It’s Thierry, Engel, and Clarke. Most of the questions go to Thierry, as they should, and he’s all smiles and jokes and gratitude for his team. A good amount of questions also go to Engel, centered around how his points today mean that Chronicle has pulled ahead in the team bracket.
“Do you think it’ll come down to the last race of the season?” one reporter asks. “Neck and neck, until the end?”
“Provenance will keep it interesting as long as they can.” Engel is calm and affable, someone who seems easy to spend time with. “But I think Julian’s got Delphine’s number.”
“He crashed into her today.”
“They crashed into each other,” Engel corrects. “Contact isn’t uncommon. And anyone who’s raced Julian knows he’s not going to cede a line once he’s committed to it.”
The next question goes to Clarke. She braces for the inevitableA disappointing result today, what do you have to say to the fans?
“Clarke, how do you respond to rumors that—”
Oh, gods. Oh, saints. This is the other shoe dropping. Atreus must’ve—
“—you’re in contract talks with Harkoner?”
Pure confusion short-circuits the panic that had been building in Clarke’s brain. “What? Harkoner?”
She must look genuine, because the reporter checks their notes and stammers a few times when clarifying. “Yes? Harkoner Racing?”
Harkoner, the last-place team in both brackets. No points to their name, this season or last. Clarke has no idea where the rumor came from, but she knows she hasn’t spoken to them. “I’m not talking to Harkoner.”
“You’re not?”
“No?” Clarke and the reporter look at each other in bewilderment for a second. Clarke ventures to add, to the broader room, “Is this why you guys wanted me today? Because sorry, but—”
The reporter Clarke most despises, Silver Sight, interrupts with a stage whisper to his neighbor. “Are we supposed to be surprised? Of course she’s not talking to Harkoner. No one wants her, not even the guys in dead last.”
Clarke must’ve misheard. He can’t have just—there must be—
“What the hell, man,” Engel says, his friendliness from earlier nowhere to be found.
“What’s wrong with you?” Thierry echoes, looking from Silver Sight to Clarke to Naomi, who is standing with the other publicity and leadership people.
Clarke doesn’t bother looking at Naomi. She’s not going to get support from that corner.
“I’m saying what we’re all thinking,” Silver Sight says. “Between your performance and your reported attitude issues, can wereallyexpect that you’ll sign a contract for next season? With Elemental, or with anyone at all?”
“When there’s something to announce, I’ll announce it,” Clarke says mechanically, eating her humiliation and anger as best she can. “And until then, there’s nothing I can say.”
“That’s what you’vebeensaying for months.”
“And it’s what I will keep saying until—”
Lennox Redfoot, Enclave principal, leans forward and looks down the row of team representatives to Naomi. Very loudly, she asks, “Out of curiosity, are you planning on doing your job today?”
Naomi gives her a perfunctory glance. “How Elemental handles the press is none of your concern.”
“You arenothandling the press,” Val chimes in. She’s doing something on her cuff and doesn’t look up to add, “That’s Lennie’s whole point. Your job is to protect your pilot, and you’re not doing it.”
“Don’t call me Lennie,” Lennox says.
“If I have a problem with how Naomi is doing her job, I’ll bring it up with her,” Yves says. He’s seated, fingers laced behind his head. “Maybe focus on your own teams, ladies?”
“Our teams aren’t disasters,” Val says.
“Well,” Lennox says, taunting.