Chapter Text
The view of Los Angeles from the 100th floor of Bigg’s Tower was a good distraction for the first 10 or so minutes of waiting, but now, almost an hour later, the cityscape and all its wonders did little to sooth the growing knot in Cruz’s stomach. She paced before the tall widows, heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Click, click, click. Stop. She opened her tablet to review her notes. One could never be too prepared when when meeting one of the world’s wealthiest men, but all those thoughtful little words and supporting graphics slipped through her mind like water through a fist. More pacing. Click, click, click-
The soft clicking of the secretary typing away at her keyboard stopped.
“Mr. Biggs will be out shortly,” she huffed, lips pursed in disapproval, looking over the rims of her glasses at Cruz.
“Oh, I understand Mr. Biggs is a busy man.” Cruz offered the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m just really excited to get started, that’s all.” Anxious too, but excited wasn’t a lie and it sounded a lot better. “Getting in on the ground floor to build a whole new Piston Cup team? Wow!” Her nervous chuckle echoed through the cavernous room.
The secretary remained stone faced, judgement written on every wrinkle.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” The woman pointed to a small row of chairs against the opposite wall.
Cruz’s shoulders drooped. Did one crabby secretary’s first impression really matter? Should it? Probably not, and she wouldn't let one minor embarrassment ruin her day. She sat primly in one of the insanely expensive and equally uncomfortable chairs. There was no reason to worry why it was taking Mr. Biggs so long to see her. She’d aced the job interview; Mr. Biggs all put sang her praises. There was no reason to think Mr. Biggs changed his mind about her or discovered some deal breaking flaw. And if he had, surely he’d have the courtesy to inform her before now.
Deep breaths, Cruz. Say your mantra. I am a fluffy cloud. I am a fluffy cloud.
A muffled shout snapped Cruz out of her mediation. More yelling emanated from the double doors leading into Mr. Biggs office, soft and indistinct at first, but growing louder and clearer as it escalated.
The secretary pulled out her phone, perhaps to record the show. Got to ensure you have the juiciest gossip to share before meeting Karen and Barbara around the water cooler!
“No! You tell Reverham to get that damn brat under control because I’ve had it!” Was that Mr. Biggs? It was definitely a man’s voice. “He has one more chance! One!” A pause. “Now Stats, you listen here and you listen good, I don’t care...”
Cruz fidgeted, mind racing to put a positive spin on what she just heard. Reverham? As in Ray Reverham? The opportunity to work with him was one for the reasons she accepted this job. Was there trouble at the racing center? And a brat? Maybe one of the aspiring rookie racers was behind the chaos. And if Reverham had trouble controlling them, well, they’d be a challenge. That could be good. Challenges were opportunities to grow.
“Ms. Rameriz!” A booming voice greeted, the doors to Mr. Biggs’s office swinging open. Cruz startled. The secretary's phone dropped to the floor with a crack. While she had met Biggs before during her virtual job interview, seeing his face on a computer monitor did little to prepare her for just how overwhelmingly enormous his was. It wasn’t enough Biggs towered tall enough to make professional basketball players feel jealous, oh no; he possessed the kind of thick, powerful build associated with weightlifters, not CEOs.
Cruz stood, smoothed down her skirt, and put on her sweetest smile. No, she had not just overheard this man screaming and ranting about something just seconds earlier. Nope, not her.
Grinning broadly, Biggs reached out to shake her hand, completely engulfing it in his palm Besides the ruddiness in his cheeks, he showed no signs of his earlier outburst.
“Mr. Biggs.” She craned her neck upward to look at him, wondering if this what ants felt like. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. And thank you for choosing me for your team.”
Biggs’s green eyes danced with mirth. “No, no, thank you for choosing Team Biggs. I wanted the best trainer, and now I got her!” He held the office door open, ushering her inside with a wave of his hand.
Cruz savored the little confidence boost his words provided. The best? Her reputation as a trainer was excellent; good enough to be considered a raising star in the industry. Still, she was relatively new, so it surprised Cruz when Biggs Industries contacted her directly about a trainer position at their brand-new racing center. They might be new to Piston Cup racing, but as one of the world’s largest technology conglomerates, they had the money and resources to be a top tier sponsor, which meant they attracted top tier talent. A crew chief of Reverham’s caliber being on the payroll was proof of that.
Biggs’s office possessed the same sterile luxury as the reception room: marble floors, walnut wood paneling devoid of any decorations, and an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Why someone would spend so much money to make a room so unwelcoming, Cruz would never understand. A large conference table and chairs served as the only furniture, where a frazzled man sat typing away on his laptop, his fingers blurs of motion.
“Cruz, meet Sekhar Bahadur, our head data scientists at the Biggs Racing Center. We all just call him Stats,” said Biggs, pulling out a chair. “Please sit here, Ms. Rameriz.”
“Good afternoon, Stats. And, please, you can both call me Cruz.” Cruz sat down, eyeing a thick binder laying before her. Across the table, Stats continued working.
Bigg’s cleared his throat. “Stats!” Biggs barked. “A fellow human has joined us! Say to hello!”
Stats looked up and blinked rapidly as if coming out of a daze, thick glasses making him look owlish. “Oh, sorry!” he sputtered, wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “Welcome. I look forward to working with you.”
Biggs sighed, sinking into the chair at the head of the table, thick fingers drumming on its polished surface. “I owe both of you an apology.” His head shook ruefully. “I’ll be blunt, Cruz: an incident at the training center this morning completely derailed our day, leaving Stats and me to mop up the mess. Believe me, it’s not my nature to snap at people or disrespect anyone’s time.”
Cruz bit her lip, considering. “Well, while waiting outside, I heard something about Reverham needing to get a brat under control. May I ask about that?”
Biggs groaned, running a hand through his thinning ginger hair.
“Seeing as said brat will be your problem too, yes,” said Biggs. “His name is Jackson Storm. He and another trainee, Tim Treadless, raced each other on simulator. Apparently, they have some sort of rivalry. Storm lost and damaged the simulator while throwing a temper tantrum.”
“I’ve emailed you an incident report with all the details, Cruz,” said Stats, closing his laptop.
“Yes, and you’ll find every incident report concerning his other little escapades in that blinder,” said Biggs, pointing to it. “Rude, disrespectful, uncooperative...the list goes on and on. Don’t misunderstand me, Cruz, I know the boy is young and that the sport attracts its share of difficult personalities. But when someone’s hysterical diva meltdowns start costing me time and money, then I’ve lost all patience.” He crossed his arms, his cheeks going all ruddy again. “The only reason Storm isn’t currently packing his things is because Reverham begged for another chance.”
Cruz cracked open the binder, curiosity piqued. Reverham had a reputation for being a hard driving, no nonsense sort of man who didn’t suffer fools. He had been the crew chief to a three-time Piston Cup champion, for God’s sake. Why would he plead the case of someone who, by all rights, sounded like a worst kind of person alive? What made Jackson Storm so special?
Cruz thumbed through the little colored tabs along the blinder’s side and flipped to the one labeled ‘Storm, Jackson’. There, among the reports, was a small photo of the man himself. Cruz leaned forward slightly, heartbeat quickening, all thoughts of Storm’s many transgressions momentarily forgotten. He had dark hair, olive skin, and angular features on a face devoid of emotion. An angel’s face craved from stone. Perfect and cold and unreachable.
Biggs snorted; an eyebrow raised. “Now Cruz, don’t tell me you’re a sucker for a pretty face.” He winked as if teasing, but his voice had an unmistakable edge to it. Likely, Cruz realized, he feared she’d more interested in ogling Storm than reigning him in.
“No!” Cruz stammered. Heat rose in her cheeks. "It's just that Storm must have some redeeming qualities if Reverham is going to bat for him.”
“His metrics are incredible,” said Stats adoringly, an almost dreamy look on his pudgy face. From the way he spoke, it appeared Storm’s metrics were just as pretty as his face. “That’s all in his file. His performance blows all others out of the water.”
Biggs leaned towards Cruz and, cupping a hand around her ear, whispered loudly in a way Stats was clearly meant to hear: “A numbers guy. Watcha going to do?”
Stats sat up straight and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose in, Cruz assumed, an attempt to look authoritative. “With all due respect, Mr. Biggs, if you want a rookie capable of winning a Piston Cup out the gate, it’s all about the numbers,” he lectured, tapping a finger hard against the table for extra emphasis. “Amazing numbers! Numbers good enough to go toe-to-toe with the likes of Lightning McQueen and Bobby Swift despite not having their years of experience.”
“What?!” Cruz cried. Biggs wanted to win the Piston Cup with a rookie? Something that had never been done in the history of racing? No one mentioned that during her interview. True, Lightning McQueen had nearly done it, but that was Lightning McQueen, winner of seven Piston Cups in 10 years. Biggs could train a thousand rookies and never find anyone that gifted.
The weight of Biggs’s stare upon her was almost physical.
“Opps, got a little over excited.” She forced out a laugh, trying hard to cut the tension. “I mean...wow! Finding the first rookie to win the Piston Cup? Now that would make an impression!”
Suddenly Reverham and Stat’s behavior, the pleading and fawning, over a supposed troublemaker like Storm made sense. Talent like that only came around once a generation, if you were lucky. Once found, you fought like hell to keep it. She glanced back down at Storm’s file, giddiness building inside her. What would it be like work beside someone that gifted? To mold that kind of raw talent? If she couldn’t be a racer herself, certainly this was the next best thing.
As for Storm’s attitude problem, well, you could usually cut away the rotten part of an apple before eating it.
“And you should be excited! There’s no better way to show the world that Biggs Racing is here and means business. But that’s not going to happen if things don’t change at the racing center!” said Biggs, slapping his palm against the table. “Reverham is good but old fashioned. That approach isn’t getting the results I need. Hopefully support from someone with a fresh and new approach will help things along.”
“Fresh and new is what I do!” said Cruz. Time to show Biggs and Stats what she’s all about. “Typically, first thing I do is meet each trainee privately to create a custom plan for them. Find out their goals, their strengths, and their weaknesses.” Her voice grew louder and more animated as she continued, becoming something fierce. “Together we discover what obstacles are holding them back from greatness and find a way to push through! Greet it, meet it, and defeat it is my motto!”
Biggs nodded, lips set in a hard, thin line. “You’re confident. Good. Stats was the one who recommended you. He has yet to steer me wrong, so I have high hopes for you, Cruz. That binder has information on all our trainees. Stats will go over it with you to help prepare you for tomorrow.” Biggs stood, stretched, then looked at his watch. “I had planned to go over it with you too, but, alas, I no longer have the time and duty calls. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. Good-bye for now, Mr. Biggs.”
Biggs strode out the room without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone with Stats.
“You recommended me?” said Cruz, titling her head slightly as she regarded him. “I mean, thank you. But...how did you hear of me? And why me?”
“Oh, I’ve been keeping tabs on potential new trainers for some time. It’s been obvious to me that Reverham needed more help, so I looked for some names to suggest to Mr. Biggs,” Stats explained. “You know, a number of your former trainees recently found Piston Cup sponsors. Those I got ahold of spoke very highly of you, Cruz.”
“So...what you’re saying is...I have excellent metrics.”
Stats threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “Yes, that’s it exactly. You have excellent metrics.”