Diversity Hire

Lights out.

I'm gone before the reaction time flashes on the screen.

First corner. Three cars abreast.

I hold the inside line. Brake late. Later than anyone else would dare.

The gap appears.

I take it.

"Beautiful start, Skye. P4. Romano's in your mirrors."

James's voice in my ear.

My engineer.

My only friend in this paddock.

P4.

I started sixth.

Two positions gained in one corner.

Behind me, Pietro Romano's crimson car looms.

Three-time world champion.

The man who called me a "publicity stunt" in an interview last month.

I push harder.

Lap 15.

He's still there.

Waiting. Watching. Looking for a mistake.

I don't make mistakes.

Lap 23.

The car ahead pits.

I'm P3 now.

"Gap to P2 is four seconds. You've got pace, Skye. Push."

I push.

Three seconds. Two.

Lap 34.

DRS zone.

I line up the move.

The car ahead is Palmer. Good driver. Not great in wheel-to-wheel.

I dive inside.

He covers.

I switch back.

He's too slow.

I'm through.

P2.

"Nice move. Romano's three seconds back."

Three seconds.

An eternity in F1.

An invitation to anyone watching.

But the leader is fifteen seconds ahead.

Uncatchable.

I settle for P2.

Second place.

My best result in eighteen months of F1.

Checkered flag.

I cross the line.

The team radio crackles.

"Great drive, Skye. P2. Amazing..."

Another voice cuts in.

Different channel.

But the radio picks it up.

"Tell your diversity hire she cut me off in Turn 4. That's not racing. That's desperation."

Pietro Romano.

Three-time world champion.

Currently finishing fourth.

Behind the diversity hire.

I key my radio.

"Tell your champion I passed him. That's the sport."

Silence.

Then James: "Cooling down lap, Skye. Let's bring it home."

I drive the cooling lap, hands tight on the wheel.

Diversity hire.

I've heard it before.

From fans. From sponsors. From drivers who never made it this far.

Never from a world champion.

Parc fermé.

I climb out of the car.

Second place.

My best result in Formula 1.

I should be celebrating.

Instead I'm scanning the pit lane for a crimson suit.

He's there.

Helmet off.

Dark hair, darker expression.

His stare cuts through the chaos. Finds me.

He doesn't look away.

Neither do I.

"Skye! Great drive!"

My team principal, Marcus Webb.

Beaming.

Not seeing the storm brewing.

"Thanks."

"Media want you for interviews. Big day. Historic result."

Historic.

Because I'm a woman.

Because everything I do is measured against my gender, not my lap times.

"I'll be there."

The media pen is chaos.

Cameras. Microphones. Questions that have nothing to do with racing.

"Skye, how does it feel to be the first woman to finish second in F1 since..."

"It feels like second place. Which is where I finished."

"Pietro Romano seemed upset. Can you comment on his radio message?"

I could play nice.

Smile. Deflect. Be the gracious woman they want me to be.

Instead: "Pietro Romano finished fourth. I finished second. I think that says everything."

The reporters scramble.

I walk away.

In the garage, I strip off my gear.

Fireproof layers peeled away like armor.

"You shouldn't have said that."

I turn.

Marcus.

No longer beaming.

"He started it."

"He's a three-time world champion."

"And I beat him today."

Marcus pressed his thumb against his temple.

"There's something we need to discuss. Board meeting tomorrow. Big announcement."

"What kind of announcement?"

He looks at me.

His face had gone careful in a way that made my neck prickle.

"Just be there. 9 AM."

He leaves.

I stand in the empty garage.

Second place trophy waiting for collection.

Hollow victory ringing in my ears.

Diversity hire.

I'll show him what diversity can do.