It’s a slow breath in, eyes locked on the five red lights above me, and an exhale as they all go out.
I’m out of my P5 grid box and wheel to wheel with two drivers ahead of me in a blink. It’s an excellent start, proof of my experience, the reliability of a McMorris-designed car, and my confidence in a team I know so well after five seasons together. This is all second nature now.
I’m P3 as we follow the racing line of the first corner. Dev’s leading, with Reid hot on his rear wing, but I’m more concerned with keeping the two cars I passed behind me. There’s a flash of navy and neon yellow in my mirror before I spot the Specter Energy car beside me, trying to edge me out as we barrel down the Las Vegas Strip. Their straight-line speed is lightning fast, which should mean I’m about to concede one of the places I’ve gained. But I brake late into the next turn, giving methe advantage even though I take it wider than I would have liked. I’m quick back on the throttle too, pulling away as he pushes through my dirty air. There’s still not much of a gap between us, but it’s something.
I get a reprieve as the two behind me have their own battle, giving me the chance to pull away and push.
“Nice job,” my race engineer comments over the radio. He’s never effusive with his praise, so this might as well be him screaming from the rooftops. “Arlo lost a few places at the start. He’s down in P11.”
I almost sigh. My teammate started seventh, and the strategy for this race was to have him help defend my higher P5 grid placement. That’s out the window now that we’re running eight places apart. He’ll be lucky if he can make his way up the grid to finish in the top ten—to actually get our team some much-needed points in the Constructors’ Championship.
So this is all on me. Fantastic.
To make up for that deficit, I’m going to have to fight for my life to keep P3. And God, is it a task. Between keeping the Specter Energy driver off my ass after two different safety cars bunch up the pack and then repeatedly trying to catch Reid, I’m driving hard. Possibly harder than I have all season.
It’s not that I was complacent before, but…maybe I was. I know I wasn’t giving my all in the months and weeks before the Singapore crash that took out the three front-runners in the Drivers’ Championship. It was maybe 90 percent of what I was truly capable of, because what was the point of giving more when it wouldn’t have gotten me more? With them and their teammates almost always ahead of me, the best I could usually finish was seventh. The best of the rest.
Zaid Yousef of Mascort and Axel Bergmüller of Specter Energy were the only ones who had any chances of winning theDrivers’ Championship anyway—the title every driver competes for individually. Lorenzo was a dark horse, trading off with Reid for third place. But with them out of the running and their teams dealing with the chaos of getting other drivers in those seats, it’s given the rest of the pack a chance to catch up.
Especially me. I still have no chance of winning the championship, but in the last five races, I’ve made it onto the podium three times. If I can hold on, I’ll make it a fourth. This might never happen again with Zaid and Axel set to return next season.
I ask my engineer where the other D’Ambrosi car is and do the quick maths of figuring out the points their team would earn if these were the places we all finished in. Grimacing against the padding of my helmet, I realize that they’d still be ahead of McMorris in the Constructors’ rankings. I need Arlo to prove why this team signed him and make it up to ninth at the very least.
The laps are grueling, and I’m thankful for the cooler-than-usual night. The bright neon lights of the buildings that stretch up and around us are nothing more than a blur as I pass them. By the time there are only fifteen laps to go, Reid is in my sights. I could take second—if I can get my quickly degrading tires to last.
“What’s the gap to Coleman?” I ask. It comes out as a demand.
Judging from his pause, I already know my engineer is going to dissuade me from trying to catch the D’Ambrosi driver. “Keep the pace,” he instructs. “Our focus is on the cars behind.”
Of course it is. But I’m hungry tonight. I want more than a third-place riser.
Stella flashes through my mind then, her words on a loop.So you’re a loser, she teases again and again. She was joking, playing down the fact that she was impressed, but she wasn’t wrong. Anything other than first is a loss. I know I won’t be taking the top spot tonight, but one step down…that’s something.
I take a breath and push.
In three laps, I’m on him, much to my engineer’s dismay. Reid defends hard, leaving me to nearly clip his rear tires as I try twice to overtake. It’s not the cleanest racing, I’ll admit it, but that want, that desire, can make you do unwise things.
Unfortunately, my tires seem to be on my engineer’s side, and I’m forced to fall back again when the battle proves to be too much. He might as well sayI told you sothe next time he comes on the radio.
No one can see me sulking behind my helmet at least. It’s tough to want something that’s just within reach but not be able to grasp it. And it’s even tougher when I’m forced to watch Reid challenge Dev a couple of laps later and overtake the race leader.
The move up means more points for D’Ambrosi. It means McMorris’s chances of landing third in the Constructors’ Championship are dwindling.
It means even though I’ll be holding a third-place trophy on the podium, I’m still a loser.
I’m being booed. Loudly.Veryloudly.
It’s practically drowning out the announcer introducing me to the podium. I’ve always appreciated the passion of the Scuderia’s devotees, but right now it would be nice if they could tone it down a little. Limited as my knowledge of Italian is, I can certainly make out their shouts ofassholeandidiotand—mypersonal favorite—ugly fucker. I can’t deny the truth of the first two, but the last one? Inherently untrue.
They didn’t like me before tonight, and they like me even less after the moves I pulled on Reid. But at least their darling boy proved he’s a damn good driver.
The saving grace of this onslaught of hate is that there’s only one race left this season. One more opportunity to be publicly abhorred, and then I can escape it all over the winter break.
The boos start to dwindle when Dev steps out and waves to the crowd, the cheers drowning out the hostility. And as Reid finally climbs up onto his first-place riser, there are only screams and chants and shouted declarations of love.
The American national anthem plays for Reid’s win—still such a wild thing to hear—followed by the Italian one for Scuderia D’Ambrosi, and then the champagne sprays. I congratulate both drivers again, and while Reid has been gracious enough to offer me a few half smiles and quick moments of eye contact, he’s careful to keep Dev in the middle of our celebrations.
And speaking of the other American up on the podium, Dev could have won this race, just like he could have won the last three in Austin, Mexico, and Brazil. Instead, the same thing that happened tonight happened then—Reid overtook him at some point and won.
