Page 8 of Tipping Point

“I think you’re done, Finn.”

I sigh. He knows me well enough to say nothing.

I ring off, throwing my phone aside.

My last year in Grande Prima racing.

What am I really losing? I recall my mother’s voice that night at the hospital with my dad.

It’s having a family, or racing.

I had seen firsthand what racing did to families. And fifteen years ago, I had made this decision. That when the day came, I’d end it.

Everything is almost in place. Now to wrap it up.

2

Chapter 2

FINN

Delta Victor sends a car as they always do. Before I leave the room I swallow a pill with my coffee. The same one I’ve taken for the last fourteen years. I email my financial advisor and lawyer, then put my phone away for the duration of the drive. Usually the drivers drive down in the latest model million-dollar sports car. Nothing sells a sports car better than a professional driver getting out of one in front of the rich and famous. Every driver but me.

I don’t rate well with the public. I lack the notorious “Irish Charm” you hear of.

It’s three hours to go before race time, and I need to get to the Delta Victor paddock for our pre-race strategy meeting.

The track conditions in Melbourne are usually good, so today it will all be about strategic driving. Saturdays are qualifying, and if I place well today, it means I get a good starting point tomorrow on race day.

When I stride into the canteen, Reuben sits off to one side with Erik Lindqvist, our team principal, having breakfast. They’re comfortable and laid back.

Reuben van Dijk is my other team member, an up-and-coming youngster, and the only reason he hasn’t beaten me yet is because I have experience on my side.

He’s got nerve, so it’s bound to happen soon. Maybe this season.

He’s young and eager to prove himself. He’s been with Delta Victor for one season, and they signed him on for another year. He still takes risks.

“Finn!” Erik calls me over. We’ve worked together for the last six years. I know him well enough to see in his eyes he’s nervous and trying to pretend that he isn’t. It’s because they aren’t renewing my contract.

It was confirmed on the news first thing this morning, and I heard whispers follow me when I made my way down the lane to the paddock.

I raise my hand in greeting but keep going. I want to talk to Jack about the car. He’s our head mechanic. End of last season there was a grip issue which turned out to be a misaligned front wing. The car was unpredictable and unresponsive, and I battled it physically for the last four races. It fucked up our race times, and we placed ninth in the team competition.

Down another spot.

Sometimes it’s the driver and sometimes it’s the car.

When I finally see Jack, it’s when I’m suiting up for free practice, and he pops his head through the change room door.

He glances at the burn scars covering my right shoulder. The tattoo there is warped and pitted, like splashed ink. Like it does for me, it reminds him how things can go wrong in a split second. I shrug into the suit and zip it up.

“Car’s great, Finn. Pity you couldn’t come out to test drive it over winter break.”

“The engineers figured it out, like?”

He gives me a wicked grin and nods.

Drivers blame mechanics, mechanics blame engineers. It’s a thing.

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