Page 2 of Start Your Engines

“But—”

“But nothing,” she replies. She walks back to me at the mirror and makes me face it again. Her five-foot height means I tower above her at five six, but her power obliterates mine in that second. This time, she says in a softer voice. “You are Senna Coulter. Who knows more about cars than any other person in this place, aside from me?”

“Me,” I mumble.

“Who knows more about this team than anyone in this building?”

“Me,” I say a little louder.

“Who worked every hour that existed while all the men waggled their little dicks, pretending they knew what they were doing but never coming close to your skill or achievements?”

“Me.” I smile at our reflections.

“And who is a businesswoman, driver, mechanic, and ball buster who can bring greatness to this team? Something her brother recognised years ago yet her dad is too foolish to realise because, like so many men in this place, he’s decided women don’t compare? Shout it loud!”

“Me!”

“Yes, Coults. Exactly.” The nickname those closest to me use gives me an instant lift. “And if not for the stupid racing driver who shall not be named—Connor fucking Dane—you’d be the greatest racing driver this world has ever seen and better than him, too.”

Mentioning Connor Dane makes me snarl, which is precisely what she intended.

“It’s going to be harder to avoid him now,” I say. Connor was the guy who’d caused me to crash into a wall, effectively ending my racing career when I was a teenager. I’ve done a brilliant job of avoiding my brother’s best friend for ten years. “What if I see him on the track? Did you hear the latest? Apparently, he was caught with his last trainer in his boss’s car.”

She pushes my worry away with a flip of her hand. “You’re going to lead a record-breaking team?—”

“We’re floundering at the bottom,” I cut in.

She glares back. “While he’ll slum it at Vessa?—”

“Who are the best in the championship?—”

“I’m trying to big you up!”

“Fine. This is our season because, hopefully,” I reply, whispering the last word and earning a glare from Jacs anyway, “our two drivers this season, Antoine and Dax, will change that, although neither care about the team. In some ways, I’m taking on a failure?—”

“Senna,” she barks.

“But this team means the world to me, so I won’t compare our crappy performances to anyone else’s for at least ten minutes,” I say to her reflection. Her smirk makes me wrinkle my nose in amusement.

I pull back my shoulders, and wrestle my hair into a low bun.

“Take a breath, listen to your empowering song,” Jacs says, finding Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” on my phone. The songhas a bridge that every old-school fan of racing loves. “Ignore that your dad is still the owner, and tell your directors and drivers you will rule this team and make it excellent.”

I smile at her as the music plays. Adrenaline floods my limbs, and as the bridge hits, I bounce up and down and ready myself for a fight. I am the motherfucking boss now, and the team will listen.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pulling her to me.

We step out of the toilets and stride through the corridors. Photos of Formula One racing greats adorn the walls, including Senna, who I’m named after, and Niki Lauda, who my brother is named after. My steps falter slightly as the pressure builds in my chest.

Jacs’s scent, a mixture of plum and rose, combines with the stench of oil that often lingers around her overalls. I breathe it in an attempt to centre myself. Trophies, including Niki’s from the races he’s won, glint in the cabinets outside the boardroom.

I stare at the last Constructor’s Championship trophy we won. It’s been a decade. I squeeze my eyes and sense the wrinkles sinking into the skin of my forehead.

“We won’t get any of those this year,” I mumble.

“Senna,” Jacs says. “Don’t forget you have trophies in there, too.”

I open my eyes to see the couple of trophies from my years as an F3 driver. “I was good. I could have been the best if not for the accident.”

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