“It’s my home race too.” Julien would also like to hear the reasoning, but Rafael is probably just pandering to his parents.
He looks up, his eyes wide as though he’s only just sensing the tension. “Because of how many times he’s won it? Karting, Formation 3, Formation 2… Wasn’t there an eRacing championship season that ended with this circuit?”
“How do you know that?!” Nobody knows about eurRace Med. Julien himself only found out about it the day before registration ended.
Rafael shrugs. “I’m sure it’s on your wiki page. I read it somewhere.”
“You read his wiki page?” Somehow, Thomas looks even more surprised than Julien feels. “And remembered it?”
Rafael ducks his head and scoops his potatoes a little too roughly. “I mean, I’ve been helping him this year. It’s good to know about racing history. Y’know, weaknesses and stuff.”
Matthieu leans forward, around Julien. “What are his weaknesses? What is Juju bad at?”
Julien elbows him. “Don’t ask that!”
“Not in front of his biggest competition.” Rafael nods to the other side of the table as Sam tears into his slices of duck—skin and all.
“We’ll all be there on Sunday,” Maman says. “We can cheer for all three of you.”
“Don’t cheer for Sam, he’s on the wrong team.” Julien knocks the flaky skin off his duck and sneaks it over to Rafael’s plate. Once it’s cleared, he forks a piece of meat.
“Which team are you subbing for, Juju?”
“I dunno, Mathé. What kind of food do you cook?” Even without watching the sport religiously, the team Julien races for is basic knowledge that any family member should know.
“Is there a French team?”
“Yeah, but they suck.”
Papa finally speaks up to say, “The French team hired American drivers.”
“Then why are they not the American team now?”
“Good question.”
Julien scoffs. “No, it’s not.”
“Both Americans left Andes last season,” Thomas explains. He daintily dabs at his mouth with a napkin, his duck skins pushed off to the side of his plate. “The team’s country is where their headquarters are. Ferraro is Italian.”
Matthieu looks to Julien when he asks, “Don’t you have an apartment in Italy?”
“You’re so close to getting it.”
“Why aren’t you both on the same team? Wouldn’t that make it easier for everyone?”
“Weareon the same team,” Julien and Thomas say in unison. They look up, locking eyes, then back down to their food.
Rafael chimes in to add, “But not because it’s easier to remember.”
“Why, then?”
After a moment of hesitation, Julien shoves another bite of duck into his mouth and chews.
He earned his way onto the grid. He won Formation 2 and should’ve been the first-round draft pick of his season. He deserves a Form 1 seat just as much as any other driver, but hisdebut wouldn’t have been at Ferraro if Thomas hadn’t vouched for him.
Thomas stays uncharacteristically quiet. He probably thinks he’s being the bigger man by not saying anything, but his silence says everything. It’d be less arrogant if he just admitted it—if he bragged to everyone that he’s the only reason Julien gets to touch a race car anymore.
“These might be the best green beans I’ve ever had.” Sam spears another bean as the table quickly nods and vocalizes their agreement.
