Page 71 of Spin Control

I bite back a groan of frustration as I take my headset off, forcing myself to move past my fear so I can focus. “Statements?” I ask, and David nods.

In the motorhome, the PR and social teams are already typing furiously on laptops and phones. “Where are we?” David asks, and Tate hands him a tablet with a short statement. He reads through it quickly, frowning. “Too stiff. Lead with empathy.”

“The graphics templates are ready,” a designer says, and then Andrew pipes in with, “Can I get your eye on this race update for socials?” David glances at it, nods, and Andrew is off.

I’m about to ask David why the hell I’m here if he doesn’t need me, but my eyes snag a television screen showing live footage of Wes. He’s crouching down in the grass, his helmeted head in his hands.

“He’s okay,” I whisper, blinking the tears that sting the corners of my eyes away on instinct. But there’s no denying how happy I am to see him out of the car—to see him safe and whole. I can’t even begin to imagine how he’s feeling or what he must be thinking.

I open my music app, copy a link to a playlist titled “Everything is awful but at least I’m pretty,” and send it to Wes.

“What a bloody nightmare,” David says from beside me, rubbing his temples.

“Seriously,” I say, my eyes still glued to Wes. “Did you need me to help with something?”

“Strategy,” he says immediately. “There’s only a few days until the race in Hungary, but this is the kind of shit show that will overshadow the next grand prix.”

I order my brain to focus on David and not the driver on the screen. It is, undoubtedly, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. “Right. I doubt we can spin it.”

David shakes his head. “Definitely not.”

“I’m guessing officially blaming Freddie is out of the question.” Which is really too bad. I’d relish the opportunity to run his reputation so far into the ground he never sees the sky again.

“I assume it will be deemed a racing incident with no foul play,” David says quietly. “It would be very odd indeed for the team to single out a driver publicly. It’s not like this is the first time teammates have crashed into each other, and it won’t be the last. These things happen.”

“But Freddie went rogue.”

“This is a sport that rewards grit and gambling. If Freddie had pulled it off, I doubt Albrecht would have made him give the place back.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say something I regret in front of the comms team. “Remind me what’s in the PR pipeline this week.”

“Marcus’s Q&A with a business trade publication, but that won’t have broad readership.”

“What about the drivers?” I ask. “Any requests we could fulfill?”

David shrugs. “Always. But I don’t want to sit either of them down with a journalist right now.”

“What about a distraction? Do we have dirt on anyone from other teams?”

David gives me a very pointed look. “That’s ruthless.”

I silently return his very pointed look.

“So the very conveniently timed Bosch story was your doing, then?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to figure that out.”

He shakes his head, but is grinning. “Any other ideas?”

I have several, but I doubt he’ll like them. “Instead of avoiding it, we could lean into it. Andrew could create some dramatic videos for social. Fueling the story rather than fighting it might take the bite out.”

“It could also create an incredibly toxic environment,” David points out.

“True,” I admit. “But everyone already knows Freddie can’t stand Wes. And even though Wes is the resident nice guy, he’s still a competitor. No one will expect him to just forgive and forget.”

“Right,” David says slowly. “It’s an interesting idea. But what about something heartwarming? Walking shelter dogs or volunteering with kids.”

“Hard to pull it off as authentic,” I say. “And with Freddie’s attitude, I wouldn’t advise it.”