HI RAF GET BETTER
Julien wasn’t muted. “Fuck.”
“Penalty to Romeo for swearing.”Finally, Mick logs in.“Weird to see you here first. Why is the chat about Rafael Souza? Did something happen?”
“Nah, I’m sitting next to my cousin who sounds like him.” Julien knows it’s a stretch, but any connection to Rafael will just link the account back to him. “Sorry chat, my laptop camera doesn’t work. That’s why I took the second job.”
“Yeah guys, you gotta sub.”
Kevin and John finally log on and Julien hides behind his mute button with a sigh. Nobody would actually believe it’s Rafael, right? God, what a stupid way to blow his cover.
Rafael nudges him with his shoulder. “You’re notembarrassedby me, are you?”
“What?No.” If Julien’s embarrassed by anything, it’s his own stupidity. “I don’t want them to find out I’m me.”
“Who are you pretending to be?”
“I’m notpretendingto be anyone. I’m still me, they just don’t know my name.” Julien nods to the screen as he cycles through the car options. “This is the only place I can race where I’m not‘Thomas’s Little Brother’. Here I’m just… Exactly who I am. I can’t ruin that by telling them my name.”
After a long moment, Rafael finally says, “Y’know, he’s not a bad person to be compared to. Even as a teammate—it’s a compliment.”
“I know.” Julien’s eyes wander past his screen and land on Thomas, still sleeping in that stupid contorted position. “But I needed to prove to myself that I could do something without his help. Now, I don’t want to lose it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Well? Are you any good?”
It’s a thinly veiled challenge, but Julien grins as he angles his screen towards the Brazilian and pointedly chooses a lime green Sobber.
CHINESE GRAND PRIX
SHANGHAI, CHINA
“That’s P4 for tomorrow.Well done, Julien—and with just one free practice.”
Yeah, well Julien would’ve qualified on pole if he had set himself up better before turn six. “Looking forward to the sprint tomorrow.”
Julien hops out of the car and lines up for the scale. After accepting the receipt, he shucks his helmet and balaclava before wandering over to the top three circle.
The other Ferraro is parked in second, its driver huddled closely with the broader of the Red Boars while Friedrich stands in front of the camera for his interview.
“Hey,” Julien says, tapping his brother on the shoulder.
Thomas turns, his face lighting up. “How did you do?”
“Lost time on six. Could’ve used more of the apex at ten. Probably lost three-tenths or so, so I’m glad it’s just the sprint.”
Sam leans in, weirdly close to Thomas for such a long-time bitter rival. “So where are you starting?”
“P4.”
“P—?” Sam turns to look, though the rest of the cars are tossed about in whatever order they finished their lap in. “Fuck, Little Toe. With just one practice?”
Little Toe? Is that an Australian thing?
