Page 68 of Spin Control

“The verdict?”

He smiles in a way that tells me that’s an answer in and of itself. “Is my mouth better than my cock?”

And because this damn man is so good at both, I simply turn around and leave.

His laugh follows me down the hall.

28

After the British Grand Prix, I go to my apartment in Monaco, close my blinds, and hide from the world.

But I have no interest in brooding. The last thing I want is to dwell on the race where my team asked me to move to Plan D: a strategy where I sacrifice my race to defend my teammate and ensure he ends up on the podium.

Though I was P4 behind Freddie, Thad, and one of the Fiorelli cars, it was obvious early on that I didn’t have the same pace. There was a solid three-second gap between me and Freddie, so it wasn’t a surprise that I was asked to play defense. But it was still infuriating—especially since I seriously doubt Freddie Norton III would support me to a podium finish if the situations were reversed.

But I took a deep breath, focused my mind, and clinched those 12 precious P4 points.

I did a good job. A great job, even. But ending the race just shy of the podium because the team prioritized the rookie was a hard pill to swallow. I’m far too old to be sullen and shitty in the face of a younger driver’s success, so I said all the right things during the post-race interviews and showed up at the after-party. But damn, did I hate everything about that race weekend.

Well. Maybe not everything.

Being bossed around by Elizabeth Jacobs is quickly becoming my preferred way to get out of my head.

I don’t know where we stand now. The drawer labeled “Elizabeth W. Jacobs” in my mind always seems to be open. There’s no blocking my ever-present desire to know how she’s doing, whether or not she’s wearing her glasses, if she’s remembered to eat, the odds of her hiring an assassin to take her brother-in-law out, if she replays the times we’ve been together in her mind like they’re her comfort movie the way I do.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. It’s always been hot nights, fast flings, and casual hookups. But I don’t want fast or casual with Elizabeth. I didn’t lie to her in Cape Cod just to try and get her to open up to me—I really do want to know her. I want her to trust me enough to allow it. I hope she’ll give herself permission not to push me away.

On Wednesday, I have my weekly session with Jaclyn. I expect her to focus on Silverstone or to hone in on my feelings about Freddie. But instead, she asks about everything else that’s going on: my pre-race nerves, the rumors about my seat, the fact that I’m now third in the Drivers’ Championship standings since Thad’s teammate at Orion has DNF’d three races. I tell her the truth—mostly. I may leave out the part about how Elizabeth seems to be my new pre-race ritual. So when she recommends a new deep-breathing exercise to try ahead of the Belgian Grand Prix, I smile and nod and tell her I’ll give it a shot. But deep down, I know that even if it does help calm my nerves, it won’t be nearly as effective as the intense brunette with exacting instructions.

Over the next week, I adhere to a strict schedule. I train with Camden. I put hours in on the sim. I practice mindfulness techniques. And I text Elizabeth only once a day.

She now exclusively responds with the eye-roll emoji. That’s progress if I’ve ever seen it.

When I walk into the paddock in Spa-Francorchamps, my mind is balanced and laser-focused.

This is going to be a good weekend.

I refuse to let it be anything else.

It’s raining when I go to bed on Saturday night. And when I wake up on Sunday, it’s clear that the rain hasn’t stopped for even a minute.

It’s not uncommon to race in the rain in Belgium—but it makes the already infamously dangerous track that much more dangerous. The silver lining is that my power unit has been replaced, so Freddie and I are in equal machinery again. I’m starting on the front row today in P2 and he’s right behind me in P3.

It’s a great situation for the team. But it’s the kind of day where anything could happen. I cannot let my nerves get the best of me.

So I stretch. I have a light breakfast. I pay close attention during the strategy meeting. I meditate. I go through reaction drills. And when it’s time to go to the garage, I pop on my headphones, queue up one of Elizabeth’s playlists, and visualize myself staying calm and deploying masterful racecraft.

By the time the grid walk starts, the rain has blessedly stopped, but the weather reports all show that it’s a temporary pause. During the formation lap, the amount of water that comes off the track is staggering. A foggy mist hangs in the air and water droplets cling to my visor, completely blurring my vision—and that’s with only one car in front of me. I can’t imagine how bad it is for everyone else.

But this is the job. As much as rain races suck, they’re always exciting.

The moment the lights go out, I’m speeding off, fighting to get ahead, even when I’m driving nearly blind. Through a combination of muscle memory, strategy, determination, and sheer luck, I hold my position. I’m prepared for it to stay this way until the first pit stop, but as we turn into the Blanchimont corner, Thad hydroplanes.

Just like that, I’m leading the race.

My visibility is so limited that I have to trust my instincts, the feel of the track, and the feedback from Paul. Despite the conditions today, I’m confident. Sure, it’s wet out, but the car feels good. And so do I.

As predicted, the rain returns and I’m the first in the pit to switch from intermediate tires to wets, which means I keep my lead. When Paul tells me Freddie has also kept his position in P2, surprise pulses through me. I know our pit crew is good, but damn—that kind of double-stack is hard to pull off successfully.