Pole Sitter (Formation 1 #4)

Julien Dubois

RESERVE DRIVER, FERRARO

The polished tiles of the facility floor shine as Julien trails his team principal from room to room. He tucks his bare arms closer to himself, shivering while the older man rambles on in too-advanced Italian.

Julien usually wears his full race kit whenever he’s upstairs. Apparently, that’s for practical reasons, not just because the guys like to see him suffer.

Noted.

Brisk winter air barrels against the building’s feeble windows, but Lorenzo carries on, pulling his expression up into something resembling happiness and pretending to recognize some of the lower-level employees.

Julien knows the factory better than his own family home, but when Lorenzo Coppola insists on giving a tour, there’s no escape. The only thing the stern man loves more than Ferraro is hearing himself talk about Ferraro.

He even roped a videographer into their little party. The man’s camera bounces between the team principal’s weathered face and whatever expression Julien makes when he fights a yawn.

The whole thing is obnoxious, but Julien would suffer through a lot worse for the chance to drive a Formation 1 car.

“Julien! I just heard the news.”

“Congratulazioni!”

“Excited for you, ragazzino.”

“Grazie, grazie mille.” Julien hasn’t actually done anything yet, but he graciously accepts commendations from the engineers and strategists scattered around the building.

Anyone Julien doesn’t recognize gives him a once-over, sizing him up. They’re probably comparing him to the full-time drivers and adjusting their expectations accordingly.

Julien can’t blame them—he’d be curious too.

He’s slightly taller than Thomas, but much shorter than Rafael. Darker hair than Thomas, lighter hair than Rafael. More muscular than Thomas, leaner than Rafael. Younger than both, hungrier than both.

Soon, he’ll stand on his own. He’ll be exactly Julien—nothing more or less.

After Lorenzo opens the door to the simulator room, he turns with a grin. “Allora, you already know this room.”

Better than anyone else in the company. “You’ve kept me locked inside of it for three years.”

Lorenzo’s fake smile falters as his eyes flick to the camera and back. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ve driven the real thing. That’s more than other reserve drivers get.”

Mandatory FP1 runs are what other reserve drivers get. That’s why they’re mandatory.

Still, Julien dutifully cranks the edges of his lips up and replies in Italian. “I am so grateful to Ferraro for the opportunity. I love this room.”

“Giusto.”

Julien suffers through more offices, more curious looks, and more congratulations before they finally shuffle down the stairs and open the door to the factory floor. There, in the middle of the cavernous space, is the chassis of his car.

Well, the car he’ll be driving.

“You can change over there.” Lorenzo points towards a curtain hanging between piles of boxes. Ferraro handles billions of euros every year. They can’t afford a changing room?

“Grazie, signore.”

Thankfully, the camera doesn’t follow Julien as he slides open the curtain and steps inside the narrow space. Before shedding his clothes, he takes a moment to admire this year’s race suit while it hangs from the lip of a dirty cardboard box.

Mostly red, obviously. Green and white stripes on the collar and cuffs mimic the Italian flag. They’re the same as last year, but it’s an iconic design. The stripes down the sides are new, and the name…

Julien whines deep in his throat. It’s not that he’s ungrateful, but other teams print their drivers’ first names. With just his last name on his hip, all anyone will say is—

It’s fine. When Julien drives the car, no one will even see his stupid surname anyway. Suck it up.

He pops off his Ferraro polo and hangs the shirt on a narrow hook. He probably doesn’t need both fireproof garments, but he steps into the underwear and pulls the long-sleeved undershirt over his head.

At least he’ll be warm now.

The race suit fits him like a glove, and Julien turns to check himself out in the flimsy full-length mirror.

The side stripes flatter his narrow hips while emphasizing the width of his shoulders. He looks good, but he should probably add more squats to his routine. Julien pats the curve of his ass, trying to find it under the bulky fabric.

That’s a shame. Maybe he can ask the tailor to take it in before Australia.

It’s not important for the seat fitting, but Julien still fusses with his hair, forcing the brunette curls to fall in a more attractive way.

Shit, how long has he had granola in his teeth? They’ve been taking video all morning—why didn’t anyone tell him?!

Once he’s finally put together, Julien slides the curtain open and glances around the silent room.

Where is everyone?

He takes a few steps forward and checks again, but the cavernous space is completely devoid of any team principals or cameramen.

He didn’t take that long, right?

As he scans the room for signs of life, Julien wanders towards the chassis and pets the shell of the car. The real one is already on its way to Australia, but the replica is more than enough for a seat fitting.

It’s hard to judge the entire car by its bones, but it feels fast. It feels like a race winner—a championship winner.

It feels like a chance to finally prove everyone wrong.

“You are ready?” a voice asks from behind.

English, thank God.

Julien pops up and quickly retrieves his hand from the structure.

“Whenever you are! Thank you, again, for doing this, again. I didn’t sit still enough when we took the last mold.

It would’ve been fine for two Free Practice sessions, but since I’ll be—y’know—actually racing, I thought it’d be better if I had a seat that fit. ”

The man stares at him in wide-eyed silence.

So, Italian then. It’s Julien’s fault for assuming. “Si, signore.”

“Bene.”

Julien climbs into the plastic-covered cockpit and waits for the foam to pour. He needs to calm down, to stop bouncing while the foam is wet, but how can he be calm? They’re fitting a seat for his car.

Rafael’s car.

Still, it’s the car Julien will race in. That’s exciting.

“Tight or loose?”

“As tight as possible, please.” Julien wants to be completely encased in the vehicle. It has to function as an extension of himself. The last thing he needs at top speed is to shift around.

As the foam pours, the doors to the factory swing open and a swarm of people enter. What a weird time to give a tour. Anyone could take a picture of the chassis when it’s so vulnerable like this.

Then again, the crowd doesn’t even register the room. They circle around one person who—oh damnit. Who told him?!

“Julien! ?a va?” Thomas’s face lights up when they lock eyes. “Are they taking good care of you?”

“?a va.” Before he can faire la bise, Julien reminds him, “The foam is still wet.”

“But of course.” Instead of kissing him on the cheeks, Thomas leans into the cockpit and kisses Julien’s forehead. It probably looks sweet to the myriad of cameras pointed at them, but it’s so fucking frustrating to be treated like a child while they’re at work.

“I can ask them to make it a little looser for you.” Thomas picks at Julien’s already-styled hair, forcing it out of place. “Looser seats are good for a full range of arm motion.”

“But I like it tight.”

Instead of responding, Thomas pulls out his phone. “Your first Formation 1 race.” He flips the camera towards both of them and takes selfies while Julien’s trapped.

The reserve driver stares at his reflection in horror. Why would Thomas part his hair like that?! While Julien isn’t allowed to move?

“Don’t take pictures of the chassis!” Julien tries to shake his head without moving his shoulders and disrupting the foam, but his hair stays put.

“This is for Maman, to tell her you arrived safely. You should call her more—she worries.”

“Maman doesn’t worry about me sitting in a parked car covered in foam.”

“Alessandro, could you make the seat looser for him, per favore?”

“Not looser!” Julien snaps. “Non allentarlo!”

Thomas tsks and shakes his head. “You should work on your Italian, you sound English.”

“Well, you should work on your English, you sound French.”

“We are French.”

“Then don’t make fun of my Italian!”

The group of onlookers laugh, silencing the Frenchmen. Julien hadn’t forgotten they were there, but sudden laughter is off-putting. “What?”

“You act so much like brothers.”

Thomas and Julien look at each other, confusion evident in both faces. “We are brothers.”

Like there’s any doubt. Even without the giant name printed on Julien’s race suit, the Dubois genes are frustratingly strong. Julien can’t count all the times he’s signed merch because someone thought he was his oldest brother.

That’ll change this year.

“Thanks for stopping by, but I’ve got it from here.” Julien shoos his brother away with a quick flick of his fingers.

“But this is what I have booked for today.” Suddenly, Thomas has a folding chair in his hand. Has it been there the whole time? He perches on the lightly padded seat but still has to look down into the cockpit. “I am here to help.”

“I don’t need help, I’ve got it.”

“That is okay. I can also be here to pass the time. I remember my first seat fitting—we had to redo it three times in one day. It took hours.”

Please don’t let that be the case today.

“What about them? Aren’t you filming something right now?”

Thomas looks up, confused, as if he only just realized there’s an entire crew of people watching the brothers, recording as they talk. “No, they just follow me sometimes. Soon you will be used to the cameras and forget they are even there.”

That’s unlikely, considering Julien has two eyes and a healthy dose of situational awareness. “Have you heard from Rafael? How’s he doing?”

“He is upset, mostly.” Thomas taps around on his phone. “I can have Jakob add you to the drivers’ group chat—at least while you are racing. Rafael did not answer my texts, but he posted there.” Thomas leans into the cockpit and shows off his phone screen.

Rafael’s long message is mostly just the medical stuff Julien already knows—broken collarbone, eight weeks of physical therapy, unable to drive for the first six races.

See you guys in Australia

“He’s gonna be in Australia?!”

Sure, the Brazilian driver would probably judge Julien from wherever he watched the race from, but Julien didn’t expect the man to be right there in the paddock. Or, even worse, inside the Ferraro garage.

“Of course he is.” Thomas pulls his phone back and scrolls. “He is still an important part of the team. He will be expected to do press and fan stages and sponsorship duties.”

Of course he is.

After all, Rafael is the real Ferraro driver. Julien is just there to keep his seat warm.