Page 87 of First in Line

A couple of journalists point at Evie, and I tighten my hold on her hand. “It was me, sorry,” she sheepishly admits, raising her hand.

Mr. Pryce looks down at the binder’s red cover, then at us again. “And you are Jackson Reyes?” he then asks me.

“Uh … yeah.”

He analyzes us for several seconds that feel like an entire minute, then nods. “Get in. Both of you.”

Evie and I exchange a conflicted glance, unsure what this means. Two of the bodyguards approach, and we decide to cooperate without causing more of a scene.

Mr. Pryce and his PA move aside so we can enter, and he motions to the seat facing him. We obey, and once the door is closed again, the car rolls away.

He looks a lot more severe than he did in the pictures we found as we prepared for this. Is throwing a binder at someone a crime? Could Evie go to jail for it?

“So?” he asks, raising a questioning eyebrow at us. “You two clearly wanted my attention. Now you have it. The helipad is ten minutes away. Make the best of it, kids.”

“Uh, I…” Fuck, I’m so nervous I can’t think of a single thing to say.

Evie, who’s definitely bolder than I am in this endeavor, clears her throat and states, “We wanted to offer you an exclusive opportunity, Mr. Pryce. A chance to bid on a driver who’ll win you more trophies than you have room for on your shelves.”

Her assertiveness seems to charm him, and he relaxes a little, leaning back into his seat. “I imagine that driver is the young man sitting beside you?”

“Yes. As you will see in the binder—so sorry for throwing it at you, by the way—in the past four years, Jax has been on a clear path toward an extremely successful career in racing.”

He glances at the binder for a second. “I’ve actually heard of you,” he says, surprising us both. He randomly opens the binder and skims the page he landed on. “My team has looked into you. And we’ve decided to pass.”

“May I ask why?” Evie asks before I can.

“Mr. Reyes has been performing well in Formula 4. Beaten most of our affiliated drivers, even.” He looks up at me, eyes remarkably sharp for a man his age. “But you’re not built through the usual pipeline. No karting foundation, no structured junior ladder from childhood, limited open-wheel conditioning before F4. From what we’ve seen, you’re fast, that’s not in question, but the concern is repeatability. Discipline across a season. Control when conditions aren’t ideal. We’re not convinced that your instincts won’t become liabilities when the pressure increases.”

Silence follows his words. It’s clear that my case has already been considered and weighed by his team. They’ve already made up their mind about me, and it doesn’t sound like we can change it.

Evie, who won’t let anything come in the way of our objective, clears her throat and says, “With respect, Mr. Pryce, you’re wrong. And you’d be making a huge mistake by passing on this opportunity.”

He doesn’t argue or counter, and she takes it as an invitation to keep going.

“People forget what Ayrton Senna was like before McLaren refined him. Same with Schumacher in his early years. NikiLauda wasn’t safe either before he became precise. They were all labeled as aggressive, unpolished, and too risky. What changed wasn’t their instinct. It was that they learned how to use it.”

She takes a deep breath, as if recharging her lungs. “Jackson didn’t come through karting. He came through rallycross and touring cars—places where the car doesn’t matter as much as it does in F1. It’s all about the person behind the wheel. Your Formula One program won’t be operational for another few years. You don’t need a finished driver today. You need someone who can be shaped into becoming a world champion. And Jackson is nothing if not adaptable, thanks to his unusual background.”

He looks properly intrigued now, gaze oscillating between the two of us. Eventually, it stops on me. “Do you talk, Jackson Reyes?” he asks.

I clear my throat to chase away the knot in the back of it. “I do, sir.”

“Is she right about you?”

“She is, sir. And we thought we’d come to offer you my services while you can still afford me.”

After a second of stupor, he explodes into a fit of laughter. His PA adjusts herself on the seat, holding back a smile. Evie and I patiently wait for him to settle down. “You have some balls on you, kid, I’ll give you that.”

“What he has is raw talent,” Evie cuts in, defending me. “And I guarantee that if you take a chance on him, if you give him the tools to become an F1 driver, he’ll bring back trophies within his first season.”

Her assurance is so unwavering that all traces of humor dissipate from his expression. After another look at the binder, he asks, “Alright, I’m listening. Give me the full pitch.”

“Your F1 team will be ready in three years, right?” she asks first.

“I’m pushing my engineers for two, but they told me it’s unlikely we’ll get it all done in time for the season. So, yes, three years until we have the cars approved is a good estimation.”

“And you’ll be poaching a veteran from one of the existing teams, right? To bring some prestige to your brand and hopefully win some trophies within the first season.” When Pryce nods, she continues with, “Then, you’ll complete your team with two rookies, one in reserve, one behind the wheel, because they’re a cheaper way to fit FIA requirements.”