Thankfully, the camera doesn’t follow Julien as he slides open the curtain and steps inside the narrow space. Before shedding his clothes, he takes a moment to admire this year’s race suit while it hangs from the lip of a dirty cardboard box.
Mostly red, obviously. Green and white stripes on the collar and cuffs mimic the Italian flag. They’re the same as last year, but it’s an iconic design. The stripes down the sides are new, and the name…
Julien whines deep in his throat. It’s not that he’s ungrateful, but other teams print their drivers’firstnames. With just his last name on his hip, all anyone will say is?—
It’s fine. When Julien drives the car, no one will even see his stupid surname anyway. Suck it up.
He pops off his Ferraro polo and hangs the shirt on a narrow hook. He probably doesn’t need both fireproof garments, but he steps into the underwear and pulls the long-sleeved undershirt over his head.
At least he’ll be warm now.
The race suit fits him like a glove, and Julien turns to check himself out in the flimsy full-length mirror.
The side stripes flatter his narrow hips while emphasizing the width of his shoulders. He looks good, but he should probably add more squats to his routine. Julien pats the curve of his ass, trying to find it under the bulky fabric.
That’s a shame. Maybe he can ask the tailor to take it in before Australia.
It’s not important for the seat fitting, but Julien still fusses with his hair, forcing the brunette curls to fall in a more attractive way.
Shit, how long has he had granola in his teeth? They’ve been taking video all morning—why didn’t anyone tell him?!
Once he’s finally put together, Julien slides the curtain open and glances around the silent room.
Where is everyone?
He takes a few steps forward and checks again, but the cavernous space is completely devoid of any team principals or cameramen.
He didn’t takethatlong, right?
As he scans the room for signs of life, Julien wanders towards the chassis and pets the shell of the car. The real one is already on its way to Australia, but the replica is more than enough for a seat fitting.
It’s hard to judge the entire car by its bones, but it feels fast. It feels like a race winner—a championship winner.
It feels like a chance to finally prove everyone wrong.
“You are ready?” a voice asks from behind.
English, thank God.
Julien pops up and quickly retrieves his hand from the structure. “Whenever you are! Thank you, again, for doing this, again. I didn’t sit still enough when we took the last mold. It would’ve been fine for two Free Practice sessions, but since I’ll be—y’know—actuallyracing, I thought it’d be better if I had a seat that fit.”
The man stares at him in wide-eyed silence.
So, Italian then. It’s Julien’s fault for assuming.“Si, signore.”
“Bene.”
Julien climbs into the plastic-covered cockpit and waits for the foam to pour. He needs to calm down, to stop bouncing whilethe foam is wet, but how can he be calm? They’re fitting a seat forhis car.
Rafael’s car.
Still, it’s the car Julien will race in. That’sexciting.
“Tight or loose?”
“As tight as possible, please.” Julien wants to be completely encased in the vehicle. It has to function as an extension of himself. The last thing he needs at top speed is to shift around.
As the foam pours, the doors to the factory swing open and a swarm of people enter. What a weird time to give a tour. Anyone could take a picture of the chassis when it’s so vulnerable like this.
