Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I’m thinking a little of that has rubbed off on me.
But it’s evening now, and I’m finally done. I have everything put away and the boxes broken down and in the rubbish bin. I took a hot bath, wrapped myself up in a fluffy robe, and now I’m curled up with a glass of wine.
I glance around, noting the lack of artwork and knickknacks. The sole framed photo is one of my family on a small desk near the window where I work in the evenings. A pinboard on the wall is already cluttered with notes, strategy charts, and photos from past FI2 races for inspiration.
I rented this flat close to the Guildford headquarters, sight unseen as I didn’t have time to shop around, and when it boils down to it, I’ll hardly be here. Between working with my team locally and traveling to races, I’ll have very little downtime.
And even if I did, I’d probably still work anyway. I don’t have any friends here, and the few I had back in Vienna weren’t close enough that I’d consider going on a holiday to visit. My family is close in spirit, but we’re all spread apart. My parents are still in London, although retired. My father, Rick, was with Union Jack for over thirty years and my mom, Margaret, retired this year from nursing. My siblings are all amazing overachievers like me, but no one is nearby. My brother, Jamie, is in Edinburgh and works as a professor of environmental sciences. My sister, Cate, is a nurse practitioner in Bristol, and my other brother, Tom, is a software developer in Cardiff. We have a group chat that is active on a daily basis, but we really can only get everyone together at Christmas.
I consider calling Cate, the sibling I’m closest to, but I’m tired and languid. I talked earlier to my dad who wanted all the details about the race. He watched it, of course, and helped me break apart the dynamics of my strategy compared to what actually happened with two egotistical drivers. In the end, he provided validation that I didn’t really need but was appreciated. “Keep your chin up, Bex. You’re going to be an amazing success one day and those idiots who don’t understand that now will regret it.”
My new flat is modest but charming, with exposed brick walls and large windows that let in a soft, golden glow from the streetlights outside. The kitchen is small but functional, with white cabinets and a black granite countertop. It will hardly get used since it’s so hard to cook for one person and lucky for me, the Guildford campus of Titans Racing has an incredible cafeteria.
I take a sip of wine and let my head rest back on the couch, the tension from yesterday still prickling under my skin. The race in Jeddah did not go to plan, to put it lightly. But it wasn’t my strategy that failed—it was my drivers. I’d like to say they’re not good enough to handle the stress of it, but they are. They simply didn’t want to listen to me, and I can only gather it’s because I’m a woman.
It was not a pretty sight after the checkered flag was waved. Lex Hamilton took first, Carlos second, and Reid Hemsworth held on to third. Titans Racing didn’t partake in watching the podium trophies or spraying of sparkling juice (since champagne isn’t allowed).
Instead, we gathered in a debriefing room large enough to hold twenty around a conference table, but the group was small—just me, Luca, Hendrik, Nash, Bernie and Matthieu. I knew it was going to be a bloodbath by the look on Luca’s face. Bernie didn’t finish the race and Matthieu ended up at P11, one spot out of the points.
The walls of the room were bare except for a large screen showing a replay of the race, with telemetry data running underneath it. Matthieu and Bernie slouched in their seats like sulking schoolboys, while Luca and Hendrik stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with quiet intensity. Nash stood beside the door, casually leaning against it with his hands tucked in his pockets.
Before we walked in, Luca had touched my shoulder and said, “This is your meeting to start. I’ll finish.”
I was fired up, pissed at all the lost opportunity because of big egos, and the moment Matthieu opened his mouth, I pounced. “You screwed up big time,” I said.
“Your strategy was shit,” Matthieu whined, his French accent thick with disdain. “The undercut wouldn’t have worked.”
I didn’t even blink. “It absolutely would have worked if you’d followed the call. Reid used it and look where he finished.”
Matthieu’s jaw tightened. “That’s different. His car—”
“Is comparable to ours,” I cut him off, my voice sharp. “The data doesn’t lie, Matthieu. Your lap times were falling off a cliff, and instead of trusting the process, you decided to play hero. You cost not only yourself a shot at the podium but crucial points that this team needs. And for what? To prove you’re smarter than the data?”