speed / max verstappen

one

"And Formula One in 2023 is go!"

P6 very quickly turns into P4 as I follow the inside of the first corner and push outwards through it, forcing the Ferrari previously in fourth to back off after going too wide. It's clean racing and he knows it. Which makes the move all the more satisfying.

With an eyeful of George ahead, the flashing shine of his number spurs me forward, pushing and backing off, baiting him into a mistake. He may be the team's golden boy, but I'm not about to let that stop me.

"Lap 2, Zarah. Good start, keep pushing," Peter reminds me in my ear, an engineer I'd handpicked for this job. One I know won't let me off the hook if I go off script.

"Oh, don't worry. I plan to give everyone a show," I reply, my promise far from empty. There's a reason I'm the first woman to score points in Formula One since Lella Lombardi. It's the same reason I only missed out on the World Drivers Championship by twenty points last year.

As we approach the end of sector three, levelling out on the straight to start the next lap, George goes too defensive. His tires are warm but not as warm as they should be. The move is slow and sloppy and exactly what we both knew would happen. So he aborts, thinking I'll have done the same.

Except I haven't.

With a laugh that's sure to give Peter a heart attack, I lunge forward, going wheel to wheel with George. "Do it," I whisper, slamming on the breaks just as George lunges back, once again kicking out his rear.

"Lap 5, Zarah. You're holding P4 with a growing gap behind. We're seeing projections of at least .9 additions every lap. Excellent driving," Peter praises, his voice giving away a mix of pride and warning. He's going to tell me to dial it back because he knows I've got the better handle on tire deg.

I always have, ever since we were karting. Especially up against George.

Peter also knows that P4 isn't what I'm going for. It's just not good enough. If I want to prove I'm still here to play, I need a podium. And as I chase down my teammate, I know it'll become an option soon enough.

"Lap 10, Zarah. Watch it, we're sticking with Six-Prince-Three." Which tells me they're going to prioritise George unless I can close the gap between us to less than a second.

I weave through the corners, my car dancing on the line between precision and finesse, a warning about tire deg coming through the radio with a sigh.

"Lap 15, Zarah. Be mindful of tire wear, we want to stick with soft-hard-soft this race," Peter advised, concern lacing his voice.

"Yep," I respond, with no intention of easing up.

George has passed the pit entry and he's pushing for a sixteenth lap. We push in toward turn five and into six and the switchback is practically handed to me on a silver platter. In a flash, I've driven George off the racing line and given myself the perfect position to overtake.

Once it's made, the call comes through. "Two-Star-One initiated, push push."

With George dropping back to play Mr. Traffic Jam, I push, edging into dangerous territory on used up tires but knowing others will be pitting.

"Lap 20, Zarah. Keep the pressure on, there's been a call for a Red Bull double stack." Peter cheers, his excitement palpable. With Max peeling out of first and Checo no longer pressuring George, the strength of our positions goes up exponentially.

Now with a Mercedes one-two, we utilise the opportunity given. I press, George drops.

When I pit, he moves forward, opening a position for me behind him and once again handing over the chance to play the game.

I smirk to myself as the call comes through, this time knowing that George isn't the only one rattled. They've made a call for clean racing, which means Toto's stepped in.

"Lap 37 and Russel is pitting. They will be switching to the hards again."

Very briefly, I lean my head to the side, trying to adjust my neck after I hit turn fifteen just a little too tightly.

I grit my teeth, my focus wavering. My pit stop gave George P1 but I'm not about to let him keep it. With Checo and Max pressuring me from behind, I make a move on the inside, snatching the position back from him.

Max follows my line, dropping George back to play defence up against Checo. "Adios, amigo!" I taunt over the radio.

The laps start to blur together as I struggle to keep the gap between Max and I out of the DRS zone. Another warning about tire deg pops up on the radio, followed by a request to adjust the balance.

Just as I move to make the adjustment, Max pops out from behind my slipstream and kills the gap. "Fuck!" I shout, knowing we're seconds away from a DRS detection zone. I weave to the left and right, struggling to anticipate what Max'll do.

He lunges as I lose grip on my rear right, popping out a bit more than I should. His front wing clips me as he goes past, throwing my car into a rapid spin. "Fucking asshole! If I die because of fucking Max Verstappen, I'm gonna kill the Dutch bastard."

"Mind the language, Zarah," Peter's warning isn't unusual, but it does piss me off.

I manage to get the car back under control without triggering any kind of flags, but my position in P1 is lost and now I've got Checo up on my tail, the gap Max and I had built while racing each other no longer there.

"Lap 50, Zarah, hold this."

Before I can argue, Toto's voice is taking over in my ear, "Zarah, hold P2. Do not push, your tire deg is too high. Do not push."

I switch off my radio, a steady stream of curse words leaving my lips. Switching it back on, I go for the bare minimum. "Heard."

By the final lap, there's no doubt I've got P2 in the bag. "Peter, darling, I hope you're ready for a celebration," I quip, panting into the radio as I dart past the chequered flag with a shout.

It may not be P1 but it is a podium and that is what I needed today.

I pop up my visor as I pull up next to Max, giving the fans a wave before bringing a hand around to give him the bird. He does the same, weaving his car toward me for a moment before pressing away.

"Peter, is it still against the rules to start a fight in the parking lot?"

"Yes, Zarah, it is."

"Shame," I sigh as I pull into the pit lane and behind the P2 marker.

The team erupts into cheers as I hop out of my car, rushing to them with a laugh. Peter's there, beaming with pride, and I give him a wink. "How's the blood pressure?"

"Not too bad," he responds, slapping my helmet with a bit more force than necessary, "let's keep it that way, yeah?"

"No promises."