Thomas is a sulky little bitch through the on-track interviews. In the cool-down room, he silently stands with the helmets and stares at his reflection in his tinted visor. While waiting backstage behind the podium, he sighs like some morose damsel.
Apparently, coming second is the single worst thing that has ever happened to Thomas Dubois.
What a good life.
It isn’t his job to do so, but Fritz overcompensates for the depressing atmosphere. He’s so animated, commenting on the race highlights, discussing ride heights during awkward silences, and clapping Julien on the back when he uses the third-place podium to step up into first.
The podium cap fits Julien like a glove. So does the medal.
When Julien hoists his trophy up, the crowd erupts in thunderous cheers. He is officially the first reserve driver to win a Formation 1 race. The first Frenchman to win in France since before he was born.
The first in his family to do so, too.
Julien shakes his champagne quickly and aims left, away from second place. He hits Fritz in the chest, but the German man retaliates with sniper-perfect aim for his eyes.
When Julien finally stumbles into the press room and takes his place in the middle of the white semicircular couch, he feels champagne-sticky and fucked out.
“Question for Julien?” a reporter asks. “Have you spoken with any teams regarding a possible seat for next year?”
“I haven’t,” Julien answers. It’s basically true. “I haven’t really thought about next year yet. I was given six races to prove myself and I intend to make all six races count.”
Hands fly before he can set down the microphone.
“Follow up for Julien—several team principals have been very vocal about your impressive performance this year. Have you given any thought about which of those teams you’d be most interested in?”
Luckily, there’s a PR-approved answer for everything. “If they’ve been vocal, it hasn’t been to me or my manager. I’d be open to meetings, but only after Imola.”
The sharks bob their heads in agreement as they raise their hands again.
“Question for Thomas—in the final three laps, you radioed in multiple times to demand that Julien?—”
“No comment.” Thomas lays his microphone down on the couch and stares blankly at the crowd of reporters.
Demand that Julien… what?
“I would like to hear the rest of the question,” Julien says. He keeps a white-knuckled grip around his microphone as he leans forward.
The reporter continues to address Thomas. “Did you honestly believe you had a faster pace than your brother in the final laps? If so, why had the gap widened after his overtake? And, if not, why did you demand Ferraro to force Julien into giving up his position?”
A chill runs through his veins as Julien stares at his brother. He forgoes the microphone when he asks, “You wanted to take my win? After Japan?”
Thomas shifts, but only to pick the microphone back up. “No comment.” He still isn’t looking at Julien. He stares ahead at the press pool.
“That is fucked,” Fritz says. Though he announces it with full seriousness, the press pool laughs. “Do we maybe have any questions for me?Hallo?”
“Get out, Rafael.” Julien suffered through three long years of being a reserve driver without his own private room to retreat to. The Brazilian man can handle a single fucking day.
“Yeah? Um, okay.” Rafael takes his time gathering the shit he’s strewn about everywhere. “Thought you’d be happier, considering you won your home race and all.”
Julien scoffs and tosses his podium hat to the seat Rafael vacates, claiming it again. It’s his for one more race, then Rafael can have it back.
Julien is the driver, so this is his room.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“What’swrong?!” Julien would like nothing more than to fling his champagne-soaked clothes at the imbecile, but Rafael would like that too much. “Oh, I don’t know. Did you watch the race?”
“Yes?” Rafael says, retreating. Coward. “You were fantastic out there. The broadcast was practically Ferraro the entire time.”
