Australian Grand Prix #8
Well, the point is lost on Julien, because guess which turns the actual race engineer rattled off? Everything in sector three except turn nine. “Davide said I had losses through the rest of the sector.”
“No shit. It’s because you’re setting yourself up for failure here.” When the video replays, Rafael eagerly circles the space between the car and the wall. “See?! See, right there. If you drive flat out, hug the wall, then you’d be able to carry the momentum through the rest of the sector.”
It’d give him a better arch too, but this is all just theory. Theoretically, Julien could drive faster if he cuts close to the wall. In reality, he won’t get much of a lap if his car is destroyed.
“Look kid, you’re in Q3. The worst you can get is tenth. Now is the time to take a risk. If you do hit the wall, at least you can say you put up a fight.”
“Fine. I’ll try it your way.” Engines roar down pit lane as cars peel out of their garages and line up for Q3. “If everyone has to work overnight to repair the car, I’m blaming you.”
“Just push hard and remember our deal.” Rafael taps Julien’s helmet with his phone, and the sound echoes long after he steps back.
By the time the screens are removed and Julien gets the all-clear to leave the garage, the queue is empty. Julien still stops at the end of the pit lane to breathe.
The worst he can do is tenth place. This is the time to push. He’s got this.
During the out lap, Julien repeats everything he’s learned like a mantra. In the second DRS zone, he has to throw himself off the racing line for a Red Boar on a flying lap.
Fuck, they’re fast.
From behind, he watches as the car nearly scrapes the paint off of the wall before propelling into the quick turn. It slingshots through, far faster than Julien has ever taken ten at.
Rafael was right—Julien’s problem is nine.
Davide and the strategists didn’t want to say it, even though it’s so obvious from the outside.
Julien doesn’t drive close enough to the wall and he definitely doesn’t take the corner nearly as fast as the top of the field.
Rafael thinks he’s capable of pushing the limits without destroying the car. He’s the only one who believes Julien can do it.
Huh.
Okay, fine. Julien will hit the fucking wall then. If not for a better Qualifying result, then at least to prove to himself and everyone else that he can.
Accelerating through the straight, Julien hits top speed over the line to start his flying lap.
Keep left, accelerate longer than what feels comfortable, late brake to cut right, use the curb but watch for track limits.
Davide’s voice is a running commentary in his ear, but Julien tries to shut it out and focus on his gears. Downshift, upshift—fuck, he could’ve held that for longer. Next time. Save this lap first.
Turn nine ahead and Julien white-knuckles the steering wheel as he dives into the wall. He scrapes past faster than ever, his back tires maybe an inch off the surface. The roar of his engine reverberates, the sound echoing in Julien’s bones as he slingshots through turn ten.
It’s a rush he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Possibly ever.
Momentum and adrenaline carry him through, and Julien navigates the difficult twists of sector three with abandon.
This is the moment he held out for all those years. Not a measly Free Practice session every now and then—a true fight with some of the fastest machinery in the world.
Julien crosses the line and finally exhales. There’s a blue car about to start a lap right behind him, so he pulls off of the race line to cool down. “Tell me that one was good.”
“That one was good.”
Julien thinks that’s it, that the Italian race engineer will leave him hanging, but Davide finally says, “You’re P2.”
“What?!” P2? Like second place?!
“Two tenths off provisional pole. Very impressive, Julien. Please return to the garage.”
But Julien was the last car to leave the pits. All nine of the other cars must’ve set a lap in that time. And he’s second?!
Of course, the grip of the track evolves with every car, and fuel loads are lighter with every lap, but P2 for his first ever race would be groundbreaking. It’s solid proof—Julien is fast. He’s so fast, he beat eighteen actual full-time drivers.
He’s not too proud to admit Rafael deserves a blowjob after this. He might even put some effort into it.
Julien pits, and the atmosphere in the garage is notably brighter. The mechanics almost look pleased when they push the car back and cover the tires.
As soon as the screen is down, Julien searches for his name. DUO is all the way at the top, right between the two Red Boars.
He had assumed Thomas had provisional pole, but his DUB marker is down in fifth. Fifth.
Julien beat Thomas. In the same car.
Whoa.
There are still about eight minutes left in the session, so Julien tries to tamp down the excitement bubbling up in his throat. He focuses on visualizing the entire lap again, exactly as he did it. He’s traversing turn six when someone taps on his helmet.
“The screens work better when you look at them.” Despite the P2 finish, Rafael still doesn’t look happy.
“I’m trying to remember my very impressive lap.”
“You downshifted too early at three.”
“I know.” Yeah, he definitely did, but mistakes mean Julien can improve. An improvement on an already-good lap could mean pole position.
And to think his best result was fourteenth yesterday.
In the final scramble, Julien jumps the pack—lining up first. The track won’t be as rubbered in for him as it will be for the people at the back, but at least he won’t accidentally miss his chance to start a lap.
Clean air is a gift, and Julien basks in it as he repeats his notes for each corner.
Hold the downshift before three. Finn’s contract with Mercenary is up at the end of this year. So is Owain’s contract with McLean. Sure, they’re expected to sign again, but maybe after this weekend, Julien can join the conversation.
After all, who wouldn’t be interested in a driver that can secure pole on debut?
There’s more traffic when Julien starts his flying lap, but he can already tell he’s going faster than his previous, already very impressive, lap.
Upshift, hold—okay, now downshift. That was better. Hug the wall, slingshot through the next turn, cut the apex, and—fuck!
Julien swerves, barely avoiding the back wing of a McLean on an out lap. What the fuck was he doing on the race line?! Doesn’t he have mirrors? That stupid-ass peach car botched Julien’s perfect lap right before the finish!
He mashes the mic button. “He got out in front of me!”
“Don’t slow down! Start another flyer!”
Too late. Julien already lifted, so he coasts right through the start-finish line. He curses before activating the microphone again. “Do I have enough time for another push lap?”
“Negative,” is the solemn reply. “Your pace was very good, though. Purple sectors in one and two. They’re already investigating Beddoe for impeding.”
They can investigate and penalize Owain all they want, but one driver’s placement won’t make up for the fact that every other driver will improve this lap and knock Julien further and further down the order.
“Thomas is behind, can you give him a tow?”
Julien would love to pretend he didn’t hear the request, but he needs to stay employed. “Copy.”
He drags Thomas through the straight and falls off the race line like a good little teammate. Afterwards, Julien coasts through the rest of the lap, diving into the pits as soon as he can.
He’s the first of the Q3 qualifiers to parc ferme, so it’s easy to pop out of the car and hit the scales without talking to anybody. Instead of wading into the media pen and waiting for results, he heads back to the garage to dust himself off and temper his disappointment before facing the world.
As a cameraman follows him down the line of garages, Julien removes his helmet and balaclava, fixing his hair as he walks.
He’s obviously frustrated, but to show there are no hard feelings, Julien blows the camera a raspberry. It’s childish, but the noise is louder than he expects, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Even if Julien didn’t walk away with pole position, he still fought for it. That’s better than he could’ve hoped for after leaving the track yesterday. Something he did worked, and he’ll get another chance to prove himself tomorrow.
At least his chances of giving Rafael a blowjob are decreasing exponentially with every car that crosses the finish line.
That helps ease the sting.
Gathered around the television, the mechanics pop their heads up and offer sympathetic looks when Julien enters the garage. Their attention snaps back to the broadcast as they wait with bated breath for the final result.
Rafael stands with them, near the back. His free hand stays wrapped around his pinched mouth as he glowers at the TV.
Julien pulls up next to him as another driver slides ahead on the tower, forcing his time further down. He’s fifth now, but there are still three more cars pushing.
Owain crosses the line in eighth. Great. Now any punishment he receives won’t even help Julien.
“It’s painful to watch.” Another car passes the finish line. Now Julien’s sixth.
Rafael’s hand falls to his side with a huff. “Owain owes me a fucking blowjob.”
It’s kind of funny how much Notorious Playboy Rafael Souza was looking forward to something as silly and meaningless as one blowjob. He said it himself—it’d be easy to find someone willing to drop to their knees for him. He didn’t have to put so much effort into actually helping Julien.
Cheers ring out in the garage when Thomas is announced pole sitter. There’s a flurry of activity as people run to parc ferme or get back to work. Throughout the chaos, Julien and Rafael continue watching the broadcast.
On one hand, Julien’s happy for his brother, on the other, it could’ve been him. Still, he wouldn’t have been part of the conversation at all if he had gone at it alone.
“You helped me a lot this weekend. I’d be worse off without you.”