Page 69 of Spin Control

It’s a matter of seconds before my teammate comes perilously close to the back of my car as we enter the famous Eau Rouge and Raidillon section of the track. The tricky sequence requires careful acceleration and braking in the best conditions, and even more so when it’s wet out.

“What is he doing?” I ask Paul. “Are we still on Plan A?”

“Checking,” Paul says immediately—which is not what I want to hear. A few moments later, it isn’t Paul in my ear, but Albrecht. “Wes, how’s your pace?”

“Stable, so long as the rain stays like this.”

“The rain won’t move out before the race ends, but it shouldn’t get heavier, either,” Albrecht says. It’s a relief. “The stewards haven’t put any cautionary speed measures in place. Can you get more out of the car?”

It’s a surprising question in the rain, and especially when my teammate is right behind me. Strategically, I could set a pace I feel comfortable with and Freddie could defend from his spot in P2. “Do I need to?”

“Freddie says he has more pace.”

I understand what Albrecht is really asking: if I am willing to cede my position to my teammate. And that answer is hell no.

“I’ll pick it up,” I say, even though my stomach lurches. But maybe I’m playing it too safe. Maybe this is the push I need.

“Excellent,” Albrecht says. “We’ll remain on Plan A.”

I speed up as much as I dare, then concentrate intently on maintaining the pace while keeping control of the back end of the car on the slick track.

“Is there traffic behind Freddie?” I ask when my teammate once again gets a little too close for comfort.

“No,” Paul says. “The interval to P3 is four seconds.”

I grit my teeth. He’s such an asshole. “Tell him to back off,” I say, leaning into the long Pouhon corner. “And remind him of what I did for him at Silverstone.”

“Copy,” Paul says, and I could swear there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

I continue sailing around the track, watching my speed so that I don’t need to break too hard in the rain. It’s a delicate balance made even more difficult with Freddie riding my ass for absolutely no reason.

I get that he’s greedy for his first win. But we’re on the same team and we haven’t been given clearance to race each other. As frustrated as he might be, the strategy has been set. If he can’t be a team player, then his future in this sport will not be long.

As I start my 30th lap, I take a deep breath. There are just 14 more laps to go. I can do this. I can lead this team to a double podium in Belgium in the rain.

These are the races that are remembered. The ones that become iconic.

As I approach the downhill entry into Eau Rouge, Freddie moves sharply to the right—as if he’s going to try and overtake me.

“Does he have a death wish?” I yell into my radio as I grip my steering wheel harder, defending my racing line so it will force Freddie to slow down. But he doesn’t. He’s hell bent on getting past me and instead of backing off, he tries to bring his car even with mine as we go into the left turn. I feel a push that has me immediately counteracting its effects, and I’m vaguely aware of Paul speaking in my ear, a rare urgency in his voice.

But I don’t hear what he says.

Because I’m spinning wildly.

Because I smell hot rubber.

Because my only thought is of a woman with eyes the color of the Atlantic, whose body fits perfectly into mine.

Suddenly, the world comes to an abrupt stop.

I blink several times. This has to be a nightmare. This can’t be the real race.

There’s no way my own fucking teammate crashed into me and ruined our shot at an epic 1-2 finish.

“Wes,” Paul’s voice says in my ear. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “But goddammit.”