Page 36 of Off the Grid

Professionally, I’m determined to make a difference here—revamp our image, create a buzz, and somehow contribute to winning a race, or at least take a podium—during my year tenure.

Personally, the list is more profound. Once I step into the building, I have promised to rid myself of all the fear and insecurities I’ve let own me for too many years. I’m determined to conquer the ghost that I’ve let hold me back—including the power I unknowingly gave someone else in the process.

New city. New job. New you.

Here goes nothing, Camilla.

I pull open the door and step foot into my new life.

The morning goes by in a blur. I’m taken from department to department and introduced to the staff. I’m far from blind. I see the knowing glances being exchanged. No doubt there are a flurry of texts being sent across the office from cubicle to cubicle with the word nepotism being thrown around like candy.

But I don’t let it bug me. Can’t. I’d probably feel the same way if I were in their shoes.

Unfortunately—or fortunately for me—Maxim’s crash this past weekend and the concern for his recovery as well as how the team should move forward overshadows my arrival.

“Introductions over?” my dad asks when I walk into the conference room where he’s arranged to have us work side by side today.

Because that doesn’t scream nepotism either.

“They are over. Yes.”

“And? Thoughts? First impressions?” His smile is wide and his eyes alive. He looks happy and for now, that’s enough for me to make this upheaval worth it.

“Once they realize I know what I’m talking about, they’ll come around.”

“They will. I’m not worried in the least.” He shifts in his chair. “And we need you now more than ever after this weekend.”

“How is Maxim doing?”

His drawn-out sigh says it all. “Third-degree burns on his hands. A severe concussion. Brain swelling that they think they have under control but won’t know until they wake him up.” He shakes his head, concern etched in the lines of his face. “And who knows what he’ll struggle to overcome mentally.”

“When will they reverse the coma?”

“Not sure. They figure they’ll do the debridement of the burns while he’s under to save him some of the misery.” He puts his chin in his hand. “Fuck, Cam. I thought he was . . . I mean, if it weren’t for the HANS . . . I’d hate to think what this conversation would be like.”

Every CEO fears having a death or the grave injury of one of their drivers on their watch. My dad is no exception. And he’s not wrong about the HANS. Since the introduction of the mandatory head restraint, there have been far fewer head injuries across the board of motorsports.

Technology has most definitely been racing’s friend.

“That’s better than what you feared forty-eight hours ago, right? So we have to take every positive we can.”

“Agreed.”

“I hate to sound crass, but what’s next? Who’s taking over for him in the meantime?” I ask, knowing the machine can’t stop.

His sigh says it all. “Not like there’s ever a good time for a driver to get hurt, but this is especially a shitty time. We got caught with our pants down. Pashmi was picked up by—”

“Our reserve driver, right?”

He nods. “Yes. Good for him. He was picked up with a full-time contract. Bad for us though since it happened last week, and we hadn’t filled the spot yet.”

“So you’ve had to go shopping,” I say in terms I can understand.

“Correct.”

“In F2 or one from the reserve drivers of other teams?” I ask. Since drivers can switch teams and teams can cancel contracts ad hoc, I’m curious what he’s thinking.

“We’ve called up a driver from F2.”