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Izzy Hands knows the Silverstone circuit better than he knows the back of his own hand. He’s raced on this track for years in one car or another, through early competitions all the way to the top of Formula 2, side by side with his teammate: the most talented driver he has ever met. They were headed for the stars, him and Ed. The best of the best and gods amongst men, but where Edward continued to rise, Izzy went sideways half way through the season. Straight into the fucking rail of a fucking hairpin turn in fucking Jeddah.
And that was the end of it.
He didn’t die, but good God did he want to.
Izzy was in hospital for two months. By the time he got out, Ed had won the championship and been signed to Queen Anne Racing with a bright, shining seat in the big leagues. Fine. Great, even. That was always the dream. They were always going to take F2 by storm, force a double rookie partnership on a lesser team at the back, and then work their way through to pole. They had a plan. They had a purpose. When Izzy lost that, he thought he’d lost everything.
In a way he did, crushed and burning in his cockpit, but Edward kept good on his promise and forced QAR to take him on as pit crew first, then management. It was a gamble, but you know something? It fucking worked, and he’s fucking good at it.
Today, Izzy Hands is Team Principal of Queen Anne Racing, second only to Ed himself. Together, they bought the team when the previous owner ran out of bankroll six years previous. Their investors are rich and many, their crew runs with the same exacting precision as their car, and Edward Teach is on track for his seventh world championship. If he makes that, he beats the record for greatest driver of all time.
They’re getting older now, and running out of opportunities, but they’re going to make it. Izzy can feel it in his bones.
It’s 8am, and the British Grand Prix is in three days. Ed won’t be up for hours, which is fine considering the fact practice doesn’t start until 10, but it’s not quite enough time to sneak out onto the track for a lap and reset the car. Just as well, Izzy concedes with a small huff, he can’t indulge so close to a race. If anything went wrong, he would never be able to forgive himself.
Strong morning light glitters across the tarmac, both a promise and temptation. Izzy takes a slow, deep breath and places his hands on his hips as he surveys the track around him. Somewhere in the distance behind the stands, he can hear the cacophony of catering crews setting up their concession tents. Hammers wail on tent spikes, voices call to one another as trailers are loaded in and locked down. Silverstone is beginning to come alive with anticipation, and the vibrations course through everything in a mile radius of the track. The race is coming, and like Silverstone itself, Izzy begins to feel alive as well.
It’s too early to be hot yet, but July has the unique ability to manifest the two most insufferably sweltering weeks of the British season and it always, without fail, falls over race weekend. His jumpsuit is comfortable for the moment, but experience says he’s got about two hours before it becomes unbearable.
Right then, best get on with it.
Izzy sighs and rolls his shoulders, then neck, before forcing himself to turn away from the track and head back into the pit. He trails one gloved hand over the rear wing of their car as he goes, and smiles softly as the fine kidd leather glides over the glossy black and purple paint job. The Kraken, in all her glory, sits pride of place in the box like a monster laying in wait to dominate the battlefield. And she is. Their build last year was a champion, certainly, but this year they have a brand new engine and a double wishbone push-rod suspension system made from the stuff of wet dreams.
He doesn’t have to be down here this early. In fact, he probably shouldn’t be here. Izzy should be at the hotel with Edward, running over schedules and press releases, or in their mobile office rallying the troops before they engage in war. But he isn't. He's here, alone, on the track with nothing but the car, a career’s worth of memories, and the single minded determination to win. Deft hands bring their equipment banks to life, a litany of switches and cables. He checks every connection and monitors every reading before moving on to the next. It isn’t his job to do this anymore, hasn’t been for a long time, but no one is foolish enough to tell him no when he decides to put his own hand to a task. When the crew turns up in an hour’s time, everything will be perfect and ready to go. After that? Any and all errors will be on them.
There’s a certain kind of pleasure to be taken in the monotony of start-up. A series of boxes to tick and parameters to operate within. Izzy likes a set of rules. He thrives in the precision of execution, and sleeps well at night knowing they’ve fine tuned everything down to the very last millimeter. To the last hundredth of a second. It’s a small measure, but small measures add up in this line of work, and it is this bed of accuracy that allows Edward to do what he does best: win.
An hour later, Izzy has checked and cross checked every piece of equipment. The starter motor is primed, the car is up on her jacks, and the wheel guns are pressurized. The morning heat is beginning to catch up with him as he lugs out the heavy, heated tyre warmers. Izzy stops to strip the top of his suit, cursing to himself as he ties its arms around his waist and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. His hair is already misbehaving, and so he produces a slim black band to push it back.
Haircut , he reminds himself as he wraps a blanket around one of The Kraken’s tyres, get a fucking haircut before the race.
But he won’t. He never does. It’s all superstitious dross, but something about cutting his hair right before a race feels wrong. Best not to fuck about and find out. Not when they’ve been doing so well this season, even with that self-funded twat Bonnet on their heels.
“Don’t tell me they’ve still got you doing bitch work,” a gruff voice calls from nowhere, knocking Izzy out of his thoughts and routine. The crew are about and minding their own business, and none of them would ever speak to him like that and expect to keep their place. Izzy’s attention snaps sharply upwards towards the imposition sauntering towards him. It’s been a while since he’s heard that voice, but he’d know it fucking anywhere. Jack Rackham: celebrated NASCAR driver, Edward’s oldest friend and ex, and Izzy’s long time...something. Regret, probably.
Izzy stills in situ, but says nothing as he watches the other man slinks over and plops himself down on a closed flight case full of audio equipment. Jack looks good, loathe as he is to admit it. Tight. Powerful. Casual, in a curated sense of the word.
“You aren’t allowed in here,” Izzy answers and wills his hands back to work as he closes the blanket around the tyre, fastening it tightly.
“Well excuse me, princess,” Jack snorts and settles himself, “I didn’t realize this was the Pope’s fuckin’ pit. Where’s the boss man?”
It’s all Izzy can do to not roll his eyes as he stands up, wiping his brow again.
“We don’t start for an hour,” he answers dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. Edward’s whereabouts are none of Jack’s business as far as Izzy’s concerned. Not this close to a race. What is his business, and now Izzy’s business, is why the fuck Jack is sitting in their pit, thousands of miles away from his own racing career.
“So it’s just you and me, huh. Well aren’t I lucky.”
Thousands of miles away and looking to play games, apparently. Nothing ever changes.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Jack?”
“Can’t an old friend come to say hello? Shit, Izzy. It’s been a while.”
“Three years, and no, he can’t. How did you get into my pit and why are you here?”
“Ooh, I’m so sorry, sorry Izzy,” Jack laughs and throws up his hands with mock surrender before holding them to his mouth. Izzy’s sure he’s trying to be cute, but it doesn’t land. It never has. When Jack sees that, he drops the act immediately and shrugs. “Haven’t you heard? NASCAR’s got us over here doing a pre race exhibition. Some weird shit about pulling foreign interest.”
That sounds fucking awful to Izzy, who can’t imagine a world in which NASCAR and Formula 1 coexist on the same track. It’s all racing, sure, but their sports are wildly different. Izzy wets his lips and furrows his brow as the idea rolls around between his ears. No, he decides. He doesn’t like it.
“Why would I know about that?”
“Because you’re Izzy Hands. Aren’t you supposed to know everything?”
The answer is meant to be yes, obviously, but apparently that isn’t correct, and leave it to Jack to point that out in the first five minutes. It’s this exact kind of thing that gets under Izzy’s skin so fucking effortlessly, and they both know it. For all Jack’s buffoonery, he isn’t stupid. He’s nearly as clever and calculated as Edward, and Izzy hates how fucking attractive that is.
“Your pony show is nothing to do with us,” he protests, doubling down before his skepticism can turn to anxiety; before he has a chance to wonder what else he doesn’t know about this season they are literally half fucking way through.
“Isn’t it?” Jack asks. “You’ve got two more races in the states this year, which is one more than last year. Pretty soon you’ll be over there more than anywhere else.”
“And?”
Jack shrugs and adjusts his ball cap, removing it to smooth back his long, wild hair. It’s still thick and glossy, perfect for curling tight fists into and- no! Nope, fucking absolutely not.
“I’m just saying, sooner or later we’re all going to be working together.”
“Never going to happen. Now if you wouldn’t mind fucking off, I’ve got work to do.”
Jack watches him for a long moment, his playful demeanor falling away. It’s the same look Jack’s given him a hundred times over the years, even back when they were young and stupid. When they were fresh on the karting scene and fighting like rabid dogs to make names for themselves. Before Jack chose his American citizenship over his British one and left for greener pastures. It’s a look of hunger. Of promise. Of a dozen dark encounters in the back of race trailers, bathrooms, and budget hotels.
Izzy can forgive Jack showing up. He can forgive the mischief he tempts Edward into without fail. He can even forgive the imposition of memory, but he isn’t quite sure he can forgive the way being ten feet away, even after all these years, unwinds a cord of growling, feral want in his own belly. Jack left, and by all rights it was the correct decision for them all, but fuck if it doesn’t threaten to push Izzy into a burning fury every time he thinks about it. It’s unfair to do this to him, especially now when he needs to focus more than ever. When they’re so close to the next job. The next win.
Their standoff stays silent, but the conversation is deafening. The corners of Jack’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, and Izzy’s gaze darts from them to Jack’s lips and back. Just like that, It’s over. He’s lost.
Jack takes a sudden breath and pulls himself up to stand, smoothing his hands down the front of his garish, red NASCAR windbreaker in victory as he turns and slowly begins to walk away. Slowly, Izzy is sure, because it’s a trap. And he falls right in.
“Rackham-”
“Yeah?” Jack answers, but doesn’t turn back. The window of opportunity feels like it’s beginning to close. Izzy has to make a decision, and fast. So he does, much to his own detriment. Maybe. Most likely.
“I’ll be finished at six.”
Jack stops for a beat, and Izzy knows he’s down bad. Pathetic.
“Hilton,” he answers. “The usual number.”
And then he’s gone. Izzy waits until Jack is completely out of sight before taking a deep breath, holding, and letting it out through his nose. Something trembly has found its way into his bones, hot from the fire in his belly and cold from the cross wind of defeat. It’s always been like this with them, and the exhilaration is second only to the sport. He lets another moment pass before opening his eyes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets a reminder for later, post-practice frazzled Izzy. He’ll need it.
Jack. Hilton. Room 69.