Page 26 of Start Your Engines

We’re in a better place, and I can’t ruin that, although the masochist in me misses fighting with her. She hasn’t shouted at me or chucked me out of a room in ages, but I haven’t made her cry, either.

When I came fifth in the Saudi race, she congratulated me with a nod. Thankfully, Antoine didn’t get much more for coming eighth, but I wanted more.

I grunt loud enough to draw the attention of the woman staffing the hotel gym. Her tongue tips to the side of her mouth. She has the strong body of a surfer, which isn’t unusual here.

My phone rings as expected. I put it to my ear as I answer, “Morning, Ralf.”

“Morning. How do you feel about qualifying later? How many hours of sleep did you get?” Ralf says, checking in like he does every morning before a practice session or race.

“Enough. I’m doing okay.”

“No, you’re not.” I love this straight-talking bastard who calls me out on my shit. “Anxious?”

“Yeah. I had a dream like Niki’s crash, but it was me in the car and I was burning.”

“Were you watching the videos of the crash again?”

“Yes.”

“Nein,” he shouts so loudly I catch the surfer woman’s eyes as I pull the phone from my ear. “Stop with those damn videos. Racing is terrifying once you realise how vulnerable you are, but if you want to continue driving, you must push it from your head.”

My breathing accelerates. “I know. I didn’t want to see them, but I caught one of the engineers watching them like it was entertainment.”

My pulse rises as I remember the flames licking the car in my dream. I woke before I was rescued, but even when I was awake, the terror stayed with me. I won’t get any more sleep now, and probably won’t tonight, even though the race is tomorrow.

I catch the eye of the surfer again, and she smiles and gives me a wink. I look away. There’s only been one woman in my fantasies in the last months, and although I’m not going there, I can’t imagine being satisfied with anyone else. I haven’t been able to imagine anyone else, let alone sleep with someone else, since Ralf’s wedding.

“I’ll speak to Senna,” Ralf says as if reading my thoughts. Before I blurt anything out, I realise he means about the engineers. “She will terminate the engineer.”

“No, Ralf. She can’t know you’re coaching me.” Ralf’s pep talks and calls, albeit with his need to fix rather than listen, aremy only help. “If she learns about my fears and my insomnia, she’ll pull me from the team. She needs me if she’s going to make Coulter Racing a success.”

“But at what cost to you, Dane? You need help and time away.”

“And I’ll find it. But for now, I keep going.”

This is the point we always come to. Ralf knows what many team bosses fail to understand. Lots of drivers struggle with their mental health, but instead of working on it, they push and push until they get out if they’re lucky or break if they’re not. Our sustenance is the adrenaline from knowing you could break records or die trying. But what happens when what feeds you slowly destroys you?

“Fine. If you continue to be like this, settle in, because it’s time for your regular pep talk.” He adds a chuckle to remind me his wit is uniquely his.

With Ralf’s motivational speech hanging off my shoulders like a protection blanket, I survive qualifying.

Maybe I can get through tomorrow’s Australian Grand Prix without fucking up. Wearing my lucky boxers and my routine of stepping into the car from the left side after blinking five times seems to have helped, too. The relief these little actions brings gives me the comfort I need to get in the car. If I keep doing them, there will be no accidents, and everyone will stay safe. Silas is the only one who knows, and although he thinks I need help, he’s agreed not to tell anyone.

After qualifying and press interviews, I head back to the garage, ready for my congratulations for coming P3. Starting third on the grid has been my best position in a year. I grit myteeth, hopeful for more than a nod from Senna. I’ll be okay if Antoine, who didn’t qualify as high as me, gets nothing special from her. She’s got to give me at least a handshake for that.

I step through the garage to smiles from my engineers. A buzz of excitement and chatter surrounds me, but there’s an edge to it, too. A few engineers look at me like they’re trying to communicate something.

As I’m about to question one of the guys, I see her. My mouth dries. Senna sits in front of me, but it’s not the Senna I know. Her hair has been cut into a long bob with waves like blond ribbons. She wears her usual team shirt, but there’s something different about it, like she’s popped an extra button or got it to fit her properly. The people around her, including bloody Antoine, make it hard to know what else she’s wearing.

My inner voice screams to run, but I step closer even as sweat rolls down my neck. I know she’s a no-go for me, but I must see her up close. I lick my lips before pressing them hard together. My nostrils flare, and my pulse spikes. I will my body to calm. It doesn’t matter that she’s changed her hair and clothes. She’s still my boss and not my friend. I shake my messy head and turn to go.

“Dane, you did it! P3,” she shouts. “Where did that performance come from?”

That feels like a dig. I turn around. She’s walking to me.Fuck. Her legs! I run my palm down my face as I imagine what it would be like to kneel between her long, toned legs. I swallow, and my body pulsates as she closes in on me.

“Dane, you okay?” Her mouth twitches as if she knows the effect she’s having on me.

I grit my teeth. This isn’t about me. Nothing Senna does is about me.

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