SNEAK PEEK: Overtake

(This is the first chapter of an unedited work in progress.)

Chapter One

“Petra”

October | Singapore Grand Prix | Marina Bay Circuit

“Okay. I’m ready.” I sit up and hop off the massage table where I’ve been chilling and visualizing the upcoming Formula One race. This circuit is like a second home. It’s where I first climbed into the cockpit of an open-wheel racecar and knew I was my father’s daughter.

Jacintha opens the door to my driver’s room and precedes me through PNW Nitro’s busy hospitality suite. She’s my physio — my performance coach. Cin is also my cousin and she’s been taking care of my physical and mental wellbeing for a decade. She oversees every aspect of my health, keeps me focused, and protects me from the madness that comes with being one of the top drivers in the world and the only woman competing at this level.

Most of the people crowding our team’s three-story building are well-heeled fans or associated with our corporate sponsors. I smile and nod, but I don’t have to be social right now. I’m getting into the zone, focusing on the sixty-two laps ahead. There’s a time to schmooze the sponsors. This isn’t it.

Singapore’s humidity slaps us as we step outside into the paddock that separates the hospitality suites from the garages where all the Formula One cars are being readied for the upcoming race. Cin puts up her umbrella. It’s been raining off and on all day.

The sound that greets us is astonishing. Even after twenty-six years of being around the racing world, the noise of race day still hits me viscerally. And I love it. I grew up with this. My father, Coy Hayter, is a three-time world champion F1 driver, and I’m determined to follow in his footsteps and be the first woman to do it.

Twenty cars growl thunderously in their garages, the vibration traveling through my body. The sound of the crowd vies for a close second in volume and impact, two hundred seventy thousand spectators all excited for the upcoming grand prix.

Formula One fans are rabid and Singapore’s are no exception. Flags and face paint and signs abound in the grandstands. The amount of pink and green — Nitro’s colors — is gratifying, and I love all the support I’m getting tonight.

“Tenacious P!”

“Petra, we love you!”

“Niiiitrooooo!”

I see a lot of pink-streaked hair and pink painted middle fingers being raised. Those are my trademark and my fans are the best.

Jacintha and I cross the paddock, my cousin leading as we thread our way around fans, crew members, and media. She parts them like the Red Sea so I can stay focused. Like the hospitality suite, people pay a lot of money for access to this part of Formula One. Our goal is the PNW Nitro garage where twenty mechanics and engineers surround my dark green and pink car, readying it for the challenge ahead.

But someone catches my eye and I veer off course. There’s something I need to do before I reach our garage.

“Hold on, Cin.”

She glances back, then follows me. Jacintha is always nearby.

Nico Belmonte, the reigning Drivers’ Champion and driver for WolfBett Racing, is chatting with a pair of reporters. His dark blue and yellow race suit, unzipped and open, hangs around his hips, revealing the white fireproof undergarments we all wear. It’s a good look on him, I’m not above admitting. Fans and photographers hover around him, bees around the finest flower.

His nickname is El Conejo — The Rabbit — because the blond Spanish driver is fast as all hell and slips in and out of the tightest spots. I should know. I’ve been racing the bastard for sixteen years. He’s also one of the nicest drivers on the circuit. He proves you can race hard and clean, and still win. A lot.

I stop behind his right shoulder, pop my hip, and raise two fingers behind my head, and two behind his — rabbit ears. Nothing like photo-bombing the competition before a race.

The photographers laugh and grab the shot just as Nico turns and spies my cheeky pose.

His gray gaze meets mine and his lips lift into a sexy half-smile. (I’m also not above admitting that the fellow is very fine on the eyes.)

“Get accustomed to the view. The back of my head is all you’ll see today, Hayter.”

“Fat chance, bunny boy.” With a wink for the photographers, I pivot and continue to the Nitro garage. But I’m pretty sure Nico’s watching me go.

As he should.

Inside the garage, the smell of fuel, rubber, and hot metal permeates everything — it's a scent I prefer to any perfume. The odor of the circuit’s wet tarmac just adds to the bouquet.

This is home.

The place is a hive of activity. Mechanics crawl around my car and Reece Pritchard’s like ants at a picnic, each with a job to do, working in concert. Reece is my fellow driver. (Every team has two). We’re nothing without this crew, and I can say with confidence that we never forget that.

Coy — Dad — stands at the head of the engineering station, arms crossed, observing the mechanics and engineers with a critical eye. He’s not just my father, he’s our team principal, and at fifty-three he remains imposing — his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly trimmed, posture impeccable. He spots me and gives a single, deliberate nod as I don one of the headsets that allow the team to communicate while in the garage. The sound of the warming car engines precludes conversation otherwise.

"Head in the game?" Dad’s voice is measured in the radio, but I catch the hint of pride in his green eyes — the same color as mine.

“One hundred ten percent.” I stop beside him.

"Car's looking good." He nods at it.

"Because we have the best crew in the business."

"Yes, we do." He pauses. "P3 is a good position for you. Clean air, good line into Turn One. Barring any nonsense, this race is yours to take, Pet."

That's Dad — no flowery encouragement, just practical assessment and unwavering certainty. It's all I need.

"I know." I’m confident but I don’t want to be too cocky. That’s how I get into trouble. Starting third suits me — I like a good chase — but I've been here before. Racing is unpredictable, which is what makes it thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

"Petra, let’s talk strategy." Bowie Lucassen, my race engineer, interrupts our moment. He's been the voice in my helmet for ten years, ever since I was sixteen and competing in F3, when Dad poached him from Jove Morrison Racing to be my race engineer. There's no one I trust more during a race.

"Talk to me." I follow him to the opposite side of the bank of monitors that divides the two bays in Nitro’s garage. Reece and his race engineer, Misho Leroy, are already there, discussing the upcoming race.

Reece is tall for an F1 driver with the same wiry build as his brother, Wyn, who races for our competition. The guy’s dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, even in racing conditions. He nods as I approach. "’Bout time you showed up, princess." There's no malice in his even American tone, just our usual teammate joking.

"Yeah, well, I had to make the rabbit sweat a little extra." I smirk and Reece laughs.

He knows who I mean because we all grew up together, competing first in karting, then F4, F3, F2, and now F1. Formula racing is an international sport but a small world in many ways, and in many instances, it’s literally a family affair.

Bowie pulls up a simulation at his station. "We're already looking at standing water on several parts of the track, and our weather radar shows intermittent rain continuing for at least forty laps before a rapid dry-out."

"Perfect." I grin. "You know I love a wet track." I've always excelled in rainy conditions — they’re a blessing for a British driver.

Misho, a compact Frenchman with a perpetual five o'clock shadow — taps his stylus on the screen. "tThis could work in our favor. Both Telco and WolfBett are struggling with wet setups this season."

"It’ll be a challenge to transition to dry," Reece says. Singapore's humidity means the track might stay damp in patches even after the rain stops.

"Let's focus on the start and the conditions we do know." Zara Patel, one of the team’s race strategists, joins the conversation. She's younger than me and a mathematical genius who, I swear, calculates pit strategies in her head faster than our computers. "Wet or dry, the WolfBett cars will be aggressive off the line. We need to get past Nico, keep Wyn behind, and overtake Lynch."

Reece crosses his arms, an evil glint in his eye as he meets my gaze. "You clear Nico. I’m happy to block Wyn." This is his younger brother we’re discussing, mind you. Not that I’m complaining. Wyn’s a fucking wanker on the track, and he’s run me wide more than once.

Hans Fischer, Petra’s German co-strategist, nods. "Just don’t trash your tires fighting your brother, like at Monaco."

My counterpart shrugs. “Sorry, not sorry. The only thing better than pissing off him and Graham, is winning at his expense.” Graham is the Pritchard brothers’ father and a right piece of shit, in my opinion. (And, Reece’s, I’m pretty sure.) The brothers used to get along when they were younger, but their father playing favorites has eroded that relationship. Sad, really.

"How's your car looking?" I ask Reece.

Misho glances at him before answering. "Down on power by about two percent. Nothing we can't handle, but it might make a difference in the straights."

"It's fine," Reece interjects. "I'll make it up in the corners."

"Absolutely." Misho nods. “No one faster.”

I file that information away and turn to the strategists. "What about tyre degradation?"

"Full wets to start," Zara says. With standing water on track, we need maximum wet grip. The blue-marked wet tyres have deep treads designed to efficiently disperse water at full speed. So much of race strategy comes down to managing tyre wear. 

"We anticipate a two-stop strategy," Hans adds.

Zara pulls up another screen. "Plan to transition to intermediates between laps fifteen to twenty when the standing water reduces. Then we'll need to time the switch to slicks perfectly when the track dries.”

"Alright then." I’m mentally calculating potential overtaking spots. "All eyes on the tyres."

My father, who's been listening, chimes in. "Trust your instincts, Petra. You know how to drive in the rain."

He gives Reece a similar nod. "Good hunting, both of you."

"Yes, sir." Reece gives the same respect everyone shows Coy Hayter.

We’re interrupted by a message from Race Control — installation lap begins in fifteen minutes.

Reece bumps his fist against mine. "See you at the podium, Hayter."

"Save me the top step." I wink, then we head to our respective cars.

I thread my earpiece up through my race suit and pop it into my ear, then Cin hands me my fireproof balaclava. Next comes my helmet. It’s white with hot pink and silver streaks swirling around my sponsors’ logos. I pull it over my head, leaving the visor up. The world immediately narrows, sounds become muffled, and my focus sharpens like a laser. Finally, I add my HANS device—a horseshoe-shaped head and neck support. It sits over my shoulders and its tethers connect to my helmet. Held in place by my six-point harness, it’ll keep my head on my shoulders, literally, should I crash. G-forces are not to be fucked with.

Athol Kilpatrick, my number one mechanic, helps me into the car. A skinny Scotsman with a face only a mother could love, Athol has been with me for three years, since my first Formula One race with Nitro.

"She's purring like a kitten today, Petra." He always talks like a Scottish grandfather. "Give her some love, and she'll fly for you."

I settle into the carbon fiber cocoon, the seat molded perfectly to my body, and pull on my gloves. The team helps me strap in, six-point harness tight against my chest, legs, and hips. The steering wheel, a complicated array of buttons, toggles, and paddles, is fitted into place with a satisfying click. Then the team settles in place the padded surround that protects my shoulders in a crash.

"Radio check, Petra." Bowie's voice comes through my earpiece.

"Yep. Loud and clear." Every step of our familiar pre-race ritual, settled me deeper into the focus I need to race and win.

Athol starts his final inspection. It’s his job to decide when and if my car is ready to leave the garage. He has the final say.

I close my eyes, centering and focusing. When I open them, I'm no longer Petra Hayter, Coy Hayter's daughter, or the only woman in Formula One. I'm just a driver, the fastest one on the grid today, and I'm ready to prove it.

The engine rumbles behind me, vibrating through my entire body. My crew unplugs the external starter and warming systems, and Athol appears in front of me, guiding me forward.

"Let's make history," I whisper to myself as I ease the car out of the garage and into the pit’s fast lane. It’s the thing I say before each race. Ahead and behind, nineteen other Formula One cars accelerate onto the track.

Singapore is a street circuit and we race at night. The track is tight without a lot of run-off areas. It’s bumpy and demanding, with a lot of hard turns, coupled with high humidity that has us sweating buckets. Truthfully, that’s another reason I welcome the rain. It’ll keep the cockpit a bit cooler.

The installation lap is soggy — a chance to check all systems and get a feel for the wet conditions. The crowd rises as I pass, a sea of pink and green, lifting flags and banners with my name. I give them a quick wave as I accelerate down the starting straight.

"How's the balance?" Bowie asks through the radio.

"Good. Bit tight in the turns, but nothing I can't handle."

"Copy that. Rain expected for the first hour. Track temperature twenty degrees."

I complete the lap and return to the grid, where the team does final checks. Reece's car sits four spots back, the bright pink airbox on his power unit marking him as my teammate. To my right, in P2, Nico's dark blue WolfBett gleams under the floodlights. He raises a gloved hand in my direction — wave, warning, or insult.

I respond with a Queen’s wave, the pink tip of my glove’s middle finger sending a familiar message, and I know he’s laughing. The FIA hates when I do this, but they’ve given up on asking me to change my gloves.

The formation lap begins, and the twenty most sophisticated racing machines on the planet snake around the track in a choreographed dance. I weave back and forth, warming my tyres, feeling every vibration through the chassis and trying not to drown in the spray Nico and Lynch are throwing my way.

"All systems go," Bowie confirms. "Remember, protect the inside through the first three turns. Wyn will dive-bomb you."

"Sure, sure. Let him try."

As we approach the starting line, I position the car precisely on my grid spot and wait as the rest of the cars line up behind me.

Five red lights appear one by one above the track. My heart pounds, but my hands are steady on the wheel.

In my mirrors, I see the dark blue and yellow of Wyn's car. Ahead, the matching colors of his teammate, Nico, and Lynch’s red and white Telco leading the pack.

"Focus, Petra." It’s what Bowie always says right before…

The lights go out.

I stomp on the accelerator, and the world explodes into motion. Sixty-two laps, twenty cars, one winner.

And tonight, that's going to be me.