Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 4: Seb

Friday, September 6 – Free Practice

Bending at the waist, I scoot forward in the seat and pull the zipper up on my boot. I stomp my foot several times to adjust the fit, then fold over the Velcro closure for maximum tightness around my calf. Using the tabletop for leverage, I stand and do a few knee squats. It helps loosen up my suit, but it has also become somewhat of a ritual over the years before taking to the track. After grabbing my helmet and gloves, I head for the door.

I used to share the Cadmium paddock trailer with Austin, but Nigel has arranged for a separate place for Lauren. As I bound down the steps and walk between other mobile units parked in neat rows opposite the garages, I wonder if this exception is for my benefit or hers.

If she's always so particular about stuff like she was yesterday over a few pictures, it's probably the latter.

An air horn signals the start of the first session as I enter the pit box. Our engineers are warming up the bikes on the other side, while my new teammate paces back and forth a few meters away. Fully suited up in her own custom-made gear, she looks to be just as anxious to get on her ride as I feel. This I can respect. I actually may have confused her with Austin if it wasn't for the slight purple accents on her logo-covered black leathers. The color is also featured in the design—bird or butterfly wings, maybe—of the helmet on her head.

Picking up a pack of disposable, orange earplugs, I don't stop until I reach Lauren.

"You follow me," I yell above the engines, making eye contact to be sure she can also read my lips. "I will show you the race line, okay?"

This offer wasn't my idea. The unusual directive to devote the first full session to helping her had come from Nigel. Delivered over breakfast at the hotel this morning, it was the least surprising out of the three things the boss had said while chowing down on a giant serving of sausage and eggs. The second—not making any more public comments about Lauren without checking with the press officer first—was somewhat more shocking, since I'm usually guarded anyway. I've never revealed anything I shouldn't have, not even about Austin's panic attack in Assen that nearly made him miss the race or how he could go from being totally wound-up to practically non-responsive in a matter of hours on even the best of days.

How was I supposed to know that simply mentioning Lauren's refusal to show her back and 'upending the photographer's artistic vision'—Tommy Miranda's words, not mine—to a couple of guys over dinner would spread the story to pretty much every other team in just hours?

After all that, it was the last thing my team manager had said, which almost made me spit out my caffè latte. I'm not stupid, so I know to keep things professional with the rest of the Cadmium crew or when I'm publicly representing the team. But no one has tried to say what I can and can't do in private. Not until this morning, anyway.

Okay, so he wasn't exactly specific, nor threatening. Nigel's actual words were more like, "I can't legally stop you, but remember that it's not advisable to shit where you eat."

Given his harsh stare, I didn't need to look up the unfamiliar idiom to understand what he meant: hands off Lauren Dimas.

Not like I wanted anything. I've been burned before thinking that a relationship that started in the paddock could last. And my new teammate is already turning into more of a nuisance than anything else. I couldn't even properly enjoy my win in Sepang because she was all anyone had wanted to talk about. Plus, I can't extend that momentum preparing for this upcoming race because now I'm basically losing one-third of my practice time to familiarize her.