“Should I start eighth on my brakes or from the pits on yours?”
That’s a loaded question.
Recently, Rafael hasn’t overtaken much. He relies too heavily on his brakes to do what he’s best known for. Starting in eighth, there’s a good chance he could finish with only four points.
But what if he’s unleashed from the pit lane? If he’s equipped with a new car and something to prove?
Then the answer is obvious. “If I could race like you, I wouldn’t wait around until next weekend.”
Rafael grins, and there’s fire behind it—a heat that radiates confidence. To the room, he announces, “I want the brakes completely changed. I’ll start from the pit lane on hards and ride it out. I’ll even pull a one-stop if I have to. This will be the last time I qualify behindOwain.”
“Alright.” Lorenzo nods like Owain is the final straw for him as well. “Davide, make sure the garage knows. Change out everything we can touch without further penalty. If we’re going to start in the pit lane anyway, let’s do some real damage.”
“Power unit, gear box, exhaust system.” Davide jots it all down in his notes. He looks up at Julien before saying, “Brakes system.”
Julien gulps and hopes he made the right call.
After the race, Julien pulls his car up to the final podium spot. When he taps the third-place sign, he releases a shaky exhale and tries to loosen his shoulders.
Seventy-one fast laps hit harder than fifty or sixty regular laps. Either that, or he’s out of practice.
Why did he eat so much fried food?
Standing on top of his car, Rafael pumps his fist to the sky. There’s something so satisfying in looking up at the Brazilian driver and knowing Julien played a part in his victory.
Even if they’re not on good terms anymore, Julien can’t help the swell of pride in his chest as Rafael jumps off his car and throws himself into the crowd of Ferraro red.
This is Julien’s team and they’re back on top. Both cars.
With a groan, Julien unbuckles himself and emerges from the cockpit. He reattaches the steering wheel, adjusts his junk, and climbs out over the side.
Ferraro looks eager to welcome him, but Rafael should keep this moment for himself. Instead, Julien wanders over to the scale.
“Good racing,” Fritz says, clapping Julien on the back.
“Yeah, good racing.” It could’ve been better—Julien could’ve won their scrimmage—but third place is still pretty good.
“So… Ferraro found the brake issue, huh?”
Julien pulls away with shock. “How didyouknow?”
“Henry, my race engineer, is very good.” Fritz sighs and it sounds almost wistful. “The rest of the season will be harder for us now. Damn.”
After the scale, Julien dumps his helmet on the stand and whips off his balaclava. It’s a surprise to look out and see his mother amongst the sea of Ferraro. Someone must’ve told her about the hospital after all.
She waves and Julien dutifully jogs up to the line.
Before he can speak, Rafael intercepts him. “C’mere.”
He lifts Julien and swings him back and forth, laughing like a fucking lunatic all the while.
“Raf-aye-el!” Julien screeches, kicking his legs. “Let me go!”
“Never again.” Still, Rafael slows them to a stop. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen sooner.Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” A person in a suit tries to direct Rafael to the scale, but he plants his feet. “I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
