Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Top drivers earn upwards of thirty million a year. As a rookie, I can still only dream of that type of money. Right now, I’m making a two and a half million base, with structured performance bonuses, and that’s fine by me. I didn’t level up to FI for the riches but to set records and beat all the boys.
I’ve earned my seat.
Outside, I can hear the clink of tools, the distant whine of a tire gun, the deeper rumble of an engine being turned over for another driver’s out-lap. I sit on the edge of the narrow bench seat in my designated space, fire suit peeled down to my waist. Gloves in my lap. Boots laced. Heart steady. For now, at least.
My fingers brush against the bracelet on my wrist—a slim silver chain with three charms: a tiny race car, a star and a violet enamel number seven. My mother gave it to me last night at dinner.
“What does it mean, Mamma?” I asked as I studied it.
Her lilting Italian accent rolled over me like a warm blanket. “The star is me, always watching over you. The car is a reminder to never stop loving the speed more than the spotlight. And number seven is how old you were when you first beat Alessio on a karting track.”
I laughed with delight because the charms have such meaning. I tap the star with my index finger. It’s a ridiculous thing to wear under a fire suit. Completely sentimental and wholly impractical, and yet I’ll never race without it.
My eyes are closed. I focus on the rhythm of my breath—inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for six. This is supposed to relax me, but instead I feel suffocated. I pace my dressing room, getting my head in the game for this first qualifying round. Not only is the spotlight on me because of what I represent to other females who want to be a part of this sport, but this is my Titans Racing debut.
Qualifying is simple on paper—three rounds, each one cutting the field smaller until the fastest ten fight for pole. In Q1, everyone goes out, and the slowest five are eliminated. Q2 repeats the process, trimming another group of five before the final qualifying round determines the order of the top ten.
The white Nomex of my undersuit clings to my arms, collar high against my neck. My boots are already on—black with matte purple trim, a perfect match for the updated Titans livery.
Thirty minutes.
I continue my strides back and forth across the room, trying to focus, but the memory of yesterday’s press conference flickers back like a video I didn’t ask to replay.
Some of the questions… ridiculous.
“Do you worry about how emotional you’ll be under pressure?”
“What message do you think your presence sends to little girls watching?”
“Is there a particular brand of foundation you recommend for under-helmet wear?”
That one was from a man, by the way.
I handled it exactly the way I was coached by our PR team by keeping my answers tight and professional. This would prevent them from twisting my words. They eventually got tired of my unwillingness to play and moved on to a dialogue that had to do with racing. But afterward, I spent an hour walking the paddock to stop myself from punching something.
I don’t want to be a symbol. I most certainly don’t want to be a gimmick. I want to drive—fast, focused and feared. I want them to talk about my cornering, my braking zones, my times—not my chromosomes. Or my mascara.
An unexpected knock sounds at the door, and I cross the room. Brienne Norcross, owner of Titans Racing and the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team, stands on the other side. Beautifully chic in pale slacks and a structured black blazer, her platinum-blond hair pulled into a sleek twist. She looks like she belongs on a Parisian runway, but she’s one of the most powerful and shrewd businesswomen in the world.
I blink. “Ms. Norcross.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says smoothly, her blue eyes quiet and assessing. “I wanted to speak with you privately before the noise starts.”
I step back and gesture my welcome. “Of course.”
She enters with the confidence most women fake, and most men find threatening.
“I know I saw you a week ago in Tuscany,” she says, studying my perched helmet. “I wanted to see how things were going.” She smiles faintly.
“That was business. This is… different.” A week ago, she offered me the second driver’s seat at Titans Racing. Probably the best day of my life. “It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams.”
She turns to me, quietly assessing. “Today is a monumental day in this sport’s history. All eyes are on you.”
With a tight throat, I nod.
She offers an empathetic smile. “I imagine the pressure’s been… intense.”
I manage a small laugh. “You could say that.”