Japanese Grand Prix #2
The other Ferraro parks in front of number two. A Red Boar in front of number three. Julien beat them over the line—both of them.
Also all the other ones.
An overlooked, washed-up reserve driver just out-drove the entire full-time grid.
Julien stumbles out of the car and barely remembers to return the steering wheel. His team is along the sidelines—jumping, screaming, cheering for him—but Julien feels lost in limbo, awaiting his fate for tomorrow while surrounded by a wall of sound.
Someone crashes into him, lifting and spinning Julien until his vision is just as confused as his emotions are.
“I am so proud of you.” It’s Thomas who says it. Weird, he’s not usually a good sport.
“I have a pending penalty from the stewards.”
Thomas scoffs. “If they take the tire trophy from you, I will give it back. You earned pole position in Japan—that is worth celebrating!”
Julien returns the hug and squeezes extra tight. For all the shit he gives his brother, it’s so good to have his support when everything feels too-big and overwhelming.
He might not want the trophy for a position that was stripped from him, but it could be the only trophy Julien ever receives in Formation 1. It’s proof he belongs here.
Thomas drags him over to the team of red shirts who fall against the flimsy barricade to get their hands on Julien. Every knock against his helmet vibrates down his spine, and he can’t hear anything Davide and Lorenzo try to yell in his direction.
He pauses when he spots Rafael. With a quick flick, he pops his visor open to see him better.
“Good job, kid.”
At least he’s not berating him this time. “Not stupid and reckless?”
“Not those laps.” Rafael taps the helmet as well, his touch lingering a moment too long before it falls. “I’m proud of you.”
“Jesus, don’t be a baby about it.” Julien moves on before anyone notices how flushed his cheeks are.
An official guides him to the scale, and no less than three cameras are trained to his face when Julien finally removes his helmet and balaclava. What are they expecting him to do? A jig?
Julien runs his hand through his sweaty hair as well as he can and tries to smile at the camera. It feels a little grimace-y. That’s probably fine—he’s on borrowed time in the winner’s circle anyway.
Friedrich is the Red Boar who took third, and the German driver is visibly unhappy as he gives his interview. Maybe he has a date with the stewards as well.
Julien can only hope. If everybody behind him also receives a penalty, maybe they’ll all shift back three places and everything will work itself out. Unlikely, but not impossible.
Thomas takes his place in front of the camera, and Friedrich grabs his water before dutifully standing next to Julien. “Which one are you?”
“Pole.”
“Yes, I can count.” Friedrich points to himself, Thomas, then Julien. “Three, two, one. You are which Ferraro? The younger? The brother?”
Ah. This might be how it is forever. Every conversation with Friedrich will probably go exactly like this over and over again into eternity.
Julien should print out a nametag or something. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Friedrich makes an impressed face. “Two and one-half races and you are already on pole? Maybe the older one should be the brother.”
Huh. That’s not a bad idea.
“I’m Julien.” He holds out his hand. It’s like a truce.
“Fritz.” Friedrich looks confused, but he still shakes the hand. “I am not good to remember names, but I will try.”
On the bright side, Julien gets to skip some of his press duties in favor of visiting the stewards. On the flip side, Hugo is there.
Lorenzo and Amir size each other up, both team principals nearly growling at the sight of one another, but Hugo and Julien have always been cordial off track—even after splitting up.
“I’m so sorry,” Julien says, quietly. “I felt like a total idiot when it happened. Hoped it wasn’t you.”
“Hate seeing my face that much?” Hugo pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, hiding his mouth at the same time. Still, there’s a smile in his voice he can’t conceal.
“Love to look at any part of you.” Or, did. Past tense. “But if I had to fuck someone over, I hoped it’d be Owain. At least then he’d get some payback. With you, it’s just unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate, that’s me.”
Julien laughs and nudges him. “Oh, shut up, Mr. Full-Time Driver.”
The stewards call the meeting to order and a hush falls over the too-bright room. It feels ominous to sit in their presence, to be on the opposite side of the table from the panel who will decide Julien’s fate.
Before anyone can read the charges, Hugo raises his hand.
An older Japanese man double-takes, looking between his paper and the rookie driver. “Can this wait, Mr. Tremblay?”
“Perhaps, but I hope I can save us all some time.” Time? “I would like to retract and reject any complaint made on my behalf against Mr. Dubois.”
What?!
Julien hasn’t faced the stewards since Formation 2. Back then, Hugo would use any tactic, no matter how dirty, to get ahead. Never, in all of that time, has he ever backed down. He certainly never retracted or rejected anything that might impede a rival.
Julien looks to Lorenzo for direction, but the older Italian man seems just as confused as he is.
“You would?” the steward asks. “And how does McLean feel about this decision, Amir?”
“McLean supports the decision to drop all charges raised against Julien Dubois.”
Lorenzo looks close to fainting, now.
“May we ask why?”
Hugo nods once. “The incident happened during Q2. By then, I had already set two lap times that would see me through to Q3. Furthermore, any penalty enacted against Julien would not affect my P8 start tomorrow, and I could not, in good conscience, strip him of what might be the only pole position of his Formation 1 career. At the very least, it’s bad publicity for me, personally. ”
Oh, okay. There it is. Still, this all seems relatively tame for Hugo.
Too tame.
Something else is going on.
“McLean concurs,” Amir grumbles.
“Well,” the steward replies, closing his notebook. “I have to say, you have saved us a bit of time. Do you accept, Mr. Dubois?”
“Yes?” What else can he say? Julien entered the room expecting a three-place penalty, but might actually walk out of it as pole sitter for the race.
“Lorenzo?”
The Ferraro team principal leans forward, his elbows braced on the heavy wooden table. “Absolutely, we accept.”
“Very well. No further action will be taken at this time. You are all dismissed.”
Before he can disappear down the hallway, Julien grabs Hugo by the shoulder and hauls him backwards. “What the fuck was that?”
“What? I can’t do something nice for you?”
“Not without strings attached.”
Bad publicity might sound good enough to the stewards, but Julien knows better than to fall for it. Hugo cares about racing far more than his image.
“What do you want from me? Do you need me to crash into someone for you? Honestly, I could.” Julien is pole sitter for a race with limited overtaking opportunities. If Hugo wants him to kill a man, he’ll fucking consider it.
“Please don’t.”
“Seriously, even Amir backed down! Did you pimp me out to your TP? You know I hate blowjobs. Is he small, at least?”
“Shut up! Jesus fuck, don’t talk about blowing—” Hugo pushes his glasses up, off his face, into his wavy light-brown hair. He rubs his eyes and grumbles, “God, that wasn’t a visual I needed.”
“Then what is it?” Julien pulls Hugo’s wrists away from his face. “I know it’s something, just tell me.”
Hugo’s blue eyes are larger without his glasses, and he stares unblinkingly at the reserve driver. Finally, he relents. “I said something on my radio when you were suddenly in my way. I didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“Something?” Julien repeats, dropping his grip. “Like a slur?”
“No, worse.” What’s worse than a slur? “I called you Juliet.”
“Oh.” Fuck.
Fuck.
“I am so sorry.” For what it’s worth, Hugo looks like he means it. “I know it’s an us-thing and the whole point is that you hate it. But I was so—I was so frustrated, it just slipped out.”
“Wow.” Julien doesn’t know what else to say. At least he has a warning.
“McLean’s PR team thinks it looks bad. They think it sounds misogynistic—that I belittled you by calling you a woman.”
“Huh.”
“But I know it’s worse than that, because your sim racing name—”
“Yeah.”
Romeo and Juliet. It’s not the most difficult puzzle to piece together. Julien’s eRacing team has already started to point fingers at him, and this might be the final straw.
Everything Julien has built—
“I am so sorry,” Hugo continues. “But I need to ask you to, um, minimize it.”
“Minimize it?”
“Yeah. If a reporter asks, maybe you could just laugh it off? Play it cool or something. You can say the Humongo thing and just… keep it contained.”
“Contained.”
Julien’s entire eRacing career that he built from the ground up without a single mention of his brother is one ‘Romeo and Juliet’ joke away from crumbling away in his hands.
Just laugh it off.
“Hey, I get it. I know. Again—I’m so, so, sorry. That’s why I stopped the penalty.” Hugo flips his glasses back down to his nose and forces a smile. “And now you have a pole position in Formation 1! That’s incredible! It has to be worth something.”
Worth something? Sure. Worth destroying the entire life Julien created outside his brother’s name? Less sure.
Still, there’s something that doesn’t add up. “What’s in it for Amir? Why did he back down? He hates Lorenzo.”
Hugo’s eyes widen for a blink before he schools his expression. “I discussed with him different, um, race strategies.”
Julien can read him too well. That’s why they never would’ve worked. “A benefit for McLean if I’m leading the race, you mean.”
“I just said something to shut down the investigation. That’s all. Whether it’s true or not is a completely different—”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t think that’s really necess—”
“Please, Hugo. Just say it.” This is so pathetic. They’re both adults. “Why is it better for McLean if I’m in the lead?”