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)
Honestly, I’m surprised any of the press even wants to talk to us at Crown Velocity right now. Nothing exciting about Lex and me being P3 and P4 on the starting grid. The big news is Nash on pole and Accardi making a solid top ten placement in her debut race. That’s where the real story is and I’ll be shocked if her name doesn’t come up before this press circus ends. Especially since I’m the asshole who nearly ran her off the track in Q1.
“Ronan, your thoughts on Q3? Happy with your position?”
I glance toward the reporter, a guy with wireframe glasses and a lanyard that’s twisted sideways. His mic trembles a bit as he holds it up.
“Happy isn’t the word I’d use,” I say, replying evenly. “We didn’t maximize Sector 2, and that cost us. There’s pace in the car and I’ll find it tomorrow.”
He nods, satisfied, already looking down at his tablet. Another voice cuts in.
Fucking Peter Hornsby, a salty veteran journalist in the racing world who likes to bait the drivers.
“During Q1, there was a bit of a moment with Francesca Accardi.” He stares at me with colorless eyes. “Stewards looked at it for impeding, though no penalty was issued. What happened there from your perspective?”
I take a beat. Not because I’m searching for the right thing to say, but because I know he’s looking for the wrong one. “She came up on me during a compromised section. There was a yellow the lap before. I was on my outlap and she was on a flyer. She pushed the gap, and unfortunately for her, it didn’t work.”
Hornsby narrows his eyes, pen poised over his notepad. “So you’re saying it was her mistake?”
“I’m saying,” I reply coolly, “she overestimated her exit speed. You’ll have to ask her why.”
There’s a pause. Someone shifts a camera tripod. Lex’s knee bumps the table lightly, but he doesn’t speak.
“Another question about Francesca Accardi, if you’ll indulge me,” Hornsby says, making it clear he’s going to ask it regardless. “She’s the first woman in Formula International, which is obviously a historic moment for the sport. Do you believe that adds any extra pressure when competing with her? Or more scrutiny in moments like this?”
The question is bait, and I’ve been around too long not to recognize it.
I curl my lips slightly. “She’s not the only one under scrutiny. That’s part of the job for all of us and personally, I welcome it. But if Accardi wants to be treated the same and play with the big boys, she better learn how to handle it. I’m curious if you’re asking her the same question.”
There’s a visible shift in the room. A few pens stop moving. One of the journalists glances up from her laptop with a flick of surprise.
Lex, to his credit, keeps his face neutral, but he’s quick to add a different perspective. “Accardi’s fast. That’s what matters.”
Harley rises from her seat, holding up an apologetic hand. “That’s all the time we have. Thank you, everyone.”
More questions are hurled, all aimed at me.
“What did you mean by that last statement, Ronan?”
“Do you think women can’t handle the pressure as opposed to men?”
“What do you think of Accardi’s P7 position?”
Mics are cut with audible clicks, and I ignore them all as Lex and I push away from the table.
He turns to me with a chastising look. “You could try not kicking the hornet’s nest every time we sit down in front of cameras.”
“What do you care?” I snap, neither wanting nor needing his opinion.
“Because we’re friends,” he says, and then seems to think better of that. “Or at least we were.”
“Were being the key word.” I turn away from him, but then glance over my shoulder. “Besides, I didn’t say anything untrue.”
“Didn’t say anything useful either,” he points out.
I cock an eyebrow. “Are you my PR advisor now?”
He stares at me thoughtfully but it’s Harley who breaks the tension. “Ronan… a word.”
Fucking great. I exhale and turn her way, prepared to take the punishment for my attitude when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, thumb the screen.
Four missed calls and one text from my dad. Call me. Emergency.
Can this day get any worse?
I quickly weigh the lesser of two evils and decide I’d rather have Harley jump my ass, any day, all day, but the word emergency has my stomach lurching.
I hold up my phone. “I’m sorry… parental emergency.”
I’m not sure if it’s my expression of dread or the disdain in my tone that softens Harley’s face, but she nods. “Come see me after.”
I nod and turn away, ducking out into a side corridor behind the Crown hospitality suite. I roll my shoulders and throw my neck left and then right to pop the tension from my bones before tapping Michael Barnes’s contact.