Page 2 of Formula Fling

Rosalind hangs up on me but I know she’ll pass the message along. She may be short on words, brusque and a bitch half the time, but she does her job well.

I listen to Arctic Monkeys as I drive to Woking, not as loud as I’d like to, given the persistent pounding in my skull. An hour and five minutes after I left my flat, I pull off the main road and head down the long, winding driveway that leads to the sprawling headquarters of Crown Velocity. The building sits like a sleek, futuristic beast in the middle of the countryside, all glass and steel, reflecting the sky above and the carefully manicured grounds below. It’s more spaceship than office, perfectly engineered, just like everything this team produces.

The entrance is an enormous glass facade that curves with the building’s sweeping lines. It’s set low against the horizon, blending into the landscape with quiet dominance. A pristine lake runs alongside it, perfectly calm, mirroring the silver-gray structure, and I always feel a deep sense of belonging when I see it.

The McLaren purrs as I pull into one of the reserved VIP slots. There’s a space for our team’s owner, Spencer Montgomery, team principal Harley Patrick, the two drivers, me and Ronan Barnes—also a Brit like me—and the last spot reserved for our technical director, Randall Peterman.

While hundreds of employees make up a race team, we’re the crucial five who make it great.

I walk into the central atrium which has a massive fountain in the middle with several of our past car designs sitting on the perimeter. The walls have backlit photographs of past drivers and along one wall sits a massive display case almost two stories high that houses all the trophies won over the course of Crown Velocity’s career on the track.

The entire place screams both elegance and precision, which is a good way to describe our race cars. Even the light here feels sharper, like it’s been engineered to perfection. The place is clinical, sterile, but undeniably impressive.

When I first signed on with Crown, I remember being dazzled when I walked into this building, but after four years of driving with them, it just seems like a home away from home.

I hurry to the elevator, an indoor creation made of glass that smoothly glides to all eight floors. It deposits me on the top where the executive offices are. Rosalind’s there with a dour expression on her face, barely glancing up at me. “You’re late.”

“As I told you I would be,” I reply, moving past her desk and waiting for her to buzz me into the suite beyond a locked security door.

I traverse down one hall, cut a left at the end and head to the corner office occupied by Harley Patrick. The door is open, but I knock all the same.

Harley’s on the phone but waves me in, pointing to a chair opposite her desk. Her long blond hair is tied up in a high ponytail and she wears a pair of dark-framed glasses. Harley’s a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards. She’s in her mid-thirties, American, and takes no shit. She got her start in racing as a stock car driver and developed a reputation for being tough as nails. Everyone in motorsport knows her story as one of the few competitive female drivers before a crash forced her tostep off the track and into management. Spencer Montgomery practically begged her to come over to Formula International and she’s been with the team for two years now.

There’s nothing to do but listen in on her side of the conversation, but it doesn’t appear to be private.

“First, let me extend my congratulations on your recent wedding. I’m a huge Titans fan and you couldn’t have made a better move—both on and off the ice—with Drake McGinn.”

And I know exactly who she’s talking to.

Brienne Norcross, American banking heiress and owner of the Pittsburgh Titans professional hockey team. It was announced a few months ago that she bought Excalibur Racing, based in Guildford. There are rumors she’s going to move their headquarters to Pittsburgh but for now, I’ve heard they’re staying here in the UK.

Harley listens for a moment with a smile on her face, but then her tone turns more business-like. “Don’t expect a fully warm welcome from all the teams.” She leans back in her chair. “But I’m personally thrilled to have you in the paddock We need more women in the sport.”

Again, she listens… nods her head in agreement to whatever Brienne Norcross is saying on the other end and it’s fascinating to me that I’m listening in on a conversation between a pioneer in racing and one of the richest people in the world.

“I’m happy to talk to you, of course,” Harley says graciously. “Your choice of team principal and technical director are the two most important hires you can make. Even more than your two drivers.” Harley’s eyes cut over to me in a pointed stare that if I didn’t understand the message, I should know I am very much expendable. “When will you be flying in?”

Harley scribbles something on a pad. “Okay, I’ll have Rosalind shoot you some information and I look forward to meeting you.”

She hangs up and finally turns her steely gaze on me. I take the advantage, nodding toward the phone. “Brienne Norcross? Helping the enemy?”

“You keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Harley says blandly, clasping her hands on her desk. “But let’s talk about you and your most recent foray into the tabloids.”

I shoot her a charming grin. “I never landed a punch. That photo is out of context.”

“That man who it looks like you’re about to clobber is a royal. He’s Spencer’s cousin, to be exact.”

My stomach rolls and if I could see a mirror, I’m guessing my face pales a little. “I don’t even remember the fight—”

“That’s the fucking problem,” she cuts me off, slamming her fist onto the desk. “You drink too much and get into this type of trouble all the fucking time. And now you’ve gotten into it with Lord Edward Montgomery, who I understand is a fucking earl. Now, as an American, I don’t really understand this royal hierarchy, but do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm that’s created? Spencer had to cool things down and he’s not happy.”

Fuck. This is bad. I rub my hands over my face.

Spencer Montgomery, the team’s owner, is technically a member of the peerage himself—far down the royal line, but enough that the media eats it up. He’s a savvy businessman who made his fortune off tech investments and real estate, but his royal connection adds a whole new layer of PR headaches. Scrapping with his cousin wasn’t just reckless, it’s idiotic.

“You’re a goddamned PR nightmare, Lex,” Harley continues, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve had enough of it. We can’t keep covering for you. Spencer’s already on damage control and he’s commanded me to fix the problem… or else.”

I open my mouth, ready with a sarcastic retort, but she’s on a roll.

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