Page 77 of Tipping Point

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FINN

Cameras flash from everywhere. I can’t help but scowl, and when I hold up my hand, it dies down. After a podium finish, you have to give an interview in the media room.

The room is packed with journalists; a small sea of microphones have been placed on the table in front of me. From the back corner of the room, Evan is filming. The other guy is with him, the sound guy. He pins a lapel microphone on me the moment I step through the door.

An Australian sports presenter waves eagerly at me and I nod at him.

“Congratulations, mate,” he says, and I nod. “Can you walk us through your strategy on those final laps?”

I had been bold at the start and climbed positions steadily. Rheese managed to hold me off for three full laps. His driving was illogical. He had sacrificed gaining positions just to hold me off. It was personal, and it showed.

“Knox was defending from the front and made it hard to pass. Eventually we bunched up behind him and the pressure of keeping off the many must have gotten to him.”

Actually, it had been Lucien Rousseau. I let him pass me, thinking Rheese would let him pass and our struggle could continue, but Rheese was being a real prick about it. In his rush to block off Rousseau, he had clipped Lucien’s tyre. They almost spun out. I passed them while they were regaining control in the critical seconds after their tiff.

“That was a pretty crucial overtake. What was going through your mind at that point?” a journalist from Singapore quips.

I give my standard answer. “Things can change fast. I try not to think beyond the car in front of me.”

I try not to think at all.

I nod at a black woman with a British accent. She gives me a grateful nod. She’s new on the scene. Her hair is in a short, well-maintained afro style that brings out the length of her neck and the freckles on her nose remind me of Camille.

“Placing third again today, you racked up some more points for Delta Victor. What changes have you and the team made to show such a drastic improvement in your placements this season?”

I don’t like this question because it hits close to home. It gives me this nagging feeling at the back of my mind that I’ve been struggling with these last few races. I answer it in part.

“We had some issues with our handling of the car the last few seasons that we managed to identify. Improving the alignment on the front wing made all the difference for us.”

What I leave out is the part where they should have replaced me years ago. If I can drive like this, with the car being what it is, and still with so much room for improvement on it, if they could manage to fund it, they could have climbed the ranks years ago.

The amount of money I must have cost Delta Victor in losses these past few years.

The woman nods enthusiastically.

The gossip journo is here too. He’s been eager to get a sound bite, but I have managed to avoid him. Unprofessionally, he interjects when I give another journalist the go ahead. He jumps up, challenging me.

“There have been rumours that your strategy has been paying off, and that Delta Victor might have a contract renewal in the works for you. Do you and Erik Lindqvist have an agreement on reinstating you based on your placement in the manufacturer’s league this year?”

I fucking hate this guy. The way he phrases it makes is fodder for the gossip rags, no matter how I answer.

“No comment.”

He’s fastidious. “If another team were to offer you a contract for the next racing season, would you be open to negotiations?”

“No comment,” I say with finality.

A fresh burst of flashes goes up as people take pictures of my scowl. The Delta Victor media relations team is going to be up my ass about it tomorrow when it hits the press.

It winds down from there and I’m relieved when they dismiss me to interview Ollie Blythe.

It’s half past seven in the evening when my tyres crunch on the gravel road up towards my house.

She’s sitting on the front steps of my house. There are brown paper bags at her feet.

It’s a peace offering.

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