Page 1 of Start Your Engines

CHAPTER 1

Senna

“I am a strong,confident woman. I am qualified. I am knowledgeable. I am enough,” I mouth to the mirror for the umpteenth time.

Under the fluorescent lights in the office toilets, I resemble a panda waking up from a year-long bender. The bags under my brown eyes are no match for the foundation I attempt to reapply with fumbling fingers as my dad’s voice plays through my phone’s speaker.

“You can do this, Senna. You’re not my first choice to run my team,” he grits, “but your brother ditched us to find himself.”

“Find himself” is said with a bitterness that’s an increasingly large part of my dad’s personality.

It’s not my fault the great Jim Coulter retired from managing the Coulter Racing team. A heart attack brought on by bad choices and overwork was the final straw. I sink my teeth into my tongue. The last time I mumbled the words, he wouldn’t speak to me for a day.

Dad barrels on like he’s browbeating one of his engineers instead of his only daughter. “You will lead the team acceptably until he returns. Don’t forget you were named after Ayrton Senna.”

As if I could forget.I tap the tiles, sighing inwardly. “Sorry you didn’t get two sons, Dad.”

“Senna,” he cautions.

I swipe mango lip balm over my lips. “Dad, Niki needed to work out who he is and what he wants because of his accident. An accident that nearly killed him, remember?” I reply, managing my tone.

“I am well aware. He was going to send my team into the stratosphere this season.”

My heart races faster than a car on soft tyres. We’ve had this argument several times over the last week. Niki should be standing here, ready to speak to the board and drivers in preparation for the new season. He wouldn’t be staring into the bathroom mirror, limbs trembling, while Dad lectures him.

“And before you ask,” I add, trying to redirect the conversation, “I don’t know where he is. He’s not checked in since he told me I’m the new boss of Coulter Racing as he left the country several days ago.”

“He knew that crashing is a part of racing. He should’ve manned up and taken on the team. Now it’s up to you,” Dad grumbles.

I rub the scar on my hand from when my car slammed into a wall in a British Formula Three race when I was a teenager. The silver thread warns me never to race again, and that if I’m to achieve, I have to do it alone. Trusting the wrong person nearly ended my life that day.

The bathroom entrance bangs open, and my best friend Jackie’s, aka Jacs, boots smack against the tiled floor. Her mechanic’s uniform hangs open. A glare clouds her freckly face and makes her red eyebrows dive together as if they’re squaring up to each other.

“Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll update you.”

“That’s right, Jumps. Get in there and ensure we win the Constructor’s Championship this year. It’s all onyou.” His finger is probably pointing at the mobile while my mum is telling him to calm down. “It was a travesty when we lost it by one point twenty years ago.”

“Bye, Dad.” I sigh. It’s all I can do to keep from asking him for the umpteenth time not to use the nickname he gave me when I started karting and I’d accidentally jump the lights at the start.

He doesn’t need to remind me of the story he’s repeated every season since I was five, either. He hangs up as I’m visited by the haunting image of tears rolling down his cheeks as he told me how he’d be the greatest F1 boss one day.

I hold a fist to my lips as Jacs taps her foot against the floor. She strides to me, grips my shoulders, and forces me to confront my face in the mirror. “Who is this?”

I try to shrug her off, but she’s got the grip of a racing driver competing for first place. “What do you mean?”

“Who is this?” Her Scottish accent makes her words punchier. Her green eyes pierce mine in the glass.

“A woman who could do with a makeover, especially a new haircut and a change in style, but doesn’t have the time because she’s too busy failing at everything she does.”

My average body with hints of curves gives away my passion for running and secret love of doughnuts. My blond hair falls limply to the middle of my back, and my lips are too thin, although I won’t get fillers. With my luck, they’d go wrong, and I’d be called Ducky for the rest of my life instead of Crasher. Another nickname that’s more about my failures than my achievements.

“For fuck’s sake, Senna.” Her grunt echoes off the marble sinks. “This is the new boss of Coulter Racing. This is a woman who?—”

One of the administrative assistants from the marketing and communications department bustles into the toilets, causing Jacs to roar. The assistant squeals as she turns and runs back out.

“Jacs, don’t shout at my team.”

Jacs strides over to the bathroom door and locks it. “She’s not your team, because you’re not the marketing and communications department director anymore. You’re the boss of the entire company.” Technically, that makes her still part of my team, but there’s no point arguing. There’s a reason why Jacs hit the glass ceiling of the mechanics team and kept going. “And why are you in these toilets and not in the ones attached to the big boss’s office? You have a private bathroom now.”

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