Friedrich is the Red Boar who took third, and the German driver is visibly unhappy as he gives his interview. Maybe he has a date with the stewards as well.
Julien can only hope. If everybody behind him also receives a penalty, maybe they’ll all shift back three places and everything will work itself out. Unlikely, but not impossible.
Thomas takes his place in front of the camera, and Friedrich grabs his water before dutifully standing next to Julien. “Which one are you?”
“Pole.”
“Yes, I can count.” Friedrich points to himself, Thomas, then Julien. “Three, two, one. You are which Ferraro? The younger? The brother?”
Ah. This might be how it is forever. Every conversation with Friedrich will probably go exactly like this over and over again into eternity.
Julien should print out a nametag or something. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Friedrich makes an impressed face. “Two and one-half races and you are already on pole? Maybe the older one should be the brother.”
Huh. That’s not a bad idea.
“I’m Julien.” He holds out his hand. It’s like a truce.
“Fritz.” Friedrich looks confused, but he still shakes the hand. “I am not good to remember names, but I will try.”
On the bright side, Julien gets to skip some of his press duties in favor of visiting the stewards. On the flip side, Hugo is there.
Lorenzo and Amir size each other up, both team principals nearly growling at the sight of one another, but Hugo and Julien have always been cordial off track—even after splitting up.
“I’m so sorry,” Julien says, quietly. “I felt like a total idiot when it happened. Hoped it wasn’t you.”
“Hate seeing my face that much?” Hugo pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, hiding his mouth at the same time. Still, there’s a smile in his voice he can’t conceal.
“Love to look at any part of you.” Or, did. Past tense. “But if I had to fuck someone over, I hoped it’d be Owain. At least then he’d get some payback. With you, it’s just unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate, that’s me.”
Julien laughs and nudges him. “Oh, shutup, Mr. Full-Time Driver.”
The stewards call the meeting to order and a hush falls over the too-bright room. It feels ominous to sit in their presence, to be on the opposite side of the table from the panel who will decide Julien’s fate.
Before anyone can read the charges, Hugo raises his hand.
An older Japanese man double-takes, looking between his paper and the rookie driver. “Can this wait, Mr. Tremblay?”
“Perhaps, but I hope I can save us all some time.” Time? “I would like to retract and reject any complaint made on my behalf against Mr. Dubois.”
What?!
Julien hasn’t faced the stewards since Formation 2. Back then, Hugo would use any tactic, no matter how dirty, to getahead. Never, in all of that time, has he ever backed down. He certainly never retracted or rejected anything that might impede a rival.
Julien looks to Lorenzo for direction, but the older Italian man seems just as confused as he is.
“You would?” the steward asks. “And how does McLean feel about this decision, Amir?”
“McLean supports the decision to drop all charges raised against Julien Dubois.”
Lorenzo looks close to fainting, now.
“May we ask why?”
Hugo nods once. “The incident happened during Q2. By then, I had already set two lap times that would see me through to Q3. Furthermore, any penalty enacted against Julien would not affect my P8 start tomorrow, and I could not, in good conscience, strip him of what might be the only pole position of his Formation 1 career. At the very least, it’s bad publicity for me, personally.”
