Stas, I understand Wes’s play. He prepped these guys for this and is giving the reporters what they want: wild stories about Stas Dubinsky. Beyond that, he’s given himself—and basically every other driver and employee Stas has ever been out with—plausible deniability.

It isn’t a bad strategy.

But it isn’t what we discussed. It isn’t what I gave him permission to say. And it’s going to throw the media sentiment we anticipated way, way off.

It’s going to be a very long weekend.

4

I head off the stage with the rest of the drivers, thanking each of them individually for pitching in.

Everyone I’ve talked to the past few days seems completely shell-shocked by the arrests, but their reactions are always accompanied by an undercurrent of pity—as if they think my time in this sport is over now that my best friend has gone and gotten himself in trouble. But I’m more than Stas Dubinsky’s sidekick. And I’m a hell of a lot more than Martine Racing's charm offensive. I can’t wait to prove them all wrong.

The PR handlers usher me and Hyunjoon to the luxe, multi-story motorhome that serves as our team’s headquarters during race weekends. It’s situated in the paddock, the exclusive area only accessible to drivers, team personnel, media, and fans who have shelled out tens of thousands of dollars for a weekend pass. In addition to the motorhomes, the paddock features hospitality areas filled with food and drinks from Michelin-starred chefs, and swanky suites for entertaining VIPs.

Our day is packed. We’re filming social media videos before we attend a strategy meeting with Albrecht and our race engineers. After that, we’re changing into suits that have been provided by a high-end designer that sponsors the team and making our way to a business dinner that will likely last well into the night. Though I’d love nothing more than to skip that part and go straight to the hotel to get some rest, I know better. Networking is an important part of the job—and one that can be incredibly lucrative when contracts are being negotiated.

Hyunjoon and I lounge as the social team sets up the game they want us to play, and I take the opportunity to dive into a new study on aerodynamics led by a professor at MIT. I’m only halfway through the abstract when a shadow falls over me. I’m not surprised to see Elizabeth Jacobs standing there. But I am surprised by how furious she looks.

“Hiya, Lizzy,” I say. “What can I do ya for?”

“So you’re always a disrespectful dick.”

I give her my signature grin. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but I think ‘disrespectful dick’ is a first.”

Elizabeth’s eyes bore into mine as she looms over me. If I were a smarter man, I’d cower. But there’s something about the tight leash she keeps on her fury that fascinates me.

“If you’d like to make it a last, then I will advise you to do two things,” she says. “Do not call me anything other than Elizabeth. And do not go rogue like that in front of the press ever again.”