Drive me Crazy, page 26
Just a few months ago, I was recovering from that crash, filled with fear and uncertainty, deep in therapy, ready to retire out of grief.
Now I’m standing on the brink of something, with this amazing team by my side and Chloe at the helm.
“You’ve got this, Matt. Stay focused.” Archie’s voice is in my ear, grounding me and focusing me ahead. I picture Chloe in her little Arden team polo, headphones on, chewing gum, hovering behind.
It must be easier driving.
The crowd roars. My heart thumps.
The lights go out, and like waking lions, the cars roar to life, accelerating into the first corner. I get a solid start, holding my position in eighth as we speed through into the next straight. It’s a solid first five laps, in fact, as I hold on to my place, trying to keep the gap between me and the Williams under one second.
Soon, the race settles in for its fifty laps, and the tension eases.
“McLarens have pitted,” Archie says.
“Next lap?” I ask.
“Yes, we’re sticking with plan A.” Two tire changes. Mediums, then softs for speed at the end.
“Okay,” I reply.
“Just breathe, Matt. You’re doing great,” Archie’s steady voice reassures me.
At the halfway point, I’m running in fourth, battling fiercely with one of the Red Bulls. The Rossinis are ahead, their pace relentless. As I approach the section near the Bellagio, that touch of understeer takes me off track, and my heart stops.
“Shake it off, Matt. You’re stronger than this,” I tell myself, gripping the wheel hard and forcing myself to refocus.
“Box this lap, Matt. We need a perfect stop.” I pull into the pit lane, and the Arden Racing crew springs into action. I turn my head to see Chloe standing at the pit wall, just across the way, looking back at me. She’s glowing. Pink cheeks. Nervous excitement. She waves and then pumps her fist in encouragement. “Go, Matt,” she mouths.
The car is up, tires off, new ones on. It feels like a heartbeat, and the car is ready to go. “Two point nine seconds! Incredible stop, guys!” Archie shouts.
I glance into my rearview to see Noah following into the pit, just behind me.
“Tell Noah he’s doing great,” I say, before pulling out of the pit lane and rejoining the race just ahead of the Williams, in seventh. I’ve lost a few places, but I can do this. Softtires. Great track conditions. I have this.
I think of Chloe, and the way she looks at me, her warmth, her sharp mind, her belief in me. I want to deserve it all.
Ahead, I spot the second Williams, and when his car spins and veers briefly out-of-bounds, I am able to fly past. Sixth place.
Then I see one of the Red Bulls pitting and I hit the throttle. I’m not sure how far behind I am.
“Will they exit the pit ahead of me?”
“Yes, but it will be close.”
But then, a stroke of luck. The Red Bull suffers a slow pit, 3.1 seconds. Those tenths are just enough.
“Jammed the left rear tire. Matt! Push now!” Archie urges. I press the accelerator, my heart pounding, as I blast out past the pit exit just as the Red Bull is released.
“Can I keep pushing?”
“We’re moving to plan B.”
“No second stop? Will the tires make it?”
“Yes, but you’re going to have to defend, Matt. Wait for my instructions to push.”
“He’s right behind me,” I say.
“He’s one point three seconds behind you. Not in the DRS zone yet,” says Archie. “You got this. Fifth fucking place!”
Fifth place? Chloe said fifth place would be enough.
I begin defending, keeping my car on the tightest lines, moving to block the Bull, who makes several attempts to pass but fails. Ahead, I can see the McLaren. If I could get in front of that, I’d be in fourth.
Fifth isn’t enough. I’m hungry; I feel it like a fire in my belly. Like an animal coiled and poised to attack.
My radio crackles. Archie knows. It’s sixth sense.
“Don’t do it, Matt,” he says. “Tires won’t last.”
I picture Chloe behind him, a smile on her face. She would want me to try, I know it.
With just five laps to go, I make the decision. “I’m going for it,” I say, determination flooding my voice. I line up behind the McLaren, looking for any opportunity to pass.
I pull in directly behind him, my bumper just inches from his. It’s risky. Fifth place would do. Every muscle in my body is tensed. Then, I think of Stavros.
Thoughts in my head start to swim. I see Stavros and me standing on the edge of Lake Como, diving in together. I see him trying to teach me how to ski, pushing me down the mountain, where I crash in a jumble of limbs and sticks, and he doubles over, beside himself with laughter. I see the two of us drunk, covered in champagne after another impossible podium one-two for Rossini. Stavros is grinning at me, his dark floppy hair in his eyes, that goofy smile on his face. I see him. I miss him. A new thought emerges.
I’m not thinking about the crash.
The clarity comes in an instant, and I close back in on the McLaren, our bumpers almost kissing. It’s a super-risky move, but I dive down the inside, and while we jostle for place around the next two corners, I emerge in front.
I’m in third fucking place behind the two Rossinis.
“Yes, Matt! That’s it!” Archie cheers in my ear. “Hold position, you risky bastard.”
“Where’s Noah?” I ask suddenly.
“P six, Matt.”
“Holy shit!”
He’s not too far behind me, driving an incredible race. A surge of pride—Noah’s first time with points in his career. “Well done, Noah,” I mutter to myself.
Let’s bring it home.
The Rossinis are too far ahead, but I hold firm, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Each corner is a battle to stay calm, keep my focus, drive this tin can across that line. The crowd’s roar grows louder as I approach. Someone sets off a green flare. I see the British and American flags draped over the grandstand.
“I’m back, motherfuckers!” I shout into the radio.
“Matt. Jesus fucking Christ, the mouth on you,” says Archie, laughing.
Chloe’s voice comes through the radio. Well, first it’s a chuckle, and her joy radiates down the line into my ears. “Don’t screw it up now, okay?”
“Sure thing, boss. Anything else?”
“Yeah, bring me that podium.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply, feeling a cocky grin spread across my face as I eye up that checkered flag, watching the team climbing the chain-link fence between the track and the pit to cheer me home. And I finally feel it again. That fire in my belly as I cross the line.
It’s relief that hits first, and then right behind it, tears.
A cathartic, quiet sob as I take my victory lap, slowing down so Noah can catch up and drive alongside. He raises a fist and pumps it into the sky, before flying off ahead of me. I know what they will be saying.
What a story here at Las Vegas tonight. The two Ardens side by side, in what is surely the Cinderella story of the season. Who needs first place when you can drag a team from the bottom to the top in just five races. I’d bet my house on Coleman getting a contract extension into next season and beyond.
I know what we just did. I grin through the tears, my vision blurred, unable to wipe my eyes until I get this damn helmet off. I can hear Archie and the team celebrating in my ear, but my mind is already looking forward. Tonight, I proved something to myself. But I slow down and take in the moment, hoping this will be just the beginning for this team.
I pull up into the third-place slot in the pit and leap into the arms of the cheering team.
CHAPTER 29
Chloe
As Matt pulls into third place, he yanks out his steering wheel, pushes out of the car, and stands on top pumping his fist. I watch him rush to the team and leap into their arms. Celebrating third place like it’s first is my new jam. This was a victory beyond our wildest dreams.
I glance across at Jasper, who smiles his toothy grin back at me, slow-clapping with a cigarette dangling from the edge of his lip.
“Gonna go tell your boyfriend he did good?”
“The whole team did good,” I mutter, my cheeks hot.
“Your secret is safe with me, kid.”
I blush hard and want to protest, but Jasper waves my embarrassment away. Is there anyone who doesn’t know something went on between Matt and me? I wonder. “Wanna talk to me about next season?” he says, grinning.
“You’ll stay?”
“Fuck yeah. We’ve got a couple of Rossinis to beat.” Then he grins.
Just then I feel the heavy thud of a hand on my back and turn to see Barry beaming at me. “Well, well, well.”
“Happy, then?” I say, seeing the strain his grin is putting on those round cheeks.
“I’m happy,” he says. “I suppose we need to talk about next year.”
“Next year,” I say tentatively, balling my hands into fists. “I’ve got the plans ready, if you want to see them.”
I feel the curl of the two dogs around my legs and instinctively reach down to rub their heads. Ginger licks my hand, and Roger sniffs my ass and I laugh.
“Looks like they want you to stay,” says Barry, looking out at the crowd. “Hey! Look at that!” I follow his pointing finger to where I see a few fans in black and green, one of them holding a sign with a cartoon picture of Ginger and Roger that says, go underdogs. Barry’s face almost explodes with pleasure, the smile reaching the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, his arms out wide as he moves forward to get a closer look.
“Underdogs no more!” I shout, enjoying watching Barry finally get some recognition, as he walks out with the two greyhounds and the handful of supporters go wild.
The press conference is packed as Matt and the two Rossini drivers file in. The room springs to life as cameras swing around in their direction, and to my delight, they turn their lenses on Matt, who grins at the room. The smile is almost cocky. A twinge of that playful arrogance that every fan used to love, or love to hate.
I follow behind, not in some ridiculous green pantsuit this time, desperate to show the world how serious I am, but in my Arden kit, my two race engineers beside me, jostling with the press for a spot to watch Matt seize his moment and shine.
“Matt, hell of a drive. How does it feel to grab your first podium of the year?”
“Like a shrimp cocktail. Good, but I want the main course,” he says without hesitation, pointing to the next reporter. Laughter fills the room.
“Hi, Matt. Sky Sports. What a drive. It feels like Arden has come alive. Want to share any insights?”
“You’ll need to ask the team principal,” he says, pointing at the next raised hand.
Archie nudges me and grins. It is a nice thing to do, keeping my title front and center, giving the credit to me.
“The car has had incredible speed through the straights. Did it take you by surprise how much the upgrades have impacted the performance?”
“No. Because Chloe Coleman oversaw them, and Jasper Cox came on board to refine them.”
I bite my lip, beaming with pride.
“You seem to be a big fan of your team principal,” jokes the next reporter.
“Aren’t you?”
More laughter ripples round the room.
“No one is asking the other drivers a single question,” Archie whispers to me. “Look at them.”
My eyes shift from Matt to the two Rossinis, who are starting to look a little annoyed by the lack of attention. Holy shit. This is better than I could have hoped. The story should be the podium one-two for Rossini. But it isn’t. Arden is the story. Matt’s third-place comeback is the story.
He glances across at me, catching my eye, and he tips his chin toward both me and Archie.
And then I hear a familiar voice.
“There’s a rumor in the paddock that you and Coleman are more than old friends. Care to comment?”
Jack Sheppard.
I watch Matt’s face remain completely impassive.
“No,” he says.
“No, you don’t care to comment, or no, it’s not true?”
“No, it’s not true. Can someone get this dickweed out? I want to talk racing.”
All the faces of the press now turn their attention to Jack, who squirms in his seat.
“You want to talk racing, or do you want to fuck off?” Matt says, all his old bravado surfacing at exactly the right moment. Jack’s face hardens. He looks furious, which gives me silent pleasure. But the damage has been done, and if Matt isn’t careful his fiery response is going to elicit more rumors.
Calm down, Matt.
“You’re both from the same town. Has that special closeness helped?” says another reporter, this time from the Daily Mail. They won’t give a shit about racing. They’d love to break this kind of scandal.
A few photographers turn their lenses on me, and Archie nudges me and starts laughing. I follow suit with a confused chuckle, like What the hell are they talking about?
“No,” says Matt firmly. “That’s an inaccurate report and undermines the incredible story of this woman who has fought and clawed her way to the top. I didn’t know sexist reporting was still in. C’mon, guys.”
A lie. A bald-faced and very necessary lie that he delivers perfectly. I hold my breath, as Jack shrinks further into his seat.
Matt is saying too much.
“You’re both single, right?” says another.
“The only thing that interests me about Chloe Coleman is her vision for the team. And frankly I’m bored now. Next question.”
The denial couldn’t be more concrete. And while I let out my breath, relieved that he’s thrown cold water on it, a part of me aches. I know what he’s doing—he’s protecting me. But still, my stupid heart feels rejected all the same. I force a smile and stare ahead.
“You clocked the fastest lap today and were voted the FIA driver of the day,” another reporter says. “How does it feel to be back?”
“Aww. Did you miss me?” he quips, as the press conference returns to focusing on Matt and his race.
I feel Archie’s hand grab mine and squeeze it, and I turn to him. “He had to say all that,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say, nodding slightly, needing that encouragement. “I know.”
My turn. By the time I’m due on that stage for the press conference, I saunter up there, my nerves steady. Next to me, Rossini’s team principal. I glance across at him in acknowledgment and nod my head, trying my best not to look too smug, or too proud, or too arrogant.
“Congratulations today,” he says, before leaning in and whispering, “Now the real work with Matt begins.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ll see,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking out toward the sea of reporters. “He’s a fucking handful.”
I roll my eyes. Like I don’t know Matt. Like I can’t handle that ego. Like he doesn’t listen to me. Fuck this. I’m not going to play like I’m lucky to be here anymore. I’m not going to be grateful anymore. I’m not going to make myself smaller or meeker or whatever the hell these people want.
I look back out into the room and see Matt, standing with those forearms crossed, staring hard at me, a look of pure pride etched across his handsome face. Now we’re sharing a secret. A joke. And this time, I’m in on it.
“Chloe, congratulations. In seven weeks, five races, you’ve taken Arden from the bottom of the pack to the top. How does it feel?”
I hesitate. I want to say something short, tough, and arrogant back to the reporter. I want to play like these men do, coolly commanding the room, keeping my cards close to the vest, but a part of me wants liberation from that.
“I’m thrilled. It’s been a lot of hard work, and at times I’ve hid in the bathroom, or screamed into my pillow, but here we are. We fucking did it.”
It’s messy and personal. But it’s me.
And the press seems to love it.
“Hugely relatable,” says the next journalist, grinning. “Whose idea was it to bring Jasper in?”
“Well, mine. But we’re a team that believes in second chances.”
They like that one too. Turning to Rossini’s team principal for a response: “What did you think about the appointment?”
“Formula 1 is about consistency at the highest level. At Rossini we look for extraordinary talent, but we also look for professionalism, loyalty, and the ability to maintain that level past a handful of races.”
A murmur around the room. Holy shit, he must be rattled.
“Is that why you let Matt Warner go?”
My eyes widen as I wait for the response.
“He’s thirty-four. We needed to move on from someone whose career was ending,” he says, pointing to the next person. “And of course, his crash showed bad judgment. It was a career-defining error that cost us both drivers.”
The journalists turn back to me.
“Any response, Chloe?”
“Haven’t we all had moments in our life where things go wrong? Catastrophic things? I know I have,” I say, smiling, looking directly into the eyes of the press in the front row, one by one. “I think real sportsmanship, true greatness, comes from our ability to endure the mistakes, learn hard, forgive ourselves, and rise. Matt Warner had a terrible crash, impacting his best friend. I’m sure you can imagine the agony it’s caused him, and how difficult it’s been to come to terms with. Can Matt maintain this level? I think so. As his team principal, I’m rooting for him, and we’ll give him all the support he needs.”
I glance at Matt, hoping it wasn’t too much, but he smiles back at me, and so does Archie.
“This is a more confident, eloquent Chloe Coleman. Are you feeling on top of the world right now?”
“I am,” I say, beaming.
“And what about next year, are you signing with Arden beyond the season?”
“You’ll need to ask Barry Arden. I wouldn’t want to have to let me go, would you?” I say, the press enjoying this. “But seriously. Most teams in F1 run like a business. Results based and ruthless. Arden is like a family. We stick by each other, even if we don’t always get along.
