Australian Grand Prix #7
“Five pounds to Mick for guessing Romeo would sound fucked out when he finally joined.”
“What?! I don’t sound—” Julien coughs, clearing his throat. “Is that better?”
“Still sounds a little hoarse, buddy. Was he hung?”
“Oh fuck off! I didn’t even suck his dick.” Shit. They always trick Julien into talking about his personal life. “I was at dinner. Alone.”
The guys all laugh, and Julien manually shuts off their active race to start a new one.
“Hey! I was winning that!”
“Who cares about Vegas? It’s Australia week and the start of a new season. Any bets on the race? Or the championship, while we’re at it?”
Julien pulls up Albert Park as the chat floods with everyone’s predictions. Though he’s usually able to ignore it, his eyes catch on the feed every time his own name pops up.
“Chat is betting on another Sam win,” Kevin reads off. “Wow, they really hate Julien.”
“DNF by the first turn?” Mick reads. “That’s a rough prediction, chat. He’s not bad, he’s just fuckin’ slow.”
“You’re in Australia, right, Romeo? You should stop by the Ferraro garage, give the kid some pointers.”
Julien swallows around the lump in his throat. What did he expect? They talk shit about the drivers every week. It’s kinda the point. “What would I even tell him? Use your fuckin’ brakes? C’mon.”
“This guy makes a good point—’If Thomas wasn’t the golden child of Ferraro, Julien would’ve been dropped as a reserve by now. He learned on outdated machinery and hasn’t done anything notable in three years.’”
Well, fuck that guy.
Julien has won tournaments. They just happen to be online. Under a pseudonym.
It still counts.
They line up for Qualifying as Mick, Kevin, and John continue to read aloud every comment they agree with.
Luckily, Julien isn’t the only driver people are betting against this weekend. Laurent and Matt get the usual reaming, and even Santiago seems to be struggling for support after last season.
“Wait, Romeo should be nuked before we start. You can’t have the best driver in the best car.”
“That’s usually how it works, though.” Julien still exchanges his randomly-assigned Red Boar for something a little more fair. “How bad are we thinking? McLean? Or are you so threatened by little ole me that you need me in an Ashton Marvin?”
“Ashton,” they say in unison.
Julien selects the dark green car with a grin. “Thought so, you cowards.”
“You look terrible.”
Well, Thomas doesn’t look much better under the dim, greenish lights of the hotel hallway, but Julien was raised with better manners.
“Gee, thanks.” He rubs his eye with the inside of his wrist, catching some of the crust that formed in the corners. “Who told you my room number?”
“I have my ways.” Thomas pushes past him and takes in the state of the small space, focusing longer on the laptop, steering controller, and headphones on the desk. “This is where you are sleeping? I should talk to Lorenzo about this.”
“It’s fine, it gets the job done.” Julien yawns wide and his jaw clicks. Hopefully that’s fine. “I don’t need chandeliers and clawfoot tubs to fall asleep. I’m good as long as I have a bed and internet.”
Thomas turns, his eyes wide. “How did you know there’s a chandelier in my room?”
Fuck, Julien is too tired for this. “It’s an exaggeration. I didn’t think you’d actually have one. Did they give you champagne too?”
Thomas looks away as he strolls towards the small window. Avoidance has always been his tell. “You should be dressed by now. Were you streaming all night?”
Julien checks his watch and curses. What happened to his alarm? He was supposed to be up an hour ago.
He flings open the top of his carry-on and grabs a clean team shirt. At least he doesn’t have to decide what to wear. That helps.
As Julien changes, Thomas picks through his suitcase and sets aside a matching pair of socks. “You need to sleep whenever you can, especially in this sport. Your friends can wait.”
“They’re not just my friends, it’s my job.” Julien hops, pulling his trousers up, over his thighs. “Besides, I ran this circuit a bunch of times. It’s like homework or something.”
“Learn anything new?”
Julien shrugs. He won’t know whether his braking is actually any better until he gets in the car. “I won in an Ashton. Hopefully that’s good luck for today.”
“Luck for you? Or for Ashton Marvin?”
“Huh.” Good question. “Maybe both?”
“Get your shoes on, we have to go. The Melbourne Walk always takes longer than expected.”
“Right.”
Despite yesterday’s troubles, the brakes make more sense in Free Practice 3. Whether the crew adjusted them overnight, or if Julien just needed some time to sleep on it, he definitely feels more confident in decelerating before each turn.
Even Davide seems relatively happy over the radio, so Julien has high hopes when he’s wheeled backwards into the garage.
That hope shatters when he’s parked next to a stern-faced Rafael.
“I thought it was a good lap!” When his screens are placed over the halo, Julien searches for the DUO tag. “I’m tenth! Why do you look so pissed?!”
“Well, for one, tenth isn’t fifth.” Rafael leans over the cockpit and scans the telemetry, pointing at different markers with his free hand.
“You still aren’t using the full road. You gotta keep close to the wall at nine before you hit that high-speed corner.
Look at your time in relation to—to the other Ferraro. ”
Purposely avoiding Thomas’s name only draws attention to it.
Still, Rafael going out of his way to avoid comparing the brothers is… kinda sweet?
Nah. Rafael just wants head. It’s not that serious.
Julien replies, “Thomas knows the width of the car better than anyone—better than the mechanics and the engineers. Isn’t it better if I don’t hit the wall?”
Tenth place is a point. One point is better than a destroyed car. If Julien can make it out of Australia alive, he can push harder in China, where the barriers are a reasonable distance away.
“That’s a loser’s mentality.” Rafael pops his head up and waves his arm. “Ricardo, Terry, stand next to the back tires. Simon, the front wing. The kid needs to see how big the car is.”
Once everyone is in place, Rafael says, “That’s how close to the wall you can get. You’re over a foot out in nine.”
Rafael is so obnoxious, but Julien checks his mirrors anyway. It’s easier to make out the edge of his tire against a bright red jumpsuit. The entire vehicle is far narrower than Julien expected.
Well, he can’t just study the size of the car while he’s racing at top speed through the track—checking for opponents, for debris, for everything but where his own tires are.
Okay, so maybe Julien thought the car was wider. Maybe he was slightly overreacting about how close the wall is. Maybe Rafael has a point.
“I got it.” Julien nods as he studies his mirrors. His eyes flick up to the Brazilian driver when he says, “Thanks.”
“What’s going on?” Thomas removes his helmet as he wanders over to their side of the garage. There’s still twenty minutes left in the session. “That was a good run, Julien! Points in Albert Park is very impressive. Only one-point-two off the pace.”
Thomas is only two-tenths off the pace. How the fuck is he an entire second faster than Julien?!
“Leave, Thomas.” It’s Rafael who says it. “If he’s gonna represent Ferraro for a quarter of the season, he needs to do better than tenth.”
Thomas’s eyes bulge like he’s gearing up to start a fight. With so little time, Julien can’t afford the distraction.
“C’est bon! It’s okay,” Julien says quickly. “Rafael’s helping me for now. Let’s talk after practice?”
Thomas stares between Rafael and Julien. Not with curiosity, but with something closer to distrust. “Okay. Talk with you later.”
Yeah, that’s a problem for later. Julien takes one last look at how large his car is before pressing the radio button. “I’m ready to go again whenever you are.”
“You’re through to Q3.”
Julien releases a shaky exhale. After a difficult day of free practice, qualifying in the top ten wasn’t exactly guaranteed. “Next stop, pole.”
There’s a chuckle on the other end of the line that isn’t exactly reassuring.
Julien pulls into the pit, and he’s already back on the radio as they wheel his car into the garage. “Where are my losses?”
“Turns one, thirteen, eleven, twelve, fourteen, ten.”
“You mean sector three?” Practically the entire thing.
“Affirm.”
Then Davide should just say that.
The car isn’t fully stopped before Rafael is in Julien’s space, hovering over the cockpit like he might climb inside. “You’re still not using the full apex at nine. You need to hug the wall before you enter.”
A mechanic lowers the screens, but Rafael keeps waving his phone in front of Julien’s face. From what he can tell, it’s a live feed from his car. Unfortunately, it’s still live, so all Julien can see is the top of his helmet and a frustrated Brazilian.
“That doesn’t show me anything.”
Rafael checks the screen and grunts, leaning in, closer to Julien. It’s crazy how strong his cologne must be, the way it wafts in through the vents of Julien’s helmet. How the musk cuts through the sweat, the oil, and the fumes of the car, and washes over him.
Rafael doesn’t even notice. He knocks at the mic button with the corner of his phone and loudly asks, “Can someone play a video from before nine through to twelve?”
The microphone is in Julien’s helmet. “There’s no way they heard you.”
Unfortunately, a black rectangle pops up on the screen, proving him wrong. After a short buffer, it plays T-cam footage from the DRS zone before turn nine.
“See?” Rafael taps the very expensive screen with the corner of his phone. “Through here—you’re braking heavier because you aren’t prepared.”
“My braking is better than yesterday.”
“No, this is different.” Rafael hits the microphone button again. “Just keep replaying the video, guys. I’m trying to make a point.”