19. Callum #2
The reserve driver fired up my engine then, the roar filling the garage and rattling my bones. Marco gave me one last pat on the shoulder before walking off toward the pitlane, leaving me with the echo of his words.
Different. Yeah. Maybe he was right.
But as he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, his expression faltering.
It was barely noticeable—a quick flicker of worry—but I caught it.
He’d seen me at my best, and now he was seeing me like this.
Broken, on the sidelines, struggling to keep my head above water.
And even though he didn’t say it, I knew Marco was wondering the same thing I was: what if I didn’t come back?
The garage was quieter now that the cars were out on the track, though the screens told a story louder than any engine.
I stood near the engineers, my eyes bouncing between the monitors as data scrolled across them.
Throttle inputs, brake pressures, sector times—it was all there, laid bare in real time that I rarely got to see.
The sharp whine of a drill to my left sent a spike through my skull, like nails dragging across a chalkboard.
I turned my head slightly, shielding my eyes from the glare of a monitor reflecting off a polished metal surface.
The combination of noise and light was painful, chipping away at my patience.
I shifted my weight, trying to focus on the telemetry in front of me, but the dull ache at the base of my neck had other ideas.
It wasn’t unbearable, but it was a constant reminder of how fragile I felt in an environment where I’d always been indestructible.
Marco’s data came in first, clean and aggressive. He pushed hard through the high-speed corners, gaining time in Sectors 1 and 3. But Sector 2—the technical middle of the track—wasn’t perfect. I leaned closer, watching his throttle trace as he exited Turn 4.
“He’s too heavy on the exit,” I muttered, almost to myself. The rear tires were losing grip, and it cost him half a tenth.
“Not bad,” an engineer commented beside me, glancing at Marco’s lap time. “But he’s scrubbing time mid-corner.”
I nodded, watching as Marco flew through the final turn and crossed the line. His delta turned green, but not by much. “He’s overcompensating for the understeer. Look at his brake point into Turn 1. It’s earlier than Montreal.”
The engineer raised an eyebrow after the next lap. “Think he’s adjusting to the track or the setup?”
“Neither,” I said, frowning. “He’s trying to cover for a rear instability issue. Look at the micro-corrections. He’s fighting the car the whole way through Sector 2.”
Marco’s data kept streaming in, his lines precise, his confidence evident in every corner.
The way he pushed the car to its limits while still maintaining control was a hallmark of his skill, a clear display of what earned him a WDC title before I swooped it from him.
His throttle application was smooth, each lap building on the last.
Then there was Tobias. His braking was erratic, the telemetry showing jagged spikes where there should have been clean, flowing lines.
At Turn 6, he hesitated again, lifting off the throttle too early, costing valuable tenths.
It wasn’t just inexperience. It was a lack of conviction.
I clenched my jaw as I watched, resisting the urge to step into the engineer’s space and demand they work on his confidence.
You can’t teach instinct, and that was the difference. Marco had it. Tobias didn’t.
And me? I’d built my career on it.
“Tobias is struggling with confidence,” I noted, leaning back. “You see his steering angle? He’s second-guessing every apex.”
The engineer beside me sighed. “Not much we can do if he won’t commit.”
I bit my tongue. Tobias wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t me. Watching Tobias in my car felt wrong. The way he fumbled with the setup, the hesitance in his steering—it was like seeing someone else wear my race suit. It might fit them, but it wasn’t made for them.
This car, this team, they were extensions of me. Every corner I’d conquered, every adjustment I’d dialed in, it was all there in the data Tobias was now struggling to replicate. And as I stood there, an outsider in my own garage, a sick realization crept in: the car wasn’t the problem. He was.
Would he get better? The thought twisted in my gut. If Tobias improved, it meant someone else could make the car work without me. But if he didn’t, how long before the team suffered for it? How long before my absence left a permanent dent in Vanguard’s reputation?
The thought hit harder than I expected. Was it arrogance, thinking no one else could fill my shoes? Or fear, knowing that someday, someone would, and they’d do it better?
My head was a goddamn mess, and not just because of the concussion. For once in my life, my future was muddled, and while my heart tugged me in one direction, my brain struggled to keep up.
Aurélie’s performance caught my eye next. She was out on a long run, the Luminis car looking stable but sluggish. Her delta was red, showing she was losing time down the straights. Engine performance wasn’t on her side today, but her corner speeds were impressive.
I exhaled sharply, pulling my headset off my neck and adjusting the settings. It was second nature now, flipping to different team channels, listening in on the competition when I needed an edge. But instead of jumping to Ferrari or Red Bull, my fingers hovered over the Luminis channel.
I hesitated. Then, with a flick of a dial, I tuned in, then grabbed a tablet and navigated to the feed following her car the most. Within minutes, I heard her radio crackle to life, and I waited with bated breath for her to speak, eager to hear her voice.
“The front end feels nervous under braking. I’m losing stability into Turn 5. Feels like the weight transfer isn’t settling properly.” The words were strained and muffled through the G-forces.
“Copy,” someone on her team responded.
I watched for another lap.
“She’s late on the brakes into Turn 3,” I murmured to myself, watching her lock up briefly. She corrected quickly, her exit clean despite the mistake. The next lap, she braked earlier, sacrificing a little time on entry but nailing the apex and carrying more speed through the corner.
I’d seen drivers manhandle cars before, wrestling them around the track with brute force.
But Aurélie? She didn’t fight the car; she finessed it, coaxing performance out of machinery that had no right keeping up with the frontrunners.
It was exhausting work, and the fact that she made it look easy only made me admire her more.
Smart. Adaptable. That was Aurélie.
I couldn’t help but compare her to myself.
The first few years of my F1 career had been a grind like this—wrestling midfield machinery, squeezing out every ounce of performance while knowing the car could never deliver what I wanted from it.
That kind of fight shaped you. It burned you down to the bone but also forged you into something stronger.
And as I watched Aurélie now, I realized she was becoming just that—stronger, sharper, hungrier. Maybe even hungrier than I’d been.
The difference, though, was her focus. She didn’t let her emotions rule her on track the way I had when I was her age. Where I’d been fire and fury, she was ice—controlled, calculated. She didn’t just survive in that car; she thrived in it. And that was dangerous—for everyone else.
“The brakes are getting hot. Feels like I’m losing pedal pressure in Sector 2.” Her voice was right in my ears. Just the way I wanted it.
I frowned, my eyes narrowing at the screen. “Their brake ducts are too conservative. She’s losing time managing temperatures.”
The engineer beside me hummed in agreement. “Yeah, but look at her traction out of Turn 9. She’s getting more out of that car than it deserves.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Luminis car wasn’t built for glory, but Aurélie had a way of making it look like it belonged there. She pushed the limits without crossing the line. Watching her now, it was clear she was compensating for the car’s shortcomings in ways most drivers wouldn’t bother.
It was underpowered and unpredictable. On the live feed, I saw Aurélie’s car bounce slightly over the curbs in Turn 5, the suspension clearly struggling to settle. Her voice crackled over the radio again, frustration creeping into her tone. “Rear tires are overheating again. Balance feels off.”
The telemetry confirmed it. The car was eating through the rear tires faster than it should, a sign of poor weight distribution or excessive torque. I frowned, watching her lines as she adjusted mid-corner, easing off the throttle to preserve the rubber.
That kind of driving took more than skill. It took resilience, and it left its mark. Her body probably ached after every session, every race. And yet, she never let it show.
At first, I chalked it up to the car being a shitbox. Luminis hadn’t exactly been known for clean setups this year. But the longer I watched, the less sense it made.
Her brake balance was set unnaturally far forward—too far. Every lock-up was loading the front end like a battering ram, forcing her to absorb the correction through her shoulders and neck. No engineer worth his license would set a car up that way. Not by accident.
Then there was the suspension. I narrowed my eyes at the replay, watching her car bounce again through Turn 5, the chassis unsettled even though her entry was clean.
That kind of rebound wasn’t just uncomfortable.
It was flat out dangerous . Every impact went straight through her spine, and suddenly I was thinking of Monaco again.
Her confession, quiet and almost embarrassed when she told me she’d been in pain for weeks.
I really had thought it was just the grind. But now I wasn’t so sure.