Australian Grand Prix #2
And in front of the man sizing him up?! What a fucking cockblock.
“Do not be embarrassed. Rafael has younger siblings. I am sure he has changed a few poopy diapers.”
“Out!” With a good shoulder check, Julien manages to shove Thomas back into the hallway. Before he shuts the door, he turns back to Rafael. “Thanks for the talk. It helped.”
“No problem.” Rafael grins, probably imagining his teammate covered in baby shit. “I’ll let you know.”
“About what?”
“My left hand.” Rafael makes a circle with his fingers and flicks his wrist.
Oh.
Julien stares, transfixed. There’s at least an inch of space between the tips of his fingers and his thumb. An inch of space to accommodate a notable girth.
And Rafael has long fingers.
“Right.” Not that Julien would notice something like that about a coworker. “Right, right, right, right.” He nods like an idiot, but he can’t stop. “Yeah. Yes. You should—you can text me?” But Rafael already has too many texts. “Or I—yeah.”
Julien shuts the door before he can embarrass himself any further.
Rafael doesn’t have his number.
Damn it.
Julien turns, surprised Thomas is still there, watching him. “I see you have met Rafael.”
“We’ve met before.”
In passing. During team events. In ceremonies where Julien dutifully stands alongside the other Ferraro reserve drivers while Rafael and Thomas take their place in the spotlight.
Conversation is new, though. For how many years Julien has watched him, imagining Rafael as some standoffish, self-centered, broody Adonis, he’s actually a pretty okay guy.
Girthy.
No—a good conversationalist. Someone who is surprisingly easy to talk to. Kinda funny.
Long fingers.
Julien smacks his own cheeks and stalks towards the garage. Marketing is practically free-range during race weekends, so hopefully he’s heading in the right direction.
“Be careful.” Thomas grabs Julien’s arm and drags him towards the long hallway out to the paddock. “Rafael is very good at making people feel special without actually caring about them.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Thomas pinches his mouth tighter. “Keep your head down and focus on racing. That is what you are here for. Show the other teams you deserve a full-time seat.”
That’ll be difficult to do from under Thomas’s shadow. Their relationship automatically forces Julien under a microscope no other reserve driver would be scrutinized by.
The world will compare the brothers but conveniently forget how Thomas has far more experience in the car. How he’s fought the other drivers on track over and over—learning how everyone races and adapting with each lap—while most of the drivers are new competitors to Julien.
He’s already at a disadvantage, but no one will mention it because it’ll ruin their narrative.
The story will be about how Julien can’t live up to his prolific brother. How he isn’t cut out for racing. How he’s washed up.
Julien stands straighter, yanking his arm out of Thomas’s grip as they cross the threshold into the paddock. A horde of photographers is at the ready, snapping away, and Julien lifts his chin.
Focus on racing and change the narrative. This could be Julien’s only chance to earn the full-time seat he has deserved for the past three years.
He can’t afford any girthy distractions.
On Friday morning, a wall of screaming fans greets Julien on his way into the paddock. He was warned about the chaos of the Melbourne walk, but to be the recipient of the fanaticism instead of side-stepping it is a completely new—entirely overwhelming—experience.
“Julien!”
“Julien, over here!”
“Dubois! Dubois!”
“Thomas! Wait, what—?”
Julien had budgeted for extra time and arrived an hour early, but that still might not be enough. Diving right in, he signs as many red items as he can see and tries to bask in the attention.
If he only has six races, he should try to live the full experience, right?
Julien accepts phones that are shoved into his hand and tries to take selfies with good angles while people tell him they’re either Rafael or Thomas’s biggest fans.
How awkward. Julien is neither of those people.
He accidentally steals a fan’s marker as he slowly works his way down the line. A vinyl banner flaps in the breeze over the audience—Rafael’s proud crossed-arm pose almost mocking in its attendance.
Thomas isn’t the only shadow Julien will be racing under.
The crowd cheers in waves as other drivers are urged forward by their PR reps. They sign and pose until the team cameras are satiated, then excuse themselves, leaving the masses hungrier and hungrier.
Once Julien has given the crowd everything he has, he escapes with apologies falling from his lips. Maybe tomorrow he can be even earlier, though an entire day probably still wouldn’t be enough.
This year, the paddock feels even more abuzz with anticipation. After Lucas’s retirement, both championships are truly up for grabs. With Rafael out of the running? Nobody knows what to expect.
Teams play mind games in pre-season testing—sandbagging and running various fuel loads—but this weekend everyone will finally see how the cars stack up against each other.
The excitement is palpable, and Julien receives the odd double-take as he ducks into Ferraro hospitality.
“Morning. Morning.” He nods to familiar faces. The team is massive, but he’ll need to learn names quickly if he wants to hit the ground running.
Julien grabs a tray and notes which items he should and shouldn’t eat before getting in the car. Protein, starch, vegetable. He’s not exactly hungry yet, but his schedule is too packed to rely on extra time to eat between meetings.
He skips the bacon for grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. Sad, but if it’ll get him to the top of the time sheet—
“Someone is Mr. Popular this morning.”
Julien’s head pops up from the list of omelet ingredients. “Mr. Popular?”
Rafael shrugs with just his working shoulder. “I saw you with the fans out there. Brave of you to go at it alone.”
“And you didn’t stop by?” Julien definitely would’ve noticed if another red-clad driver had joined him this morning.
“That’s the one good thing about this—” Rafael nods down to the arm strapped to his chest. “At least I have an excuse not to sign anything.”
“A lot of them just wanted a picture.” It wouldn’t have been too hard—he’d just have to stand there. “Saw a few things the fans made for you. They really idolize you, huh?”
“It gets old.”
Boo hoo, Rafael is too adored. He’s too beloved by people worldwide. When will life ever be fair for poor little Formation 1 driver Rafael Souza?
With his free hand, Rafael grabs several premade plates—peppers, scrambled eggs, avocado toast—and sets them on his tray. How is he going to carry that? Can he carry that?
Julien grabs a couple of plates as well and fumbles to lift both trays.
“I can handle it.” Rafael almost sounds defeated when he exhales.
“It’s okay, I got it.”
“Stop. You’re using one hand per tray. I have one hand and one tray. Don’t make this a whole thing.”
“Oh.” Actually, that makes a lot of sense. “Sorry. Yes, you’re right. Here, let me—”
Julien sets the tray back down on the line, which is now backed up with important people who have to wait for the stupid, fumbling new driver to figure out how trays work.
Jesus, he can’t even feed himself correctly.
In one swift motion, Rafael scoops up his tray and manages a much better hold than Julien had on it. “There. That’s better.”
“Cool. See ya.”
In Julien’s haste to be a good person, he hadn’t looked at the plates he grabbed. Melon? Yeah, that’ll go good with tomatoes and mushrooms. Toast with mysterious brown substance? What a fun surprise. More mushrooms?! Nothing says “I’m a fun guy” like two plates full of fungi.
All that and Julien didn’t even accomplish anything. He just made everything worse.
Defeated, Julien shuffles past a few open seats, towards an empty table away from everyone. Maybe there’s something to Rafael not wanting to be perceived—it feels easier to relax when Julien’s back is to the bulk of the room.
Only after he sits does he realize he didn’t grab a drink. Cool.
It’s like he’s back in boarding school. It’s Julien’s first day all over again, and he’s the same stupid French kid alone at the lunch table with no one to talk to.
Before he can convince himself to stand up and grab a drink, a tray joins his. One hand for one tray. Julien’s heart skips a beat as he looks up.
“Sorry I snapped.” Rafael drops gracelessly into the chair to Julien’s right. “It wasn’t fair to you. I’m just tired of strangers touching shit for me when I didn’t ask for help. I’m still an athlete.”
“Got it.” Julien’s been demoted. He’s no longer a coworker or reserve driver, but a stranger now. “Okay then, athletic stranger. Watch my food for me.”
Julien stands and navigates through the maze of round tables towards the drinks line.
Rafael didn’t mean anything by sitting next to him—he just wanted to apologize.
He didn’t need to, though. Julien knew he was sensitive about the whole injury thing. He was the one who overstepped.
He should apologize too. Drink first.
There’s an assortment of coffees and juices and sodas and sports drinks, but Julien’s performance coach is a bit of a hard ass. “Just water for me, thanks.”
The man behind the counter hands him a bottle and for a split second, Julien considers grabbing a second one for Rafael.
How good is an apology without change, though? Rafael can get his own athletic drink for his fully functioning athletic body.
By the time Julien returns, the small table is overfilled with people talking to Rafael. It’s only a four-top, but there are four newcomers sitting, their bodies squeezed into the tight area.
For how limited space is, Rafael managed to protect Julien’s food and chair from the encroaching bodies.
He makes people feel special without actually caring about them.