Page 92 of The Fast Track

I thumb through the pages. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t accept.”

“Excuse me?” Lou’s smile vanishes.

“While I have greatly enjoyed my time at Orbital”—I recite the words I scripted out yesterday—“I have decided to accept another offer that was made in the interim. I’ll be moving to Maranello and driving for Marino next year.”

The look of absolute shock on his face is both insulting and satisfying. It clearly never crossed his mind that another team would give me a contract.

“Are you sure about this?” Frank speaks up. “You’ve already been with us for a year. You have a good rapport with the engineers, the mechanics. That can be hard to replicate.”

He’s right. It is more work to go to a new team. To buildup relationships and prove myself all over again. But I’d rather take my chances with the group that backed a low-level female employee against a top-performing F1 driver than the one that hung me out to dry at the first sign of trouble. Not to mention, Mom wrote into my contract that any contemplated Marino female-empowerment campaigns using my likeness need to be run by us first. Not because I don’t want them—I can’t wait—but so we can make sure the messaging is authentic and true.

Lou turns red. “This is ridiculous. You have no idea what you’re doing, little girl. That team is brutal to their drivers. They’ll chew you up, spit you out.”

“I think I can handle it. It’s not like I haven’t already been chewed up and spat out this year.” This wasn’t part of my planned speech, but I couldn’t help myself. I push back my chair and stand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have packing to do.”

“Fair’s fair,” Frank says. “Good luck, Justine.” I swear there’s an approving gleam in his eye if I look hard enough.

29.

Seven months later

Barcelona, Spain

Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

Formula 2 preseason testing

The Marino F2 garage whirswith excitement. But unlike this time yesterday, when all the activity was centered around last-minute touch-ups, everyone is instead staring, slack-jawed, at their phones.

“Mio dio, this cannot be real.” The mechanic standing nearest to me clutches his heart and slumps against the wall.

“Cos’e successo?” Another mechanic rushes over.

I do my best to keep from grinning. Only one thing could incite this kind of reaction from my new team: Dietrich must have dropped the news.

“Justine!” Roz comes barging in, her navy Orbital jacket standing out like some kind of homing beacon in the sea of Marino red. “Is this a prank? My horoscope said it was going to be an ordinary month.”

Normally Mateo would never allow someone from another team—especially Marino’s biggest rival—to set foot in our garage, but he also has his nose glued to the phone, momentarily too startled to worry about competitive espionage.

“What are you talking about?” I bat my eyes innocently. Dietrich spent all summer drafting, practicing, and redrafting his speech for his father. Despite this, he still showed up at my room at the W this morning nauseous with nerves. I hadn’t actually been sure he’d still go through with it when I left for the F2 running sessions.

“Don’t play dumb.” Roz waves her phone in my face. I see theBreaking Alertnotification from BBC Sports. Her lock screen is still a snapshot of the two of us celebrating in Austin.

I smile at the photo and turn back to my preparations, pulling on my brand-new flame-resistant driving gloves. I love the earthy smell of fresh Nomex—it always reminds me of the hope and anticipation of what a new season will bring.

“So? Is he really retiring?” Roz hasn’t moved. She leans against my car, tapping the tips of her nails—black with silver snowflakes—against the shiny red paint.

“Get your grubby paws off Lisa.” I make a shooing motion toward Roz. This year my car is named after the most iconic painting from the most iconic time period in Italian history, since I’m driving for the most iconic Italian sports team. “Don’t you have to get back to your own garage?”

“Not till you answer my question.”

“Do you really think Dietrich would play a joke like that?”

She draws a sharp breath. “Oh my god. Itistrue. Why would he do that? He’s so young, he can break all kinds of records if he keeps going.”

“I think he has other things he wants to do.”

Roz looks as if I just announced I’m eloping with Sasha Devin to the Himalayas. “What could possibly be better than what he’s doing now? He’s mad.”