“When do you have the time?”
“Shut up, I like the commentary.”
“I sound like my brother,” Julien finally says. “If he had been bullied about his accent for too many years.”
Rafael returns as the table laughs. “You guys aren’t making fun of my reserve driver, right?” He drops his burden and hands out the water bottles he managed to tuck into his arm. “Look at him, he’s all red.”
Rafael taps Julien’s cheek with a smirk, and the reserve driver immediately turns away.
eRacing isn’t stupid. Julien is good in the car, so he’s good on the sim. And he’s good on the fancy sim at Ferraro, so he’s good on his home console. It’s all connected.
There are only twenty Formation 1 seats in the world. That’s it. Without a seat, it makes sense for Julien to continue racing however he can.
There’s the added bonus that, hidden away behind his shitty graphic profile picture, nobody brings up Thomas when Julien streams. Not once has his alter ego ever been compared to the famous Thomas Dubois. The same can’t be said about racing in person.
Multiple alarms ring out at the same time, and the men silence their phones in unison.
“C’mon.” Rafael nudges Julien with his free elbow. Is he always so touchy? “We need to get to the meeting.”
“Yeah, sure. Lemme just?—”
The crew stands, abandoning their trays at the table. They’re not paid to pick up after themselves, but Julien can’t leave a mess in good conscience. He scrapes the table’s wasted food all onto one plate and stacks everything together.
Tray, tray, tray, plate, plate, plate, smaller plates, napkins, plate waste. The process is engrained in him, and he hauls the load to the corner of the room.
“I heard you’re racing this year.” Chef rarely leaves the kitchen, but he hovers as Julien sorts the dishes into the bucket on top of the trash can.
“Not the whole year—just six races.”
“We’ll all be watching from here.”
“Don’t make me nervous!” There’s a mysterious substance drying on Julien’s hand, but he’s already running late. He pumps some hand sanitizer over it, but the mess just spreads.
“Use the sink. Quickly—I don’t want other people thinking they can waltz back here.”
There isn’t a crowd of people desperate to get behind the counter, but Julien is grateful for warm water and harsh soap as he scrubs at his skin. Once everything’s dry, he dashes through the room and out the door.
He’s going to be late to his first meeting as a driver. That doesn’t bode well for the finish line.
“Thought I lost you.” Rafael greets Julien outside of hospitality, but he immediately takes off towards the garage. “If you suck at driving, you could always wash dishes.”
“Ha ha.”
Of course Rafael wouldn’t know the difference between a busser and a dishwasher. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who has ever worked a job that paid minimum wage.
“Seriously, we’re gonna be late.”
“I didn’t ask you to wait for me!”
“Tough shit.”
They’re several minutes late when they slide into the meeting room. At least they made it before Lorenzo.
Thomas has an empty seat next to him that Julien grabs, while Rafael finds a spot further down the table, near Davide and Ray.
“Welcome to the first race of the year, everyone.” The door slams shut behind the team principal with finality, and Julien is relieved to be on the correct side of it.
His eyes find Rafael’s, and they share a small, knowing smile.
