“This interview has an agenda, and we’d like to return to that,” I continued, then just for shits and giggles, added, “Andcan wepleasecorrect my name on all of the advertising moving forward? There seems to be an incorrect spelling.”
“I–ah, yes, one moment,” the moderator said, scrambling to grab his notepad before rising to rush toward me, pen and paper in hand. “You can put the correct spelling here. I’m so sorry about that.”
Cal chuckled, because he knew how diabolical I was being. I quickly scribbled down my name on the pad and handed it back. The moderator glanced down, then burst out laughing.
Zandvoort Media Day feat. Callum Fraser + AurélieDuboisFraser
The moderator took his seat again, looking much more relaxed than the start. Maybe it was because Cal and I were oozing a kind of joy that wasn’t often seen in the paddock.
Which was a damn shame, because I couldn’t imagine my life without it now.
I reached over and intertwined our fingers again.
“For the first time,” I said into the microphone, “we get to win together. Fraser versus Fraser is both a rivalry and a romance story at the end of it all.”
And the room erupted—not in scandal, not in speculation, but in something that sounded suspiciously like celebration.
Callum squeezed my hand.
I squeezed back.
No, we were never just a rivalry, and it wasn’t just about redemption for the both of us. It was a revolution. And revolutions, as they all just learned, are always better led in pairs.
The world had tried to burn us, but we were still here. We werestill here. Still rising. Still rewriting the sport.
Two drivers. Two fighters. Two people who refused to stay small.
And for the first time, the entire grid understood something they should’ve seen all along:
We weren’t entering the future.
We were shaping it.
Together.
The rain didn’t fall—itattacked. Thick sheets hammered the visor, turning every lap into a knife-edge gamble between instinct and insanity. My hands cramped around the wheel, tendons screaming, but I didn’t loosen my grip. Not when the season was shifting beneath my feet and every choice I’d made since in my life had led me right here.
Sector two was a blur of spray, aquaplaning, Dutch orange smoke bleeding into the grey sky. The kind of conditions that made rookies pray and veterans question their life choices.
But I didn’t pray.
I hunted.
And when I crossed the line in P1, engine roaring like a final declaration, something burst open inside me.
Myfirst win since the world changed.
Since summer break. Since we got married. Since the sport started reshaping itself around truths we forced into the light.
I climbed out of the car to the thunder of the crowd, taking it all in—the chaos, the history, the weight of the rain on my skin.
And then I saw her.
Always, always the first thing my eyes found.
Aurélie stood just beyond the podium barriers, soaked head to toe in champagne and rain, hair plastered to her cheeks, boots dripping, and looking at me like I was still the boy she’d seen a decade ago—bright-eyed, rough-edged, and destined to collide with her.
She waved like a total fangirl.
