“Uh… total? Just over five thousand. Not every team lasted the entire thirty-six hours, though, so it was closer to two thousand finishing teams.”
Julien covers his mouth as another yawn comes on. He still hasn’t fully recovered from his red boar-fueled weekend.
“You raced for thirty-six hours?”
“The team did—the four of us.” Another yawn and Julien stretches his shoulders back, cracking his spine. “But I stayed up the entire time to keep them company.”
“You better get some coffee in you.” Rafael smacks Julien’s ass with a grin. “Can’t slack off during Ferraro’s home race.”
Though Rafael’s tires are three laps older, he systematically cuts down the time to Thomas ahead, inching closer and closer with every lap.
Davide knows better than to dissuade him from fighting for the win, so he mutters a simple “Keep it clean” when the Brazilian catches up to the other Ferraro.
Rafael doesn’t waste time with a reply. With DRS, he propels closer, but Thomas is ready for him, cutting him off before they make the turn through Variate Ascari.
Rafael pulls back and follows Thomas’s tow through the straight, biding his time. He loses speed as he attempts to pass along the outside of Curva Parabolica, but as soon as his DRS is open again, Rafael pushes until he’s wheel-to-wheel with Thomas.
Back and forth, they exchange blows like dance steps.
With every attempt—every lunge forward and mirrored defensive maneuver—the home crowd roars. Their cheers echo through the garage and bury under Julien’s skin, vibrating through to his bones.
This is racing.Thisis the pinnacle of motorsport.
When Rafael finally breaks through Thomas’s defense, the noise doubles. The red-clad grandstands jump to their feet in celebration or frustration depending on which number adorns their hat.
Julien should be a neutral party, but he can’t fight the upturn of his lip as Rafael pulls further and further away.
On the final lap, Rafael’s garage empties. The mechanics pour out of the roller door and sprint across pit lane, eager to climb the fence and welcome their driver home.
It looks like fun, but Julien dutifully watches the broadcast through to the checkered flag.
A Ferraro one-two at their home race is the best possible outcome, and Julien joins the crowd of scarlet-clad personnel who migrate towards parc ferme for the celebration.
If he pushes past a couple of people, speedwalking to get a better spot for the line-up, no one mentions it.
After Rafael parks, he emerges with the grace of a driver all too familiar with climbing on top of his car. He pats his heart, then taps the chin of his helmet and points to the sky.
All too soon, he hops down. The crowd grows louder as he waves at the stands before jogging over to the line, towards his team.
Julien avoids the throng of coworkers who catches the driver’s body, hoisting Rafael up with cheers. Instead, he shuffles further down the line and grasps the flimsy divider that holds the team back.
Rafael won’t wander so far, but Julien appreciates the front row seat to the celebration. The driver thanks Lorenzo, a few team members, an investor. He reaches over heads to fist-bump his performance coach and excited hands pat anything they can touch.
Thomas comes and goes, but Rafael stays with the team. He turns, scanning the crowd. When he finally spots Julien, his eyes crinkle and he drifts closer.
“Did you see the overtake?” Rafael’s voice is muffled through the helmet and drowned by the sound of the crowd, but Julien leans closer.
“I watched the whole thing.”
“Yeah, but there was a notable one in there—towards the end.”
Julien grins. “Owain finally passed Hugo. Haven’t seen that all year.”
Rafael huffs and pulls off his helmet. His balaclava is next, and he runs his thick, gloved fingers over his curly hair, fluffing it. “Don’t tease me. Did it look as impressive as it felt?”
One of his curls escapes, dropping into his eye, and Julien reaches out to set it back in place. “Absolutely. Overtake of the year. But you knew that.”
“Just wanted to make sure you did.” Rafael winks and finally dashes away, towards the scale.
