Page 100 of First in Line

“Sorry, can you run it again with me?”

“There shouldn’t be any rain this weekend, so we’re setting you up with the soft compound. Unless you want to run the mediums again?”

“No, let’s try soft. We need accurate degradation data so we can calculate how many times I’ll have to get them changed during the race. If it’s too much, we’ll stick to medium, and I’ll try to make up for it.”

“Alright. We’ve fixed the rear wing issue you mentioned. They sent us the new curved design. It will produce more downforce under load, so you’ll have more rear grip on corner exit.”

“And tighter airflow underneath the car. We’ve tried a similar model in Miami—it works. Anything else?”

“You said you wanted to try upping the ratio of the dynamic rear brake bias control, so we’ve upped it from ten percent to twelve point five. Let us know if that works for you.”

“Perfect.”

Having aircraft engineers work on an open-wheel car has been remarkably efficient. They know their shit when it comes to aerodynamics and making something as light yet sturdy as possible. But this year, they really came through with this new idea. The brake pedal now comes with left and right sensors, and depending on how I press it, one rear wheel brakes slightly harder than the other. It helps tremendously during turns, and it’s likely the reason why I’ve been dominating the season so far.

“You know what? Let’s make it fifteen,” I suggest.

“Are you sure?” the chief engineer asks.

“Yes. The other teams still haven’t caught up on it, and I feel like we should make the best of it. I don’t look forward to the day Mercedes realizes what we’ve done. They’ll try to get the rules adjusted again, like the whiny little bitches they are.”

“Okay, we’re trying fifteen percent, then.”

They move on to Louis, ensure everything’s good on his end, and we walk out for our track walk. They’ve resurfaced part of the circuit since last year, and the fresh asphalt is something we’ll have to take into consideration during the final race. The grip will be better, but it’ll also be inconsistent between sectors. There are the manhole covers to consider, as well as the slippery painted lines. Racing a street circuit always comes with its share of advantages and issues.

It’s already eleven by the time I put on my race suit, ready for the first free practice. They monitor the data while I run a few laps, sharing every detail I can think of the whole time. The last two seasons, it was raining heavily in Monaco, so I’m glad to see I’ll get to experience the track on dry asphalt again, with the sun shining and everything.

I drink two bottles of electrolyte water as we debrief. When asked if I want anything changed, I say, “We should lower the brake bias control to thirteen. I can see it working at fifteen, but I’ll need more time to get used to it, and I’m not taking unnecessary risks.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“The soft compound gave me good grip, but I’m worried about the time I’ll waste having to change the tires. You’ve seen the state they’re in after a few laps.”

“You want to go medium, then?”

“Let’s keep the softs on for this afternoon’s session. Then I’ll let you nerds crunch the numbers and tell me what’s best.”

“Alright. Louis, your turn.”

Once that is done, I have to head over to the media pen. I already missed all of media day yesterday, so I can’t get out of it. Of course, they ask me what was keeping me busy the day before, and I make up an excuse about physical therapy and recuperating from it.

I’m fucking starving by the time someone brings me my lunch. Two chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, and whole grain rice. It’s as good as it can get, but in moments like this, I really miss my mom’s soul cuisine. But ’tis the season, and I have to put up with it for my benefit.

Then, finally, I head over to the Paddock Club. I never look forward to shaking those rich assholes’ hands, but there’s a certain person I’m eager to see.

I’m swarmed pretty much the moment I step into the lounge area set up above the paddocks. Sponsors, VIPs, and guests come to shake my hand and wish me luck for Sunday’s race. I’ve gotten so used to it that I act and respond on autopilot, my eyes scanning the space to find the one person I actually want to see.

When I finally find her, alone in a corner, her eyes are already on me. We exchange a knowing smile across the room, and before I can think of a way to get closer to her, I’m interrupted.

“Jackson, my boy,” Wesley proudly says, gripping my shoulder after a sympathetic tap on it.

“Weren’t you supposed to arrive tomorrow?” I ask, surprised to see him.

“Yes, but the missus wanted to spend some time on the yacht. We’ll be sailing to Barcelona for next week’s race. There’s nothing more romantic than the French coast.”

“Can’t disagree with that.”

“Come, I want you to meet some friends.”