Page 8 of Spin Control

I narrow my eyes. “As I was saying, I know it’s been a lot. And I know this is only media day, but you’ve been doing a great job. I’m really glad you’re my teammate.”

“Awe, Wes,” Hyunjoon says. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

I grin. “Save the jokes for the videos.”

That gets the attention of Andrew, the head of our social media team. “There was a joke? Can you repeat it on camera?”

With that, we start filming.

There are two minutes left in Saturday’s final qualifying session, and I am flying around the circuit.

Considering everything that’s happened this week, we need to race well. We need to show people that Martine will survive without Elio and Stas. And I have to perform so that there’s no hesitation from the team when it comes time to sign a new contract. But as much as we can all hope for that, it doesn’t always mean the car will cooperate. Or the weather. Or the other drivers. Shit happens on the track, and that’s precisely what makes this sport so exciting.

But the car has been amazing so far this weekend and it’s holding up in qualifying, which determines the starting order for the race on Sunday. Both Hyunjoon and I sailed through the first two sessions, so we’re now among the top 10 drivers battling it out for the highest possible starting position tomorrow. Though your qualifying position doesn’t guarantee anything on race day, the higher up the grid you are, the better your chances.

The second I cross the finish line, my race engineer, Paul, is in my ear. “That’s P3, Wes.”

Normally I‘d be stoked to hear I’m in the top three. But that lap felt amazing, so it’s disappointing that I’ll need to get more out of the car if I want to clinch pole position and start the race in first place tomorrow.

I clear my mind and let my instincts guide me. As I finish the first sector of the track on a flying lap, Paul says, “That was a personal best.”

“Fuck yes it was,” I murmur. But then I feel the back end of the car slip as a strong gust of wind blows across the track. I grit my teeth and grip the steering wheel harder, correcting the alignment.

“Several drivers were affected. You’ve still got pace,” Paul tells me, his calm voice answering my unasked question.

I slow through the long S-curve, then hit the throttle during the short straight and brake as late as possible into the hairpin. “Please tell me we got it,” I say as I cross the finish line.

There’s a long silence before Paul responds. “You’re P2.”

I exhale my disappointment. It’s a fantastic result—but I wanted pole so badly. I really thought we had it. “What’s the gap between me and pole?”

“One-tenth of a second,” Paul says. “Bloody close.”

“Okay,” I breathe, feeling slightly better. “Where’s Hyunjoon?”

“P5.”

“Hot damn!” I shout, genuinely thrilled to hear that he did so well in his first F1 qualifying round. It’s not only a testament to the team’s work on the car this season, but to how talented Hyunjoon is as a driver.

Once I’ve parked, I hoist myself out of the seat and jump over the halo. The moment my feet touch the ground, I’m surrounded by the crew, congratulating me on my front-row starting position. After removing my helmet and balaclava, I find Hyunjoon and wrap an arm around him. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“Thanks, Wes,” the rookie says. “We’re both getting on that podium tomorrow.”

“Hell yes, we are,” I say, clapping him on the back. “Now go over there and kiss your girl.”

A smile lights up his face before he turns to where his parents and girlfriend are waiting to celebrate with him.

I know better than to look at my side of the garage—it’ll just be my performance coach, Camden, making small talk with whichever guests the team invited. My garage used to be chock-full of celebrities and friends, but since I moved to Martine, I’ve stopped extending invites. I have to focus. And I can’t do that if I’m playing party-boy host every weekend.

“That’s how it’s done, Wes,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see Albrecht Klein, a proud look on his face. I’m tall for a driver, but Albrecht still has a couple inches on me. Sometimes I wonder how he fit into the cars when he was racing.

“If that wind hadn’t blown out the rear of the car…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, his German accent softening. “You executed perfectly with the conditions you were given. P2 is an amazing result. You’ve done everyone proud today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course,” he says. “Now go charm the press pool.”