It’s been a while since anyone looked twice at Julien around the paddock. Most people probably forgot he still has his super license.
The fans all think he’s some nepo-sibling, the reporters only want to see carnage, and the mechanics are probably worriedabout their end of year bonuses, since their livelihoods ride on his performance in the Constructors’ Championship.
It's fine. Everyone is just curious because he’s new. The attention will fade.
Eventually.
“That bad, huh?”
Julien’s face snaps up. He hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room.
Rafael looks unimpressed as he lounges, his long legs spanning the length of the massage table. A black sling cradles his right arm to his chest. One strap reaches up, over his left shoulder, and another across, trapping the limb in place.
He raises a single dark eyebrow until it disappears behind his curly black hair.
“I didn’t think you’d be in here,” Julien replies.
What’s the etiquette for asking a driver to leave the only quiet room in the entire paddock? A room that used to be his safe space?
Is “Leave me the fuck alone” too harsh?
“They haven’t taken my name off the door yet. Figured I’d hide for a bit since everyone keeps asking me about my fucking collarbone.” Rafael shifts and grunts. Despite his struggle, his arm stays immobilized, trapped to his sternum.
“At least they care about you. I’m just an extension of my stupid brother.”
“Hmm.” With some effort, Rafael swings both of his legs over the edge of the table and pats the cleared space. “Sit up here. The floor is gross.”
When Julien pushes himself off the ground, a film of something sticks to the pads of his fingers. He haphazardly wipes his hands on his jeans, but they act as lint rollers, collecting fibers in the divots.
Gross.
Julien falls back onto the massage table with a heavy exhale. He doesn’t want to share the space, but it’s fine as long as they both agree to stay quiet. If he stares straight at the door, he can almost forget the other driver is there.
“So…” It’s harder to ignore Rafael when he talks. “Do you have any siblings?”
Julien snorts. “Two brothers. One of them’s a Michelin-starred chef, if you can believe it. Great guy—he’d give you the shirt off his back before you even asked.”
“The other?”
“He’s just an average guy. He can’t cook, can’t clean, sucks at paddle.”
“Surely there’s a redeeming factor in there somewhere.”
“He’s a millionaire, so his Christmas presents are usually pretty good.” Though Julien would prefer cash. “What about you? Why’s your arm all fucked up?”
“I can’t ski as well as I thought I could. Correction—I can ski just fine, it’s the stopping I overestimated.” Rafael wiggles the fingers of his entrapped arm. “So tell me, are you any good at driving? Or is Ferraro screwed this season?”
Julien prickles with irritation. “I won the Formation 2 Championship. Placed second in Form 3. I’m good at driving.”
“Still? Haven’t you sat on the sidelines for three years?”
“That sure as hell wasn’tmyfault! You can’t race in a series after winning it, and there weren’t any open seats when I won. I haven’t been able to show anybody I can still fight, so every year I get passed over for the younger guys.”
Rafael tries to turn his neck, but he has to shift his entire torso to do so. He grunts under the strain. “Bet you’re happy to have six races now.”
“Yeah, sorry.” Julien exhales and slouches against the wall. It’s cold and stiff against the bumps of his spine. “Thanks for giving me my chance. Looks like it hurts, though.”
“It does.”
