“And she’s into the pits! It’s a good stop – 2.4 seconds for Rossi and she comes out ahead of McCarthy with a gap ofaround 2.5 seconds. Teammate Sophia Harrington takes first place.”
“Harrington leads the Grand Prix by 6 seconds with only eleven laps to go, but she is swiftly being caught by her teammate, Rossi. Assuming McLaren play it smart here, they won’t want Harrington to cause her teammate too much trouble, but she’ll be fighting for her life for that podium place.”
“Rossi is on the radio. “Am I on target to beat her or not?" Rossi asks her race engineer. "It’s close," is the response.”
“This race has been a slow burner but we’re in for a cracking finish to decide every place in the top six. Don’t go anywhere!”
“Rossi moves to within three seconds of Harrington having taken nine–tenths of a second out of her teammate’s advantage on the last lap alone. McCarthy remains 5.6 seconds off Rossi, with Peterson and Tanaka within DRS range of one another, fighting for third.”
“All these battles are coming to the boil!”
“Rossi is within a second of Harrington now – will McLaren enforce a switch, or will Rossi need to fight for the lead?”
“And there you have it. Rossi is being told to "just make sure you give each other plenty of space" over her radio. The battle is on! They are allowed to race. It’ll be music to McCarthy’s ears because he’ll be catching both of them as they squabble.”
“Only three laps left. Rossi, with DRS, has a look at overtaking her teammate on the Kemmel straight… but no, she doesn’t risk it. McCarthy is 2.5 seconds behind them now.”
“Two laps to go. Rossi goes deep at La Source and, ooh! She loses ground to Harrington. Sophia leads at the start of the final lap. It is all or nothing time.”
“Again, Rossi is going wide into La Source and that mistake lets McCarthy into her DRS – but nobody can make a move at the end of the Kemmel straight.”
“Harrington is half a lap away from an incredible victory, making a one–stopper work from eighth on the grid.”
“Can she do it? Can she do it? Yes! Sophia Harrington wins the Belgian GP! She leads a McLaren 1–2 from Rossi, with Red Bull’s McCarthy in third! Wow! The top three are split by only 1.1 seconds at the finish.”
“We can see Harrington there, leaping straight out of the car and into the arms of her McLaren mechanics! That’s only her third F1 grand prix win and by far her best to date. Rossi looks a little dejected getting out of her car, she must be wondering how her likely victory slipped away to her teammate.”
“Rossi is a real firecracker of a driver. That defeat won’t have been taken easily.”
“I couldn’t agree more. That was a drive that surprised everyone. What a sight – Harrington lofts the sparkling winners’ trophy into the air to the roar of the crowd. A superb victory.”
“Time to get busy with the fizzy! Look at that champagne fly! Certainly not a bad way to go into the summer break, wouldn’t you say?”
“Most definitely. The DJ is booming out the party anthems and drowning out the post–race interviews, but that doesn’t seem to be fazing anyone. I think all the F1 teams deserve a good party after this latest gruelling run of races. The summer break brings with it a three–week pause, after which the Las Vegas GP will kick off the rest of the season. We’ll be back then but for now, go well and enjoy what is left of your weekend. Thanks for listening.”
“Congratulations on the McLaren 1–2.” Another well–meaning stranger took it upon themselves to hug me and I barely resisted rolling my eyes.
“Congratulations on not being quite good enough to beat your foetus of a teammate,”is what they really mean. I clenched my jaw and forced a smile.
“Thanks so much. It was a great result for the team,” I replied. As soon as the stranger had moved on, I sighed and tipped a large mouthful of champagne back. God, I hated these parties at the best of times, but when it was after such a bitterly disappointing race they sucked even more. Sure, I’d come second but I should have been first.
My eyes were drawn through the crowds to my teammate, Sophia Harrington, as she accepted yet more congratulations on her Grand Prix win earlier that afternoon. It was no secret my teammate and I rarely saw eye to eye, and our tenuous relationship was always made just that little rockier whenever she got lucky and managed to get one over on me. I could easily admit to being a sore loser – though weren’t we all on some level? You didn’t get to drive in Formula One unless you had some major competitive energy. I was the epitome of a fiery Italian, but I’d get over it… Eventually. At least it was the beginning of the summer break, and I could stew in silence whilst relaxing by the pool in my villa in the south of France.
To my disappointment, Sophia spotted me, and I cast her another false smile, groaning as she made her way through the crowds towards me.
Sophia was harmless enough, I supposed. She was a fresh–faced, painfully optimistic sort and that alone tended to get my back up. I had to remember she was just a kid – just turned twenty. It seemed bonkers to me that I had to be the mature one, given I was only twenty–four myself.
“Sophia,” I called out, waving her over before tugging her down into a half–hearted, one–armed embrace.
“Hey, Bee,” she replied, and I resisted the urge to slap her upside her head for the cutesy nickname. “Having a good night?”
“The best,” I muttered dryly. Sophia slipped onto the leatherette couch beside me without invitation, fishing her phone from her bag.
“Selfie?” Before I’d had the chance to answer her, Sophia was lifting her phone up above our heads, angling it and smiling her best social media smile. I joined her, praying I didn’t look as awkward as I felt. Despite having been racing F1 for several years now, I wasn’t a natural at the publicity side of things.
I watched Sophia fiddling with the filters, tweaking the photo until she was happy with it. She held it up for my inspection and when I shrugged, she swiftly posted it. I felt my phone rumble in my purse, alerting me that I’d been tagged.
“Have you seen Harold or the rest of the senior pit wall team yet?” Sophia asked, glancing around the crowds. I had to admit I was just as eager to lay eyes on our friendly team principal’s face. Harold Warner was a legend on the racing circuit. At sixty–four, he’d been around long enough to captain some of the world’s greatest teams and had earned himself a reputation for being the best of the best. I hadn’t had a chance to catch up with him after the race earlier that day and I was keen to have my ego stroked a little on the back of my losing out by a whisker to Sophia.
