Fia’s Epilogue
Fia’s Epilogue
Fia
Two months later, Zolt’s hand gripped mine tight as we walked through the StormSprint tunnel, petrol fumes wafting through the opening and closing doors.
He wasn’t in leathers, nor the usual gym top and shorts I was used to seeing him in amongst the bright, white tunnel walls.
He was looking dapper in the same suit as the one he’d worn to his mum’s wedding, his lanyard reading ‘International Integration Mentor.’
He didn’t need the lanyard. Everyone knew who he was and what he’d been through.
When doors opened, people would stop and nod at him, full of respect for the once disgraced racer.
I tried to stifle my smile.
But I couldn’t stop my glow because my happiness was unstoppable. My belief in him was unshakable.
It was his first time back at StormSprint, amongst any of these people, since the hearing that had cleared his name.
And he was here to commit to his action plan.
He didn’t even seem to notice when we passed the Veltar door.
Until a figure walked out of it.
Imre. He froze, oil-stained hand still on the doorknob. Zolt went to keep walking, but Imre called his name. Not mine.
“Zolt!”
He turned, putting himself between us.
“What?” he asked thickly.
His mouth opened, he tried to speak, but settled for, “Good luck.”
Zolt’s head inched back. His thumb rubbed the back of my hand. “Thank you.”
“And… and I’m glad to have you back, Fia.”
Now, Zolt wasn’t the only one who was stunned.
I’d left my masters after the hearing when Ciclati offered me a job without it. Nix was right — I was ready.
“It’s good to be back at Ciclati.” It was a dig, an immature move from me, because of how he’d acted about Zolt and me reuniting… going so far as to argue against Helena and Nagyi about it… because it ‘looked awful on the family’. Yet nothing was mentioned about Benedek risking his brother’s life.
I tried to make it make sense in my head. I failed.
But I was at peace with it. I didn’t need him. Cris Bacque might not be my biological father, but he was my dad.
The final growl of bikes sounded for the end of qualifying as Zolt walked us forward and ushered me into one of the meeting rooms. Technically, I was a member of Ciclati, but Abbé was happy for me to be a part of Zoltán Farkas’s new vision for the racers like him.
He placed his briefcase on the table and flicked it open, still holding my hand.
“Zolt,” I said softly as the door closed. “You’ve got this. They’re going to love it.”
He stood straight, tugged me closer, and sucked in his bottom lip, as if he was trying to believe me. “You think?”
I reached to kiss his cheek. “I know.”
He exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed. “No going back now, is there?”
“Only forward,” I agreed.
He slid his phone out of his pocket, and I tried to let his hand go, but his eyes met mine in complaint. He sighed and released me. “Sorry. I know I’m being annoying.”
“You’re being nervous. And that’s okay.”
I unlocked my iPad and connected it to the projector, showcasing Zolt’s PowerPoint that Julian Marchetti and Dr. Sannier had approved.
I was still in awe at how he’d managed to get them on board.
But they would be stupid not to.
“The plumbing is all sorted,” Zoltán said, tapping on his phone. “Should only be another week until we can house ten more.”
On the side of his long drive, Zolt had a team extending his house for a ‘dog’s quarters’ so that he could foster more four-legged friends. He’d set up an Instagram that was dog-based and hired a manager to scrutinise applications for the five more dogs that now lived with us.
Only the best would be given the chance to adopt the dogs Zoltán was fostering.
“I hope Morzsi is having a good time,” he mumbled, and when I tried to peer over his shoulder, he was swiping through photos of the dog that had come torpedoing into our lives last month.
His floppy brown ears and huge tongue took up most of the screen.
“Maybe I should call them— see how they’re getting on. ”
Morzsi was on a trial day with a potential forever family. Zolt had struggled with the thought of it happening while we were in France, but his new manager was on standby.
“You called them two hours ago, Zolt.”
God help me when we have children.
“Let them enjoy their time with him.”
For weeks, since Zolt was offered the flexible role of International Integration Mentor, I’d worried that being back on the track would make him miss the sport. He hadn’t mentioned it at all, too caught up in preparing for the meeting and worrying over the pups.
I thought I’d be nervous coming back after the hearing. But being at Ciclati was just like being home. The cherry on top was that Zoltán had his own role too.
Benedek would never return to his position or the racing world he’d cherished. He might not have been the one to show Yvonne the original report — it was a doctor from Hungary who saw him racing — but his relationship with Zolt was strained conversations at family gatherings.
Zolt nodded and sat for a second before the door opened, and he stood, one hand behind his back, the other ready to shake whoever was walking through.
It was the other translator. My skills didn’t cover the expanse of diverse languages across StormSprint. Behind her was one of the therapists we had employed.
And then they came in quickly. Seventeen racers didn’t speak English as their first language. Seven relied on translators for most communication, including the one replacing Zoltán for Veltar.
That interaction was going to be interesting.
Once one arrived, they kept coming. Zolt shook their hands, and we sat around the large, oval table. Six of the seven had shown up. Then three more who spoke broken English for interviews.
Which was far more than he’d been expecting.
“My name is Zoltán Farkas,” he said and nodded at the slides on the projector where his name was small in the bottom corner. “I’m taking on a new role at StormSprint as the International Integration Mentor. That means I am here to help you feel part of the community.”
I took the time to translate his words into Portuguese and Italian. The other translator did the same with Vietnamese, Finnish, and Japanese.
“Some help is going to be available to you. There will be optional classes to help you learn English or any language you would like. These tutors will be working at StormSprint so you can take full advantage of their support. We’ve also found therapists who speak both your native language and English so that there are no miscommunications in anything you want to disclose through them to your teams.” He took a deep breath, moving to the next slide.
“Team directors are being put into language programmes where they will learn your native language. Translators are being hired for lunch times so that you…” His voice broke, he coughed, and covered it. “So you don’t have to eat alone.”
The therapist got a chance to speak about her role, and the racers asked her questions through the translator and me.
“I’m proud of you,” I whispered in Kriolu, squeezing his thigh.
He flipped his hand over, palm up, so I placed mine in his.
“I’m proud of us,” he said back in my ear.