Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

Qualifying on Saturday is the second-best part of racing because a successful Saturday is essential to winning on Sunday. A position for Sunday’s race depends on the qualifier. Getting a sucky start on Saturday means you’re fucked on Sunday, unless you put in extra work to get on top.

Pole positions are my and everyone else’s favorite. I can bounce back from a second-or third-place starting point though, not needing to pressure myself to over-perform. Back of the grid tends to be the worst. I haven’t placed there since the start of my career, always preferring spots between P1 and P3.

Squeals of the tires hitting the road bounce off the pit walls as I walk toward Bandini’s area. Each team has their own garage on the pit lane where the team preps before the race, including small rooms above the workstation where Santi and I get ready. I gear up in my suite for my two practice sessions.

I complete two successful practice rounds like I wanted. My qualifier went even better, landing me the pole position for the Australian Grand Prix. Best spot on the grid. Santiago isn’t far behind, qualifying third, right behind Liam Zander. Not bad for the new guy.

For the sake of the team I want him to succeed, since we also compete together during individual races. I’m not totally selfish. He needs to do well for us to win a separate Championship, the Constructors’, which happens at the same time as the World Championship. A total of twenty-one races and two coinciding Championships.

Santi can settle for winning the Constructors with me because I want to be the World Champion this year. My teammate can keep his shiny consolation prize.

Santiago, Liam, and I attend a press conference meant for the top three qualifiers. I sit between the two of them as reporters hit us with questions.

“Liam, can you tell us about your strategy with McCoy this year?”

“Besides fucking through the McCoy family?” I whisper under my breath, the microphone attached to my cheek not picking up on my voice.

Liam chuckles and shakes his head. We fuck around with one another, keeping the conferences interesting while breaking up our routine.

“Team strategies are the best kept secret. Can’t have Bandini here catching onto all of my tricks, particularly the hothead over there.” Liam points to Santiago over my shoulder. “But we have big plans for the upcoming races, including new specs on our cars. Going to give Bandini a run for their money.”

“What he means to say is the view sure looks nice behind P1.” My gruff voice makes reporters laugh.

“P2 allows me to screw Noah’s car from behind, hitting him at the right angle. Oh, wait. That’s Santiago’s job, my bad.”

I smack Liam’s backward ballcap off his head.

Thankfully, Santiago refrains from any stupid comments this time around. He looks at Liam and me oddly. I let Liam’s comments slide because he’s actually one of my good friends and greatest opponent, at least before Santiago came around. Our verbal sparring makes it on YouTube every time.

Liam’s a German guy who drives with McCoy, another top team. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed man with a god complex. I like him a lot since we became friends during our young karting days. Raced together in the Formula phases and we even competed on the same team when he started, both rising up together.

He acts like a total douche to women, and that says a lot coming from someone like me. I may be an ass, but Liam can be worse. His preppy looks deceive the best of them. A fuck-ton of pressure rests on him this year because his contract with McCoy will expire, and he slept around with the owner’s niece.

Unlike my preference for one-and-done situations, Liam actually keeps girls around for longer than one time. I can’t fault him when women willingly agree. But his F1 seasons include one or two girls on rotation who eventually get their hearts broken, spilling their story to the gossip rags. A yearly cycle. But now he needs to keep himself locked up like a good boy after pissing off Peter McCoy.

I occasionally watch the trashy gossip videos of us on YouTube, shameful to admit they entertain me. McCoy can’t be happy with Liam. Recent videos have focused on Liam’s lack of foresight, calling him out for fucking around during an important year. Sleeping with your boss’s niece tends to stir up lots of emotions.

Maya hangs out in the corner of the press room, trying to blend into the wall. Fat chance that’s possible. She looks beautiful in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that clings to her chest. Her wavy hair is up in a ponytail that bobs while she leisurely scrolls through her phone.

It annoys me how she only tunes in to Santi’s answers, staring up from her phone every now and then to watch him. It’s like Liam and I don’t exist. If she doesn’t care then she shouldn’t come, plenty of reporters would kill for a spot in here. Why does she find her brother fascinating? It blows my mind how she looks at him like he hangs the moon for her, her eyes all proud and shit when he talks.

Is this usual sibling stuff? I glance over at Santi while he speaks, curious to see what gains her interest.

“Santiago, how do you feel about your new contract with your rival’s team? Any stress that comes with driving against one of the greats?”

I school my features like a well-trained PR puppet. Inside my irritation grows, an eye roll barely contained. When will these guys let go of the contract deal? They lack original questions, the same type asked each conference, forgoing the hype of the first race of the season.

“Uh, it’s not about contracts, but rather how well we drive. I don’t think about dollar signs or Noah when I’m out there. I think about the next turn and the finish line, with a possible podium ending.”

Okay, not bad. The team publicist must be helping him after yesterday’s disaster.

“Noah, who do you consider to be your biggest threat this season?”

A cocky smile breaks out across my face. Show time.

“I like to consider myself as my biggest threat. When I race, it’s me versus my instincts. Everything around me disappears. I test myself, seeing how long I can wait before pressing the brake, or how to overtake another person. I don’t think about the other drivers out there more than I have to. That’s where others screw up.”

Camera bulbs flash in front of me and capture my confident smile. Maya shakes her head, apparently not a fan of my response. The idea displeases me. My eyebrows pinch together, and my lips turn down into a frown. Appearances represent everything in this line of work because fans buy into this shit and love it. They even make videos about our bizarre press conferences every race like bromance videos and rival compilations. You name it, there’s a video on it.

A reporter moves on to Liam, asking another pointed question. “Liam, what game plan do you have to clear your name in the media?”

“Why don’t you ask me in a few months? I want to keep my plan to myself, in case it goes wrong.” Liam shrugs.

I nudge him with an elbow. “That tends to happen with him.”

Liam turns toward me and brushes his eyebrow with his middle finger. My head drops back and I laugh. I lift my head, catching Liam shooting Maya a grin that she returns, no longer inattentive. My fists tighten under the table as I stare straight ahead.

Liam can be considered a good-looking guy. A six-foot tall German jock who needs a short beard to hide his baby face. Basically, a glorified tool. Women dig his positive vibes and carefree attitude, along with his preference for multiple repeats. Everything about him screams good parents who gave him sugar, spice, and everything nice. Unlike me who reeks of broodiness and bad memories, driving away from my demons week after week.

We finish up answering questions and I leave the stage. I don’t want to be there for another minute more. I’m mentally done with today.

Nothing tops the buzz of a race day. Everyone deals with their pressure differently, tensions escalating as we approach Prix time. Anticipation of events keeps everyone up and running. Sundays are my favorite day of the week because who needs a church when I have a front-row seat to heaven.

Every racer does quick rounds to appease fans and sponsors, including meet-and-greets, parades, and interviews—the usual crowd-pleasing and ass-kissing. Following that, I do my typical engine checks and attend a pre-race stage event with an end goal of alone time in my Bandini suite.

This sport exhausts the best of us. I love it, but it wears a person down through the years.

The small Bandini suites can’t compare to the motorhomes the team builds during the European leg of the tour. The plain room gets us by, with enough essentials to appease the racers, including a couch and a mini fridge stocked with waters.

Music is my preferred method of easing nerves before races. I have a playlist and everything for each day of racing since I tend to be a creature of habit who prefers solitude. Unlike other drivers, I leave the celebrating for after a race when I actually win. No one likes a guy who parties prematurely and doesn’t even end up on the podium. We leave that for the sucky teams.

Maya’s laugh seeps through the thin walls. Santiago acts differently from other Bandini guys, not minding Maya hanging around with him while he preps for the race. Small quarters don’t allow for much privacy around here. I try my best to not listen, but I find the task difficult with our shared wall, telling myself whatever I overhear isn’t my fault.

Maya’s voice carries into my room. “Remember when you had your first kart race? You almost threw up inside your helmet, your nerves shot after that kid nearly crashed into you.”

I like the sound of Maya’s soft laugh.

“It was intense. Never underestimate an adrenaline rush because they’re no joke. I think it took an hour for my heart to slow down and the nausea to go away. How do you even remember that? You were like six at most.”

“Mom showed me a video of that race. They were reminiscing the day you signed the Bandini contract, including showing me tons of videos of you in your kart. They’re so proud of you.” Maya’s voice sounds sentimental.

My parents never filmed my races, let alone watched them with a wave of nostalgia.

“You know they’re proud of you, too, right? With starting up your own vlog and supporting me.”

Maya sighs. “Yeah, but you’re the success story, and they sacrificed everything for you. The vlog is starting out, and things like that take time. Let’s see what happens because I don’t want to disappoint myself or anyone else. It’s hard to get a decent following.”

“I’ll share something you post to help you gain followers. Plus, you’re around a bunch of famous people—word will get out eventually. Just watch.”

Curiosity pushes me to see what she vlogs about. I pick up my phone and google her, quickly finding and bookmarking her channel for later when I have time to check it out.

I also go ahead and request to follow her on Instagram since she set her account to private. Fuck it, why not. I’m curious, nothing more.

Their voices drop too low for me to catch the rest of their conversation. I find it difficult to imagine a childhood like Maya’s since I’m an only child with no competition for my parents’ limited attention. Hit the parent jackpot. They never married, avoiding a financial train wreck, messy divorce, and custody agreement neither of them wanted.

I put my headphones on and tune out the rest of their conversation. Eavesdropping distracted me enough, pulling me away from my usual mental clearing before races.

Not soon after, Santiago and I prepare for our cars. We zip up our matching race suits and grab our helmets. I touch the scarlet red paint, my hand running across the signature glossy coat of Bandini cars, the warm engine running beneath my fingertips. Ready to go. Even after all these years with the team, I still do this same pre-race ritual. My favorite lullaby is the rumbling sound of the car.

I lie down in my seat and strap myself into the cockpit, the clicking of the belt further securing me. One of the techs hands me my gloves and steering wheel as I take a few deep breaths to ease my nerves.

The crew and I roll up to the front of the group, situating me in the P1 spot while testing my radio connection. I grin to myself beneath my helmet. Pole position will always be the most ideal spot in the whole Prix, and pride fills me that I claimed it. Have to start the year with a boom.

My heart pounds in my chest, the rhythm similar to the shaking of the engine. The team slips off my tire warmers before they rush off the pavement.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five red lights shut off. My foot pushes on the accelerator and my car speeds down the runway, hitting a neck-breaking pace as tires rub against the pavement. Commotion buzzes through my earpiece. Team members speak to me, telling me how Liam stays behind me, with Jax overtaking Santiago at the front.

Fuck, I love this feeling. Nerves fire off in my body as adrenaline seeps into my blood, the sound of tires screeching across the pavement competing with the whooshing in my ears. Bodily sensations breathe new life into me. The engine hums as I push the car to its max capacity, testing the limits of the new race car model. My lungs tighten in my chest as I approach the first turn. I tap into my reflexes, becoming one with the car.

The beautifully executed turn happens in a blink. I tune out most of the radio chatter that sounds off through my helmet, concentrating on breathing in and out to relax my heart rate.

I continue to hold down my position as the race leader while we twist and turn down the track. If the team didn’t keep me updated, I’d lose count of the laps. My car rips through the road like nothing. Liam tries to overtake me at one of the turns but fails, his car falling back behind mine, sucking up the dirty air. The team principal shares who else may threaten my lead.

The race is touch and go between Liam and me for a while. A similar season start—both of us vying for the top-place spot. We have a competitive relationship on the track, knowing each other’s moves since we were kids in karts. Both of our teams strategize with us for ways to beat each other.

Santiago isn’t even a blip on my radar, seeing as the team hasn’t spoken a single word about him.

I take a quick pit stop halfway through the race to get new tires. My car stops in the pit lane, allowing the mechanics to take over with their drills and machines. Process takes one point eight seconds. I thank the team via radio for their quick turnover time. A speedy pit crew are the unsung heroes of F1, the ones who make the magic happen once I box in the garage area.

I talk back and forth with a race engineer during my drive, communicating competitors’ positions and specs. He wants to check in on how the car feels for the first race. The team shares strategies and I follow along for the most part, but some calls I make on my own because they don’t pay me millions to follow every command. They trust me behind the wheel.

I continue to hold the front-runner position for most of the fifty-seven laps. Liam overtakes me a couple times, but I beat him back into second place with ballsy turns. He flips me off after I threaten to hit him during one curve. With one lap left, Liam will come out in second place, and Santiago will end up in fourth.

The sweet sound of engines roaring fills my ears. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I make the last turn toward the finish line. I push down on the peddle a few seconds early, allowing me to surge past the waving checkered flag before Liam. Fans scream as they announce I won the Prix.

“Fuck yes, guys, what a big win! Thank you, everyone. Amazing first race. Let’s fucking go!” My foot lifts off the throttle.

The radio buzzes with cheers.

I throw my fist in the air, proud of a race well done. Suck it, Santiago.