Page 71 of The Fast Track

I worry my lower lip. I know I’m faster right now. I’ve demonstrated that by closing the gap over the last few laps. My tires are fresher, with better grip. If Orbital allowed it, there’s no question I could take him on-track.

I come out of the hairpin at La Source and go flat out, zooming into the corner at Eau Rouge, then a sharp uphill through Raidillon. It’s one of the most hair-raising, electrifying track sections in the world. I come out of the sector now mere breaths away from Cameron’s car.

“I was asked to remind you, Multi-13,” Roz says in a small voice.

The drag reduction system notification flashes on my steering wheel. DRS is a feature designed to facilitate on-track passing. If a driver is able to get within a one-second gap to the driver in front, like I am now, then the pursuing driver is allowed to substantially decrease aerodynamic drag, making overtaking an easier process.

My thumb hovers over the DRS activation button.

All I need is this—one win with Lou Wilson watching—to seal my contract. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a driver defied team orders. Some of the most legendary races in the history of F1 have come down to teammate battles. Cameron will be annoyed, but he’s already won three races this season and will still be championship leader whether he places P1 or P2, whereas for me this would be a much-needed maiden win, a career first.

No distractions, I remind myself.

I press down.

A flap in the middle of Lizzie’s rear wing opens, instantly boosting my speed by 5 mph. I sail easily past Cameron’s car on the outside line of the next turn. Guilt simmers in my stomach, but I push it aside. I’ll make it up to Cameron later—somehow, some way.

As I cross the checkered flag, Roz lets out a whoop. “P1, good job.”

I pull into parc fermé, driving straight to the cordoned-off area reserved for podium finishers and stopping behind the giant signboard that marks where the race winner parks their car. The team claps and cheers in celebration, though they’re a bit more subdued than what they’d normally be if Orbital swept a 1–2.

Roz gives me a tight hug. “There might be some questions during debrief, but I’m really happy for you.”

Cameron pulls up to the left of Lizzie. He climbs out andtakes off his helmet, glaring down at me. “Have you gone deaf? Multi-13, Kwong. Multi-13.”

My heart sinks. I’d hoped he’d be slightly more forgiving, seeing as how P1 is so much more consequential for me than it is for him. Before I can say anything, he shakes his head and pushes past me without another word.

“He’ll calm down,” Roz says. “He knows he would’ve done the same if he were in your shoes.”

“I hope you’re right.” But there’s also no getting around the fact that, if our positions were switched, I would be equally, maybe more, furious.

“Come on.” She gives me an encouraging shoulder squeeze. “We’ve got a P1 to celebrate.”

Despite the team’s initial muted response, everyone recovers by the podium ceremony. When my name is announced, I jog out to thunderous applause and cheers. I take the double-handled gold-embossed trophy and hold it high up in the air, taking in my long-awaited F3 victory and trying my best not to think about how long it’s going to take Cameron to come around.

We’re posing for photos, Cameron standing as far from me as possible, when there’s a shift in the air.

It starts with a whisper, a couple of people watching the celebrations staring down at their phones, then spreads through the rest of the audience like wildfire. By the time I’ve shaken the mayor’s hand, the vast majority of the parc fermé crowd have their noses glued to their phones instead of the podium.

We’re ushered into the cooldown room by a bemused FIA attendant. Whatever stole the audience’s attention, it has to be a big deal—an unexpected driver or team principal departure or some other type of shock.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking at Cameron, Sasha, and the FIA attendant in turn. One of them refuses to meet my gaze, while the other two look as confused as I feel. Maybe it’s some surprising resolution to Marino’s internal employee investigation—it’s the only thing I can think of that could have everyone behaving like a horde of stunned monkeys.

“May I borrow your mobile?” Sasha holds out his hand toward the attendant, who reluctantly hands his phone over.

Before I can peep over Sasha’s shoulder to see what he’s digging up, loud, urgent steps echo down the hall.

“What is this?” Dietrich bursts into the room, thrusting his phone at me.

My heart plunges.

It’s an article from today’s edition ofThe Weekly Mail. There’s a giant picture of me at Gini Lounge from the night of the after-party, arm slung around Roz, who looks like she’s struggling to keep me standing. A callout box features a close-up of me from the same night—the photo where I’m making a disgusted face while drinking from a bottle of Hendriksen.

F1’s Fox in the Henhouse?is plastered across the top of the photo in bold lettering. With trepidation, I scroll down. The article kicks off by describing my podium at Paul Ricard as happenstance. The author quotes “unnamed sources in thepaddock” describing all the various ways I’m getting a special diversity leg up, making it sound like my gender is the only reason I have a seat at all in F3. From there it goes into detailed descriptions of my “after-dark” activities. Some can accurately be attributed to my night at Gini, but are made lurid in the worst ways possible. Roz gets a shout-out too, as my “party princess partner in crime.”

Then, it gets worse.

Kwong has wasted no time making herself at home in the paddock. We hear it was a shock to Hannie Kemper, Dietrich Lange’s longtime sweetheart, when he abruptly ended their relationship of three years this spring. Coincidentally (or not), the F1 star began spending ample time with the female driver right around the time of the split, culminating in the duo attending Orbital’s annual gala together.