“You were a bad loser in Japan. I did not forget our podium.”
Julien opens his mouth to snap back, but closes it again. Yeah, Japan wasn’t a great look for him. “You think of me as a real driver?”
“Of course I do.” When Thomas scoffs, he does it with so much self-assurance, it sounds like any other option is ludicrous. “A fake driver would never out-race me. Especially not at my home track.”
“What if I wanted to give you advice? Would you listen to me?”
“I would not put my fingers in my ears, if that is what you are asking.” Thomas’s gaze wanders over to where Rafael stews by himself. Looks like everyone else gave up on him too. “I have learned that very few drivers take advice from other drivers.”
“He doesn’t want to hear from areservedriver.”
“Maybe he is finally aware that you are here to replace him.”
Julien balks. “That’s not true!”
“It is. That is the job of the reserve driver. Every weekend you fly to the race and wait around until you can replace us. Otherwise, you would still be at the factory.”
Well, it sounds ruthless when he says it like that.
“Rafael finally realized his seat is not loyal to him.” Thomas’s eyes slide from the Brazilian driver to Julien. “I cannot believe he helped you at all. The worse you do, the better he looks. Now it is the reverse.”
Julien can’t accept that. There can be three good drivers on a team without everybody pitting them against each other. Together, they can win the Constructors’ Championship.
Rafael has won races before and he will again.
If he doesn't, Julien will have to live with the guilt of his role in the man’s downfall. The guilt of accidentally ruining Rafael’s entire career for sex.
Fuck.
“Maybe he’ll do better in Qualifying.”
Rafael does do better in Qualifying.
Usually, starting P8 in Monaco results in a P8 finish, but an hour and a half later, Rafael crosses the finish line P9.
The second floor of the garage is silent as the broadcast proudly boasts that it’s the worst result Ferraro has had all season. That’s not technically true, since Julien DNFed his sprint race, but the atmosphere is too gloomy to bring up that little fun fact.
On the bright side, Hugo takes Julien’s advice. He finishes P5 and racks up another ten points for McLean.
Julien only feels a little bad about it.
“Maybe Monaco isn’t a good track for Rafael” becomes a P7 finish in Spain.
“Maybe he’s still healing” but Rafael only finishes P9 in Canada.
After Qualifying in Miami, Lorenzo pulls Julien aside and orders him to keep up with his training. Neck strength, weight management—everything. “Be ready to get in the car.”
Julien wants to tell Rafael—to warn him—but they haven’t spoken to each other since that disastrous lunch in Monaco.
The Brazilian driver has resumed his place on his golden pedestal, glaring down at Julien from the banners that litter every host city more often than meeting his eye in person.
It’s fine. Why would Julien even care? His job is to replace the drivers. Drivers who aren’t good enough. Thick-headed drivers who can’t look past their own egos long enough to realize their careers are spinning down the drain.
Still, when Julien picks up his brown rice, grilled vegetables, and chicken breast from hospitality, he asks for a to-go box. The flap helps hide his food from prying eyes who glance over at the driver stowed away at a darkened table in the corner of the building.
More often than not, Julien finds himself staring at the back of Rafael’s head and wishing everything was different.
During the race, Rafael gains two places. A P8 finish is four more points than Ferraro had last week, but while Fritz and Sam celebrate their podium, it’s hard to ignore the threat of Red Boar creeping up behind them in the championship.
