Crashgate

Just before stepping into F1, I was an F2 driver who retired after an accident. Afterward, I switched careers to become a physical therapist and was living a monotonous but peaceful life. “Hello, Hanna. How have you been?” “Were we close?” That was before Harold Devlin, the previous year’s F1 World Champion who had once raced on the same circuit as me, appeared. Harold, for some inexplicable reason, offered me the position of his personal physical therapist. “I don’t want to. There are plenty of professionals, so if you want, you can just put out a job posting…” “£100,000. Not annual—monthly. Travel and accommodation expenses excluded.” Along with an outrageous monthly salary. “There’s a limit to how much you can take someone for a fool. What do you really want?” “Hanna, I want to feel as refreshed as possible when I get in the car. And I’d like you to provide a few other services for that.” The moment I faced the blazing flame in those blue eyes, I realized something. I wasn’t all that naïve either. I picked up the cup from the table and splashed milk tea on him. Yet two weeks later, despite my refusal, I was in Harold’s grasp. “Harold.” “Call me Harry. We’re going to be close from now on.” Unbelievably so. Sitting on the bed in a gown, he smiled at me as I came out of the shower.