I’d be watching for the flicker that came after.
Sunday Morning
Sunlight leaked around the hotel curtains long before the alarm. The hum of traffic on the street below was already building—delivery vans, early commuters, the distant thrum of the city waking up.
I’d barely slept. My brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard engines.
I swung my legs off the bed and rubbed grit from my eyes. The air was already warm, sticky. Coffee first. Then war.
By the time I reached the paddock shuttle, the queue was already stacked with team personnel in polos and mirroredsunglasses, talking quietly. I flashed my press pass and took a window seat. The short ride from the hotel to the heart of Albert Park passed with chattering voices and the buzz of excitement for the day ahead. The bus pulled up in the shadow of a grandstand, the air fluttering with sponsor flags, and the faint smell of burnt rubber riding the morning heat.
A few heads turned my way when I climbed down from the bus. Word travelled fast.
Two other journalists from The Racing Post stood by the accreditation gate, lanyards tangled, eyes bright with gossip.
“Archer,” one of them called. “Heard Volkov nearly ripped his press officer’s head off after your question yesterday.”
I smiled. “Good. Maybe he’ll remember me next time.”
“You planning to push it again?”
“Depends if he gives me another reason.”
They laughed, but there was a flicker of wariness there too. They could smell blood. They just weren’t sure whose it would be yet.
Inside the media centre, the air was cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. Rows of desks, screens everywhere, the faint drone of the track feed in the background. I dropped my bag and opened my laptop. My inbox was a mess of notifications: PR invites, press schedules, half a dozen messages from my editor.
Be careful who you talk to today.
Ross has friends in the FIA.
If Volkov approaches you, record everything.
I smirked and typed back:
Always do.
A flicker of movement on the TV screen caught my attention. Obsidian’s garage. Volkov stood near his car, fireproof race suit half-zipped, his undershirt clinging to his athletic frame and his head bent toward his race engineer. He lookedcalm, but even through a camera lens I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened when the crew brushed past.
The broadcast cut to the commentators—Marty and Tara, already live for the pre-race coverage.
On screen, Tara’s perfectly coiffed curls didn’t move an inch in the Melbourne heat. “—And there’s Volkov, looking as icy as ever. Not a man you want to get in the way of this morning.”
Marty chuckled beside her. “I don’t know, Tara. After yesterday’s fireworks, I’d say he’s got a few distractions already. Let’s hope he drives better than he smiles. Jamie? How’s it looking down in the pit lane?”
The feed switched again, this time to the pit lane where Jamie Kavanagh paced between camera and chaos with his usual practised ease.
“Well, Marty,” Jamie said, flashing that boyish grin of his, “sparks certainly flew during qualifying yesterday and the whole paddock is talking about Vega’s impressive lap time. But all eyes are on Obsidian as Volkov aims for another lights to flag win.”
I turned away from the screen and leaned back, letting the noise of the paddock wash over me.
Somewhere out there, Aleksandr Volkov was preparing to do what he did best: dominate.
And I was preparing to find out what he was hiding.
Chapter Two – Melbourne Grand Prix Sunday
Aleksandr Volkov – Pre-Race Warm Up
