Page 70 of Spin Control

“I know,” Paul says. “Believe me, I know.”

I sit in my ruined car, too stunned to move. Finally, I take a deep breath. “How’s Freddie?”

Paul’s answer is succinct. “Also out.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying “Good” on the radio for the world to hear. It serves him right though. That’s what he gets for going against team orders and trying to overtake his teammate on one of the most dangerous track sections in motorsports.

“Are you able to get out of the car?” Paul asks. I figure that means the medical team is here.

“Yeah. Just give me a second.” I take two long box breaths, trying to calm myself down. Trying to prepare myself for what I’m about to see. Trying to remember that murder is wrong.

Once I’m ready as I’ll ever be, I hoist myself out of the car, then detach my steering wheel and take it with me. As I stand in the grass next to the track, I survey the wreckage, shaking my head, still feeling like this can’t possibly be real. Then I turn and see Freddie’s mangled car, not all that far from mine—and the rage and heartbreak I feel can’t be anything other than real.

I crouch down and bury my head in my arms. I was going to win this race. Freddie was going to be on the podium beside me. But instead, he took that dream scenario and all those points away from us, from our team, from our fans—all because he’s a greedy little prick who has never had to face consequences and picked the absolute worst time to fuck around and find out.

With a groan, I make my way to the medical car, sliding in beside Freddie.

Neither of us looks at the other.

Neither of us speaks.

As we head into the medical tent, all I can think about is how unfair it is that Elizabeth is going to have to manage the crisis that is Frederick Archibald Norton III.

Because if I know one thing about this sport it’s this: rich white boys don’t get fired.

29

The silence that descends on the Martine garage when the front of Freddie’s car clips Wes’s tire is thicker and more tense than any I’ve ever experienced.

No one speaks. No one even moves. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the screens and the smoking carcasses of the cars that were leading the race only moments ago. It feels surreal that they were just speeding down the track and now are crumpled pieces of carbon fiber and machinery. It feels impossible that rather than jumping into action to manage a crisis, I’m shaking with fear.

But of course it’s possible. Wes was in a high-speed car crash. And there’s nothing I can do to fix that.

When Freddie’s voice comes over the radio with an “I’m okay,” there are audible sighs of relief from several people in the garage. I wait for him to say more—to apologize, to ask how Wes is, anything. But he doesn’t.

The cameras pan to Wes’s destroyed car. He’s still sitting in it, unmoving.

“Is he okay?” someone asks, just as Paul says, “Wes, are you okay?” over the radio.

Anticipation climbs as the silence stretches. Is it possible he was knocked unconscious? And if he was, what happens?

The footage on the screen replays Freddie climbing out of his car. But then Wes’s voice crackles through the radio. “Yeah. But goddammit.” I nearly collapse with relief at the sound of his voice. It’s more than apropos that as we hear those words, we watch as Freddie backs away from his wrecked car, surveying the damage he wrought.

But there’s still no footage of Wes.

“Come on,” I say, impatience clawing at my insides and up my throat, making me clench my fists and bite my lip.

I need to see him on the screen. I need to know that he is all right.

“Elizabeth,” David says, suddenly in front of me. “With me, please.”

It takes me a long moment to understand what he means. Because he can’t possibly be saying that he wants me to work right now.

How could anyone be expected to do their job when the person who carries this team just crashed into a barrier at 200 miles per hour?

But of course that’s what I’m being asked to do.

This is a crisis. And crises are my job.