What I didn’t say was: I don’t know if we are.
He nodded as if that was the only reasonable answer. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.” A beat passed. “My father isn’t.”
That one landed harder than I expected.
It should have comforted me, but all I heard was everything he wasn’t saying. That pride was safe, but choosing me still wasn’t.
But Monza doesn’t pause for moral dilemmas. At 11:00 sharp, the first strategy briefing began, and the world snapped back into engine maps, tire compounds, and braking zones.
Low downforce. Full throttle for 80% of the lap. Tire degradation higher than simulations predicted. Slipstreaming essential in qualifying. Track temperatures climbing faster than expected. Ferrari running lighter fuel. Mercedes gambling on a one-stop. Rain possible Sunday.
Truth has consequences,I reminded myself.
So does speed.
I had Jonathan’s radio feed piped into my headset, and the static crackle made my pulse race as if I were in the cockpit with him.
Jonathan:“Track’s heating up, Shep. Everyone’s out already, we’re sitting ducks here.”
I leaned closer to the monitor. He was right. The timing board lit up with sector times as car after car hit the track.
Shep:“Hold your position. Thirty seconds more.”
Thirty seconds? My pen tapped nervously against my notebook. At Monza, thirty seconds was forever.
Jonathan:“We’ll miss the window. I need to be on track now!”
I could picture him, jaw tight inside the helmet, fighting that instinct to go.
Shep:“Negative. The pack’s going to bottleneck at Ascari. Let them trip over each other. You’ll have clear air. Trust me.”
There it was. Trust me. Shep had reduced the whole qualifying session to two words.
The screens showed Jonathan finally rolling down pit lane, the Mercedes engine snarling to life as he began his out lap. My heart thudded with every sector time. Yellow, then green, then another green. Clean air. Perfect lines.
Engineer:“Jonathan, you’re through to Q3. P4 overall. Excellent work.”
Gasps rippled through the press room. Reporters looked up from their screens, impressed despite themselves.
Jonathan:“Lucky timing.”
Shep:“Not luck. Eyes up, Hirsch. That was planned.”
I pulled off my headset for a moment, the room around me roaring with keyboards and commentary. Everyone else saw a clever strategist and a driver who had obeyed at the last second. I saw something more dangerous: Jonathan letting Shep’s judgment overrule his own instincts.
It had worked this time. But what if the trust was misplaced next time? What if the gamble failed, and Jonathan was the one left paying the price?
I forced myself back to my notes, but my hands shook as I typed. The championship wasn’t just being fought on the track.It was being fought in Jonathan’s ear, and Shep’s voice was winning. What did that mean for the final qualifying round? For the race tomorrow? For Jonathan’s career?
The media center had gone hushed as Q3 began, everyone glued to the timing screens. Ten cars, twelve minutes, everything on the line. My headset crackled again.
Jonathan:“Okay, Shep, what’s the plan?”
Even his tone had shifted. Less resistance, more… deference. I caught my breath.
Shep:“Out late. Last man across the line. You’ll pick up a tow down the main straight. Everyone else will be tripping over each other.”
It took me a moment to translate the racer slang.If you time it right, you can get behind another car on the long straight and let their slipstream pull you faster.
