Page 63 of Racing for Redemption
“True.” She takes another bite. “Though, I usually avoid buffets during the season. Too easy to overindulge. I love eating, and it gets problematic for me.”
“Professional athletes learn portion control early,” I say. “It’s about taking what you need, not what you want. No matter how delicious something may be.”
She studies me over the rim of her water glass. “Wise words from someone so young.”
“Twenty-four isn’t that young,” I protest.
“From my ancient perspective of thirty-two, it is.” There’s that hint of a smile again.
“Ancient? Hardly. You’re just hitting your prime.”
“Flatterer.” She takes a bite at thetortilla, closing her eyes briefly in delight.
“Realist,” I correct, pointing my fork at her. “Most people don’t even figure out what they want until their thirties.”
“And you have? Figured it out, I mean.”
The question gives me pause, surprised by its depth in what had been light conversation. “Racing, yes. The rest… I’m working on it.”
She nods as if she understands exactly what I mean. Perhaps she does.
We fall into conversation about the day’s testing, comparing notes on car performance, driver feedback, and competitor analysis. She’s incredibly knowledgeable—not just about the business aspects, but the technical details, too. When I mention the understeer issue in Turn 4, she immediately suggests a possible cause that hadn’t occurred to the engineers.
“You really know your stuff,” I say, impressed.
“I grew up in this world,” she replies. “When other girls had dollhouses, I had miniature garages and was bothering engineers and mechanics to teach me stuff.”
“And you raced yourself, right? Karting champion?” I did some digging online last night. I had nothing else to do, so I researched my boss.
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise that I know this detail, perhaps. “Regional level, yes. A lifetime ago.”
“Why did you stop?” The question hangs between us, and I put down my fork. "If you don't want to answer, it's okay." I may have overstepped, ventured into territory too personal. That will be my second blunder of the day if it’s the case.
“Money,” she says finally. “Or lack thereof. Girls didn’t attract sponsors back then, no matter how fast they were. Even being a Colton wasn’t enough.”
There’s no self-pity in her voice, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the sport’s reality. Her resilience sends a surge of admiration through me.
“Their loss,” I say. “There are some girls that are fast as hell. My ass was handed to me a couple of times during my karting years. The sport needs more diversity.”
“Still does,” she agrees. “But things are improving. Slowly. I still dream of seeing a woman in F1, though.”
Our plates are empty now. I stand, collecting them. “Dessert?”
She checks her watch, seemingly surprised by how much time has passed. “I should probably get back to work…”
“Even Team Principals need fuel,” I argue. “What’s your dessert of choice? Let me guess—something sophisticated. Dark chocolate with sea salt? Crème brûlée?”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “Not even close. I love homemade churros and ‘Sex in a Pan.’”
I raise my eyebrows, a grin spreadingacross my face.
“Don’t,” she warns immediately, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t even start with the dirty jokes. It’s a layered dessert with chocolate pudding, cream cheese, and whipped cream. Absolutely delicious and completely innocent, despite the name.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” I lie, my expression mocking innocence.
“Your face says plenty.”
“My face is being slandered,” I protest. “But since you brought up sex…”
