Page 82 of The Fast Track

I hesitate. Still no Roz. She’s so much more eloquent than I am. She wouldn’t get her words twisted and wind up a bad sound bite blasted over and over in the racing news cycle.

Liam looks at me expectantly over the rim of his black glasses.

I take a breath. Here goes nothing. “I’m done being quiet, especially on the important stuff. I didn’t want to do your article originally because I didn’t want to be featured as ‘the female dynamic duo.’ But now I do.”

“What prompted this change of heart?”

“I always thought that if I won enough trophies, became a champion in every series I race, I’d be recognized as more than the token girl. But that’s not enough.” The words pour out of me in a jumble. “Look around the next time you’re in the paddock—how many women, people of color, working-class drivers do you actually see? Racing has come a long way since it was aristocrats driving for kicks, but we clearly have a lot more progress to make. I want to do my part.”

“I see.” Liam makes a few more scrawls in his notepad. “Would you mind if we back up? Could you elaborate a bit more on recognition? Do you think you’re receiving an appropriate amount? Commensurate with achievement?”

His expression is worryingly inscrutable. Am I about to walk into a trap? Liam has been around forever, definitely a member of the old boys’ club, but he’s been surprisingly progressive before. My mouth runs dry as my brain tries to process the mental calculus.

“Of course she isn’t.” Roz’s voice rings out, loud and clear, through the restaurant. “Do you even have to ask?”

I whirl around. She’s striding toward us, her newly purple hair at odds with the staid, old-school vibe of the gastropub.

“Hello. Roz Wilson.” She grabs Liam’s hand and pumps it confidently. “As I was saying, since day one, when Justine was announced, there’s been loads of mumbling about diversity hires and all that rubbish.”

“I take it you find that unjustified?”

“Obviously.” She plunks herself down in the seat next to mine. Determination rolls off her in waves, bolstering my courage. “You’ve seen all the nasty reporting come out from one night of letting loose and a competitive Feature Race: driver out of line, has she got the temperament to make it to F1, disgustingly shoddy teamwork, blah-blah-blah. I’m not even going to mention the outright lies about her love life.” Roz makes a loud raspberry sound. “You don’t ever see anyone slagging off the boys this long or this hard on their personal lives or disobeying team orders, which, frankly, everyone on this grid has done. Why should Justine be the only one raked through the mud?”

“So, Roz, I take it that’s a full-throated vouching for Justine rightfully earning her spot on the grid?”

“Is Bob your uncle? She’s missed a whole weekend yet somehow still manages to be third in the Drivers’ Championship.”

“Our first female Formula 3 race winner,” Liam murmurs. “And what do you make of all of this, Justine?”

This time, I know exactly what I want to say. “Win or lose, I want all the young women out there racing—or just thinking about racing—to know it’s possible to compete at the highest levels of motorsport. To not let the fears inside their heads, or haters outside of it, stop them.”

I look over at Roz. She nods back, gray eyes flashing.

“It’s harder for us to get recognition,” I continue, “but we’re still going to get there. We’re going to play by the rules, we’re going to win by the rules, and then we’re going to change the rules.”

“How d’you reckon that went?” Roz asks quietly.

We’re sitting next to each other, sharing a plate of truffle fries. Liam Granville left a few minutes earlier.

“Okay, I think.” Liam seemed receptive, if his nods were anything to go by, but you never know until you see it in print.

“Okay? You bloody smashed it.”

Roz’s smile fills me with hope and regret. “I’m really sorry about what I said at Spa. I didn’t mean to call you a nepo baby. You know you deserve your spot on the team.”

“You’re right, though.” She makes a face. “If that article were about me, Uncle Lou would’ve kept me on. Might’ve moved me to food services, but he wouldn’t have sacked me.” She shakes her head, her hair swinging from side to side.“I’m sorry too. I’ve been a wanker. I was just so angry with you for refusing to fight the trolls. But honestly, they’ll hate us no matter what we do. So, who cares?”

“Who cares,” I repeat after her, the words filling and flowing through me.

“Let’s get your spot back,” Roz says. “Then we’ll go smash the patriarchy.”

TheMotor Sportarticle is published by the end of the week. Thank god it was quick, and thank god it was flattering. Mom’s phone rings nonstop, just like it did when the tabloid story first came out, but this time the sponsors want to know if I’m going to continue racing, and if so, how they can remain involved.

The text from Frank comes only an hour later.

Frank: You’re in.

Frank: But not a toe out of line. If I so much as see you within a meter of a shot glass…