It’d give him a better arch too, but this is all just theory.Theoretically, Julien could drive faster if he cuts close to the wall. In reality, he won’t get much of a lap if his car is destroyed.
“Look kid, you’re in Q3. The worst you can get is tenth.Nowis the time to take a risk. If you do hit the wall, at least you can say you put up a fight.”
“Fine. I’ll try it your way.” Engines roar down pit lane as cars peel out of their garages and line up for Q3. “If everyone has to work overnight to repair the car, I’m blaming you.”
“Just push hard and remember our deal.” Rafael taps Julien’s helmet with his phone, and the sound echoes long after he steps back.
By the time the screens are removed and Julien gets the all-clear to leave the garage, the queue is empty. Julien still stops at the end of the pit lane to breathe.
The worst he can do is tenth place. This is the time to push. He’s got this.
During the out lap, Julien repeats everything he’s learned like a mantra. In the second DRS zone, he has to throw himself off the racing line for a Red Boar on a flying lap.
Fuck, they’re fast.
From behind, he watches as the car nearly scrapes the paint off of the wall before propelling into the quick turn. It slingshots through, far faster than Julien has ever taken ten at.
Rafael was right—Julien’s problem is nine.
Davide and the strategists didn’t want to say it, even though it’s so obvious from the outside.
Julien doesn’t drive close enough to the wall and he definitely doesn’t take the corner nearly as fast as the top of the field.
Rafael thinks he’s capable of pushing the limits without destroying the car. He’s the only one who believes Julien can do it.
Huh.
Okay, fine. Julien will hit the fucking wall then. If not for a better Qualifying result, then at least to prove to himself and everyone else that he can.
Accelerating through the straight, Julien hits top speed over the line to start his flying lap.
Keep left, accelerate longer than what feels comfortable, late brake to cut right, use the curb but watch for track limits.
Davide’s voice is a running commentary in his ear, but Julien tries to shut it out and focus on his gears. Downshift, upshift—fuck, he could’ve held that for longer. Next time. Save this lap first.
Turn nine ahead and Julien white-knuckles the steering wheel as he dives into the wall. He scrapes past faster than ever, his back tires maybe an inch off the surface. The roar of his engine reverberates, the sound echoing in Julien’s bones as he slingshots through turn ten.
It’s a rush he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Possibly ever.
Momentum and adrenaline carry him through, and Julien navigates the difficult twists of sector three with abandon.
This is the moment he held out for all those years. Not a measly Free Practice session every now and then—a true fight with some of the fastest machinery in the world.
Julien crosses the line and finally exhales. There’s a blue car about to start a lap right behind him, so he pulls off of the race line to cool down. “Tell me that one was good.”
“That one was good.”
Julien thinks that’s it, that the Italian race engineer will leave him hanging, but Davide finally says,“You’re P2.”
“What?!” P2? Likesecond place?!
“Two tenths off provisional pole. Very impressive, Julien. Please return to the garage.”
But Julien was the last car to leave the pits. All nine of the other cars must’ve set a lap in that time. And he’s second?!
Of course, the grip of the track evolves with every car, and fuel loads are lighter with every lap, but P2 for his first ever race would be groundbreaking. It’s solid proof—Julien is fast. He’s so fast, he beat eighteen actual full-time drivers.
