But Monaco is such a hard race to return on. Especially for a man whose talent is so deeply rooted in his overtaking ability.
When Julien looks across the table, he meets Rafael’s scowl. “I can drive my car just fine.”
My car.
That’s right, because Julien is just some reserve driver. Because Julien is obviously the enemy here, even after repeatedly stating he doesn’t want to drive this weekend.
Message received.
They break for lunch, and Rafael is the first to leave. He races out of the door, pushing past Lorenzo and stomping down the hallway. Any hope Julien had of discussing strategy leaves with him, which is probably by design.
The team principal pauses in the doorway, sending a quick glance over his shoulder at Julien. There’s something there, something calculating, but the older man turns back without another word and exits the room.
Everyone clocks the exchange and all eyes fall onto the reserve driver.
“It was just FP1,” Julien says to no one in particular. “He’ll get there.”
He doesn’t have a bag or anything, but Julien still takes a moment to gather his station. Headphones nicely positioned, computer put to sleep. Eventually the judging stares turn away and he can breathe again.
Davide hangs back as well. The older Italian man rubs at his temples and breathes deeply through his nose.
If Rafael is avoiding everyone else, maybe his race engineer will know how to get through to him.
“Hey, Davide?” Julien says, quietly. “When do you think would be a good time to?—?”
“Don’t.”
Um. Okay. “I didn’t even finish the question.”
“Don’t talk to Rafael.” Finally, Davide’s hands fall. He looks down as he gathers his notebooks and laptop. “Take it from me—let him blow off some steam this weekend and he’ll bounce back.”
This weekend? But Julien has advice for Qualifyingtomorrow. “I just want to help.”
“I know, but he won’t see it like that.”
No offense to Davide, but he doesn’t understand Rafael and Julien’s relationship. They help each other—that’s how it works. Julien can’t sit on his hands when his notes could be the difference between Q2 and Q3.
When he finally zips his bag, Davide sighs. “I know he mentored you, but he fucked himself over by doing that. It’s hard enough to fightThomaswhen he’s consistently winning. Now Rafael also has to compete against the memory of you.”
“We’re notlikethat.” Julien doesn’t want to steal the seat out from under Rafael. They’re teammates, not competitors. “I swear, with a couple of small adjustments?—”
“Please, just let it go. He has to figure it out for himself.”
Julien nods, but it’s stupid advice. If he was left tofigure it outwithout Rafael’s guidance, Julien wouldn’t have done as well as he did. Hell, if he raced without Matt’s warning, he wouldn’t have won the French Grand Prix.
Collaboration is a strength, not a sign of weakness.
In hospitality, Julien grabs a tray and loads up on all of the unhealthy food he’s been eyeing since the year started. Monaco’s local offering is some sort of fried pastry, and he fits two on the edge of his plate of pasta and a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant.
It’s fine, his performance coach isn’t here to see it.
Julien plops down into the seat next to Rafael. Despite his usual popularity, the table is a ghost town. It’s just the Brazilian driver and his sad plate of chicken breast, green beans, and brown rice.
“Impressive spread,” Rafael finally says.
“I’d offer you some, but you’re racing.” Julien pointedly picks up the pastry and bites into it. The crunch of fried food is so satisfying. “Since I’m not doing anything for the rest of the year, I figure I can splurge a little this weekend.”
Rafael’s shoulder loosens just a fraction, and his mouth almost turns up. See? They make each other better. They’re partners, almost. Julien and Rafael against the world.
