Australian Grand Prix #9
Rafael huffs. “Don’t act like the job’s done. There’s still tomorrow.”
The race. That’s the part everyone will actually remember. Julien checks their area for curious ears before leaning closer. “Get me to the podium tomorrow and you can have my ass.”
Rafael finally turns from the screen as his eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
“If you helped me this much on my one-lap pace, I can only imagine how good your overtaking advice is.” It’s what he specializes in, after all.
This feels like a good circuit for Ferraro—good enough for a one-two.
Julien looks up for a confirmation, but Rafael is already deep in thought, mumbling to himself. “You’re only on the third row—it’s not a terrible position to start in. Bunch of opportunities through—”
Julien groans as the fans who crowd the entrance of the paddock scream for his attention. Don’t they know how early it is? Can’t they come back later or something?
By the time Julien sets his food tray on the table and buries his face in his hands, he doesn’t even care that he forgot a drink again.
At least he avoided the melon this time.
“You doin’ alright?” Rafael asks, taking the seat next to him. “Want a coffee? Tea?”
“Do they keep energy drinks back there?” Julien could chug a red boar before anyone sees him.
“Careful, now. You’re not on the energy drink team.”
Rafael leaves, and Julien sinks deeper into his hands. His schedule is full of meetings and strategy briefs and stupid driver appearances. All he needs is a few minutes of sleep and he’ll be good as new. Just a few minutes.
The squeak of a styrofoam cup jolts Julien awake and it takes several moments before he remembers where he is.
“Here. Don’t tell anyone I got you this.”
The white cup emphasizes how unnaturally bright the green liquid inside is. Whatever it is can’t be safe for human consumption.
It’s sad how little Julien actually cares. He takes a sip, choking when he recognizes the flavor. “I wish I didn’t know it looked like this.”
“The aluminum cans hide it pretty well.” Rafael traps his own water bottle between his knees and cracks the seal with his only free hand. He’s getting really good at that. “So why are you so wrecked this morning?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
When Julien originally created the streaming schedule, he was catering to Form 1 fans who liked listening to guys talk shit about the race while they played. In the years since, he’s never had to pull double duty by driving all day and pretending to drive all night.
But only one of his jobs will still need him after Rafael’s shoulder heals, so Julien’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.
The worst was after streaming ended—when the comments continued to play in his head for hours.
The brother did decent today.
Ferraro always does well in Australia. It shoulda been a one-two knock out, but he barely made Q3 in a fucking rocketship.
Pathetic, honestly, even with Rafael trying to help him.
I bet Rafael is purposely sabotaging him.
Yeah—Owain’s his best friend. He’s in on it too.
“Rafael, you’re a popular guy.”
“Most of us are. It comes with the sport.”
“Yeah, but do you get comments from fans?” Fans is probably the wrong word. “Like, negative comments?”
“All the fucking time.” Rafael spears a pineapple chunk before turning. “Why? Someone say something to you?”
“I guess.”
It wasn’t just one thing, though. It was having to sit there, exhausted from a full day of driving, while his friends ripped apart everything he was proud of. How he couldn’t defend his laps without outing himself as Julien Dubois.
“Well, it’s horrible advice, but don’t let it get to you.”
Gee, thanks. “I’ve forgotten all about it.”
“I told you! It’s bad advice, but it’s true. Every driver gets crap from people who know nothing about us or the sport. They hate us if we lose, and hate us more when we win. It’s lose-lose to worry about it, so just ignore it.”
That would actually be some decent advice if Julien was dealing with strangers. “But I can’t ignore these comments specifically.”
Rafael’s face falls, his expression intense when he asks, “Is someone threatening you?”
“No! No, I just—I know them. It’s people who I, uh, value the opinion of.” It doesn’t matter. Julien isn’t weak enough to let a few comments derail him. Besides, it’ll only get worse when he’s a full-time driver. “Forget it—it doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”
“?a va?” Thomas sets his tray on the other side of Julien and makes a disapproving tut as he sits. “It’s bad luck to drink that on race day.”
Who cares as long as it keeps him awake? Julien pointedly upends the cup over his mouth, chugging the rest before his brother can snatch it from him.
Rafael leans around Julien and asks. “Did you know he has friends who talk shit about him?”
“Hey!” The whole point of Julien discussing it with Rafael was to keep the issue away from his brother. “I told you to drop it. They didn’t know I was listening.”
“You did not stream last night?!” Great. Now Thomas is involved. “But you are racing today! You need to sleep, you cannot keep—”
“I’m fine.” Julien lifts his cup, but it’s already empty. Damnit. “I can handle myself.”
“Streaming?” Rafael asks. “Streaming what?”
Thomas ignores him. “You are my responsibility. You cannot be up all night before a race. It is dangerous for you and for everyone else on the track.”
“Your responsibility?!” Oh yeah, because Julien belongs to his brother like a dog he has to remember to feed and walk. Like he isn’t an entire human man with his own autonomy.
“Keep your voice down.”
But Thomas has never understood that. He’s always tried to control Julien, tried to fit him into a neat little box. He’s never seen him as an adult capable of making his own decisions, just a child that needs to be dealt with.
A child that needs to be sent away.
“I stopped being your responsibility when you shipped me off to England!”
Thomas groans. “Not this again.”
“Yeah, this again.” This. As if it isn’t the most traumatic time of Julien’s life. “You still don’t get it. I idolized you—I wanted to be just like you—but I was some annoying brat, huh? Something you didn’t want to deal with. Well, now you don’t have to deal with me! So leave me the fuck alone.”
“England was a favor.” Thomas doesn’t even look at him. He just spoons his granola-topped yogurt with an unbothered air. “You got to go karting more than I ever did, and you learned English. I thought you would be grateful by now.”
“Grateful?!”
“Hey.” Rafael’s hand is a heavy weight when it rests on Julien’s thigh. It’s reassuring, grounding even. “I think you should leave. Cool off a bit.”
“Yeah. Leave us, Thomas.” Julien’s hand finds Rafael’s, but the older driver slides out from under his touch.
“I meant you, Julien. Take a moment for yourself before the meeting.”
“Me?” What part of that conversation made it sound like Julien was the problem?! “I—fine. Whatever.”
Julien only jerked Rafael off. What was he expecting? A knight in shining armor to rescue him?
Not when the dragon is the perfect Thomas Dubois. Golden child Thomas Dubois. Once-in-a-generation driver Thomas Dubois.
Fuck it. Fuck both of them.
Julien stands and storms out. He made it this far by himself. He won the Formation 2 Championship by himself. He doesn’t need Rafael and he definitely doesn’t need Thomas.
He probably should’ve grabbed some of his food, though. Julien’s empty stomach gurgles as the red boar burns through the lining.
It’s too late now. He’s already stomping through the door and shuffling down the stairs of hospitality. Maybe someone in the garage has food. Unlikely, but not impossible.
With his eyes on the garage in the distance, Julien doesn’t notice the peach-clad driver until they collide.
Owain bounces with the impact, muttering as he rights himself.
Perfect timing. Julien was looking for a place to direct his anger.
The McLean social media guy keeps recording both drivers as a look of recognition crosses Owain’s face. “Julien! I didn’t see you after Quali yesterday. Howzit?”
He holds out his hand, and Julien is compelled to clap it. It’s the boarding school in him. “Good, good.”
No it’s not, but that’s none of Owain’s concern.
“Man, I’m glad I caught you.” Owain didn’t catch anything—Julien was the one who ran into him. “Wanted to apologize for yesterday. No idea anyone was behind me. Fuck, you’re fast.”
Huh.
Owain’s a pretty cool guy, actually.
Julien relaxes, rocking back. “Nah, man, it’s fine. Shit happens.” Why does he sound even more British than normal? Must be a proximity thing.
“Pass that on to the stewards for me, would’ja?”
“Sure thing.” Julien will definitely not be doing that. “Hey, you got any food on ya? Starving.”
Surprisingly, Owain has enough awareness to look up at the red building they’re standing in front of. The Ferraro bull bucks on the giant golden shield displayed directly above the door Julien exited from. “We’re at your hospitality building.”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, my trainer’s a dick, too.” Owain laughs and summons the social guy closer. “You got a protein bar or something?”
The guy finally has the decency to turn his phone away as he pulls his slim backpack forward and digs through the pockets. “Chocolate okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Julien turns to leave, but Owain asks, “Hey, you go clubbing?”
With what free time? “Sometimes.” He’s such a fucking liar.
“Cool. Text you later?”
“Sounds good.”
As soon as he’s out of range of the McLean camera, Julien tears into the protein bar. It doesn’t taste good, but it negates the worst of the stomach pains. It’ll have to be good enough until lunch.
By the time he reaches his driver’s room, Julien has calmed down. He might’ve overreacted a little bit at breakfast. Might’ve been a tad jumpy. Maybe even too tired or hungry to realize it wasn’t the time or place.
Shouting at his brother in public? It’s like Julien’s begging to be labelled as stupid and childish. And there were so many people in that room—important people. Fuck.