We were seated a few rows back, alongside two of the other journos from the dinner. I’d been running into them all day—corridor crossings, mutual grumbling in the coffee queue—and I had to admit, it was kind of nice. This world could feel solitary, but having allies—even ones with rival bylines—made it easier.
A ripple of interest passed through the room as the final pairing of the day appeared at the edge of the stage. Aleksandr Volkov and Callum Drake, walking in alongside their shared press officer, Heidi, who looked like she was already planning where to stand for the least damage control.
Drake flopped onto the far end of the sofa, slouching with long limbs and an insouciant grin. Aleks took his seat with military precision, spine straight, expression unreadable. His mic wire trailed neatly across his lap. Even from across the room, he looked… sharp. Sharper than usual.
Caroline caught me watching and gave me a look. “Enigmatic,” she mouthed.
I rolled my eyes and faced forward, notebook in hand. The odds of me getting called on were slim—but I had to be here.
Because Aleks Volkov was still giving nothing away.
And I was dying to find out what he’d do next.
“You got a question?” Caroline whispered to me.
“I always have questions.” I grinned. “But they won’t pick me.”
“Ugh. Don’t be one of those women, Elena.” Caroline sat up straighter and part of me bristled at her comment. But I didn’t have time to ruminate. The room was settling, the cameras turning red, and the press conference was officially live.
Richard Haversham leaned forward in his armchair, legs crossed, tablet in hand. “Final panel of the day, ladies and gentlemen. We’re joined now by Callum Drake and Aleksandr Volkov. Let’s keep things concise and professional—no dramatic monologues, please.” His tone was dry, the kind of wit that earned smirks from the paddock regulars. “We’ll take a few questions from the floor. Bill?” He indicated one of the old guard from a daily sports publication.
He asked something bland about Obsidian’s position in the Constructors’ Championship being challenged by Hawthorn and Nova. Volkov gave the answer that he’d undoubtedly been told to give.
“We respect our rivals,” he said coolly. “It’s a long season. We focus on one race at a time.”
A few more questions followed. Drake handled them with charm, Aleks with steel. I tried to watch both equally, but my gaze kept drifting back to Volkov. He hadn’t looked at me once—but I could feel him. That electric undercurrent. The live wire no one else could see.
“Yes, Caroline?” Richard said, tugging me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t even seen Caroline’s hand go up.
My friend dropped her hand and looked down at her notes, coming over flustered, which was not like her at all.
“Sorry, I had something, just a sec…” She flipped through her notebook but her foot pressed down hard on mine and I winced. “Grab it,” she hissed.
Oh! Realisation dawned. I jumped to my feet. “Callum, there’s been a lot of speculation about how certain teams manage performance across different conditions. From adriver’s perspective, how much influence do you really have over setup strategy?”
The room was deathly quiet. Heidi, standing just out of the shot of the cameras, barely contained her irritation. Volkov’s face was unreadable, but I sensed the effort he was exerting to maintain his neutral expression. I lowered myself back into my seat, stunned that I’d got my question out.
Richard didn’t flinch—just turned his head slightly to Callum, eyebrows arched in polite invitation. “That’s a good one. Care to enlighten us, Mr Drake?”
Callum shifted in his seat and gave a sheepish half-laugh, buying himself a second.
“Well, that depends how many races you’ve won.” He glanced sideways at Aleks with a grin. “Some of us have more say than others.”
A few chuckles rippled around the room. But his expression quickly sobered.
“No, seriously—it’s a team sport. We give feedback, we talk through balance, tyre behaviour, things like that. But setup? That’s mostly the engineers. I mean, we’ve got the data, the sims, the historical models. You don’t argue with that. You just… trust the process.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes you’re P12 in Japan.”
More laughs, but Aleks didn’t crack a smile. He stared ahead, stone-faced.
Callum glanced his way again, then turned to the crowd.
“I think every driver wants more control. But the truth is, nine times out of ten, the car decides how the race is going to go.”
Trust the process. That phrase again. I’d heard it twice already today. Once from a team rep, once from an engineer.
The process.
The software.
