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@kingking15
| if you aren't listening to mel king's team radio you're missing out on an entire plot of this season
@lanwdc1
| uh i dont even go here but can someone explain why king and her engineer are like /that/
"Fuck!" Mel exclaimed, banging the heel of her palm against her racing wheel. "I was too slow around turn 6 and 7."
"Just relax, you know this track like the back of your hand. Shake it off and go again."
He didn't get it. Frank Langdon, Mel's race engineer, was always like this with her. Full of gentle encouragements and chaste updates on the track conditions. He was nothing like her last engineer; Arthur, who had left Williams when he was offered the Team Principal role at Alpine, was brilliant but often described by others as frigid or callous. In the middle of a lap he would come on the radio to tell her she was too slow around an apex, that she oversteered, understeered, 'steered funny' (Mel never quite figured out what that one meant), hit the breaks too early--his was determined to beat every bad habit out of her the moment it arose. He did not believe in compliments, once explaining that the race result was the compliment.
"Where does my time put me?" She inquired, trying to sound casual and not let the anxiety bleed through the radio.
"Don't worry about it." Frank's philosophy aggravated her. It ran counter to her nature. He was opaque about her performance not matter how she implored. She confronted him about it after their first official race weekend, having given him the opportunity to adjust to her over testing, but he just shrugged it off. That's your highest finish on this track is it not?
She passed the starting line, sweat beading down her temple through her helmet. It wasn't even a race day and her arms were already starting to feel heavy.
"Beautiful!" He cheered through the radio as she entered the pit lane. She could barely make out where he was sitting at the pit wall down the road, hanging off his chair so he could watch her drive in but the width of his smile was audible through the receiver.
"The lap? What was my time? How far off from first?"
He cleared his throat, it hitched like there was something funny about what she said.
"Sure, the lap. We'll talk more in the garage, but you made it to Q3."
Frank hopped off the wall, sauntering across the lane towards her garage. Javadi had taken her helmet and provided her with a cool towel to bring her temperature down in the blistering heat.
One hand wrapped around the rim of her halo, the other flat next to the cockpit. If it wasn't for the heat of the Australian sunshine and the exertion of making it through two rounds of qualifying, she was sure this is what would cause her body to flush. His tall figured towered over her, blocking her view of the rest of the garage. Just for a moment she could pretend they were the only people here despite the dozens bustling around.
"How are you feeling kid?" He was 12 years old than her, which hardly felt old enough for him to designate her as a child--Mel had a theory that he was doing it precisely because he thought it was funny. It's not like he could be her father, not without being a victim she supposed, and it was no secret to anyone on the paddock that Mel was orphaned.
On April 20th, 2003, Alan King died across the world from his family. He was an average but consistent driver which had earned him a steady career, hopping from team to team before finally settling into the second driver role at Jordan-Ford. The sky was clear and the track was dry from the San Marino Grand Prix. It should've been an unremarkable race, he should've finished outside the points but far from the bottom, he should've gone back to his hotel and made an international phone call to his wife and daughters back in Michigan. So many things that 'should've' happened, but this sport was unpredictable. The entire thrill was that they were pushing everything to the limits; their cars were designed to trade off just enough stability for speed, the components could break down, the drivers could make errors or break too late. It felt safe enough most of the time, the drivers could delude themselves into invincibility, but in the back of their minds, they knew that the real exchange for their larger the life salaries was the chance of losing their life.
Mel couldn't remember all the details; his brakes failed at just the wrong moment, the impact of the crash severing just the wrong nerve. Twin wails could be heard across the Atlantic.
Melissa King lost her father on a grainy television, and the whole motorsport world was a witness.
"I'm frustrated, Frank."
"Frustrated?" He parroted, looking at her like she had grown an extra head, "over what?"
A stray tear fell down the eye furthest away from him, "I hate when I've practiced this hard and I still can't be perfect. I hate failing. And a certain someone won't give me any feedback."
He rolled his eyes at her, she's lodged these complaints at him nearly a dozen times at him. Despite the fact that he's grown used to them, she had no intent on stopping until he corrected his behaviour.
"Your final lap was near perfect, so I don't know why you're so stressed about it."
"Do I have the fastest lap?" Mel pushed.
He cracked his neck, a dangerous place to draw her attention. "Well no, but it's not just you on this team, is it?"
Frank should be thankful the designer and everyone else at the factory couldn't hear his comments on their work. Not that he was wrong, even Mel couldn't pretend otherwise. Their power unit couldn't compare to Ferrari, and they just didn't have the money or resources to out design the likes of Adrian Newey. Her teammate, Carlos, was eliminated in Q1, by all accounts, she was out performing the car.
But that wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough. Any given Sunday, that's what Mel believed. The difference between first and tenth could be hundredths of a second, it didn't matter that she didn't have the car, that she wasn't Max Verstappen or Trinity Santos, there were a million other factors that could change the course of a qualifying or race. If Mel was perfect, it could be her.
"Frank, I need to know how I'm doing or I'm going to be stuck."
"Is that what you think? His mirthless chuckle washed over her.
"What I think?" Mel was incredulous, was he even listening to her ever? "What do you think your job is?"
He crouched down gently, careful not to aggravate his back--an old injury he refused to talk about no matter how she asked. Blue eyes were level with hers, his nose only a few inches away from her. Foolishly she had thought that him towering over her was overwhelming, but that was much more bearable than whatever this was.
No one had warned her how difficult it would be to have a engineer you were impossibly attracted to.
"I'm going to ignore that implied insult because I don't think you even realize how it sounds." Mel tilted her head to the side, replaying her own words in her head until it clicked. If only there was room to slouch in her moulded seat. If only she could disappear beneath the cockpit. He paused, glancing at the oversized digital clock behind them. 7 minutes to Q3. "What I think is that you're a great strategist on your own, hell I'll let you override my calls any day. But," he tapped the middle of her forehead three times, "you are so self aware you get stuck in your head and you don't trust your body. So my job is to get you out of it."
Mel swallowed a lump she hadn't realized was growing in her throat.
Nothing like Arthur. Or any other race engineer she'd worked with. He saw her. Right through as though she was actually transparent. It was unnerving, comforting, terrifying, touching--she couldn't decide.
--
The clock ticked down, but she made it just in time for one final flying lap. One last chance to go tighter around the turn, break later, beat Trinity Santos' time if she really optimizes her lap.
"Hey Mel, we're still waiting on a few more laps to finish, but it's looking good--I mean we're overjoyed to have a car in the top 10 regardless of placement. You fucking killed it Babe."
Babe. Babe. A slip, those pet names came out of him like water. It wouldn't go unnoticed by her fans who were bound to be split between finding it endearing, and calling him a raging misogynist. They'd clearly never heard his team radios with John Shen if they thought this had to do with her being a woman.
Still. It threw her off. The endearment. The fact that she could hear in his message that he expected her to ditch this lap and box.
That wasn't happening.
He must've been distracted with his post-race routine because it took far too long for him to realize she was not decelerating.
"Uh, Mel?" His unsure voice crackled over the radio. Mel wishes sometimes that she could see his face when they spoke, so she could get the full message, were his brows furrowed in confusion or anger? Were his eyes wide in horror, or narrowed in irritation? "You're going a little fast for someone who is supposed to enter the pit lane."
"No."
"No? Mel, we want you to come in, you already--"
"I can do this. Now...shut up." She spoke through gritted teeth desperate to maintain her composure.
"I'm sorry about what I said, I didn't--but seriously, you have to--"
"Langdon. Shut. Up." The nerve he had to bring it back up just before turn 6.
Downshift. All of her strength depressing on the gas pedal. The wheel felt unsteady under her gloved grasp. The car wasn't responding. Mel furiously tried twisting the wheel to correct the car to no avail. She had oversteered at turn 6 at Albert Park. She lifted her foot off the gas, slammed on the breaks, but it was already too late. The cobalt blue car was barreling over the kerb and into the gravel, and she swears she blinked on impact with the tire barrier and when she opened her eyes again she and the vehicle were turned sideways.
"Mel? Melissa?" She can hear Frank's voice but it sounds far away, almost like a ghost calling out to her. Mel can't be sure if it's real or a memory.
Did Dad hear his name called over and over? Did his engineer bother, or did they already know?
"Sweetheart, I really need you to let me know if you can hear me." Christ, that was going to make it to the main broadcast. Maybe she should play dead. Maybe then she wouldn't be expected to answer for him.
Mel groaned loud enough for it to be picked up through the mic, not ready to use her voice yet. It felt like all the air had been punched out of her chest.
"Can you get up on your own?" She shouldn't have pushed herself. She should've listened to him. If she had listened to him then she wouldn't be stuck trying to discern if his voice was cracking or if it was just the static of their system. "Actually sit tight, I see marshals on the way, they'll help you out." It was easy to imagine him standing at the pit wall--he abandons his seat when he's stressed, running a shaking hand through his thick strands, eyes darting between the broadcast feed, her on-board, the telemetry, all in effort to diagnose what went wrong.
"I--I'm fine. I'm good. Sorry about the car."
"Thank fuck, Jesus. I do not give a shit about the car. It's fine. It's just metal. You're...They'll fix it. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes Frank. Please, I'll see you in a minute."
What transpired after she climbed out of the damaged car was a blur. She can't remember the path they took as they escorted her to the paddoick. She knows she checked the timing but she couldn't tell you where she finished, nor anyone else for that matter. The FIA doctors checked her out; she might feel sore over the next few days, but she wasn't concussed, and as of now there were no signs of any long term damage, but they strongly suggested she visit a hospital tonight just in case.
It felt like she was held hostage in the medical trailer forever, time passing in an imperceptible sludge before they agreed to let her go. Dr. Collins had loaded her up with painkillers but Mel still felt bone tired, an additional layer of exhaustion from spending what felt like hours answering their questions. She might cry if she has to answer another, and she she hadn't even met with her team since; hadn't seen him yet.
Mel stepped carefully down the exterior steps, hands gripping both railings.
Her eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight when warm palms stoked her exposed shoulders.
Frank had been waiting for her. Did they call him (or the team) to come pick her up? Had he been waiting this whole time? Five minutes? Was it just a coincidence that their paths crossed while he was on his way out of the paddock?
Really, she couldn't bring herself to care why he was there, she was just glad he was. The tension released in her shoulders, and her head began to quiet down.
"Hi, I'm fine. Mostly, cleared. No concussion!" She beamed up at him, like he should be proud of her for it. His grasp climbed to her jaw, tilting her head like he needed to confirm her mental status himself. There was a deep line between his brows, and his typically bright eyes looked stormy. She's the one who crashed, it should scare her more, it should remind her of her father, but she thinks whatever fucked up gene that drove her father to keep pushing no matter the risk was also in her. It's him who needs the comforting.
She wrapped her thin arms around his wide torso, ignoring the layer of sweat she can feel through his team polo. The sensation would disgust her usually, but right now she just wanted to bury her face into him.
"That was really scary." He whispered into the crown of her head, gently brushing out her braid. "I know you're okay, and it's not the worst a driver of mine has been..." He trailed off, unsure where the end of his thought went.
Mel nuzzled into his soft chest, grazing her cheek against the hair exposed by his unbuttoned neckline. They were fused together in silence, gently rocking back and forth in a circle.
She knows they look ridiculous, she knows this is unbecoming of a driver and her race engineer, but she hopes if anyone saw them, and looked for long enough that they'd understand.
"Hey Frank?" She asked, peering up at him with her chin lodged in his collar bone. He responded in kind looking back down at her, blocking out the late afternoon sun.
"Yeah Mel?" He brushed a stray blond strand out of her face.
"Don't call me Babe unless you mean it, okay?"