Chapter 18
Jitters and Memories in Melbourne
William
"How you holding up?" I ask, nudging his elbow gently.
EJ looks up, his eyes wide. "I'm good. Great. Fine." He swallows hard. "Actually, I'm freaking out."
I laugh. "That tracks."
"Is it that obvious?" He runs a hand through his sandy hair.
"Your foot’s about to drill through the floor."
He stops immediately, pressing his palm against his thigh. "Sorry."
"Don't be. First race jitters are normal." I glance out the window at the palm trees lining the route to Albert Park. "I was a mess this time last year."
"You? But you—"
"My first F1 race, I was so nervous, I put my fireproof underwear on backward. Didn't realize until I was already in the car."
That draws a small laugh from him. "Seriously?"
"Drove the whole session with the seam cutting into places seams should never cut." I grimace at the memory, exaggerating slightly to put him at ease.
The taxi driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and I wonder if he recognizes us. Probably not. We're not Oliver Lenox or James Farrant. Not yet on their superstar level, anyway.
"I'm equal parts excited and terrified," EJ confesses, lowering his voice. "What if I fuck up? What if I crash on the first lap?"
"Then you'll be in good company. Half the grid's done it." I shift to face him better. "Look, I was in your exact position last year. Nobody expected anything from me. The team was a joke. I was the guy who couldn't keep his fists to himself. You've got more raw talent than I did coming in."
"You're just saying that."
"I don't 'just say' anything. Ask Violet if you don't believe me." I give him a reassuring smile. "Nervous is normal. Use it. Channel it into focus."
EJ's eyes widen further as he takes in the gleaming team motorhomes, the carefully choreographed chaos of F1's traveling circus setting up for the weekend.
I pay the driver while EJ collects his things. His nervousness seems to have transformed into something more alert, focused.
We step out into the Melbourne sunshine, the heat immediately wrapping around us like a blanket. Compared with London around this time of the year, this is paradise. March is dreadful there.
The paddock entrance looms ahead, already buzzing with activity despite the early hour. Mechanics, engineers, and team personnel stream through the gates, lanyards swinging against team-colored shirts.
"ID ready?" I ask EJ, patting my pocket to find my own access card.
He nods, then freezes. He frantically pats every pocket of his jeans and team jacket.
"Shit, shit, shit." His face drains of color. "I can't find my card."
A security guard glances our way. Great start to EJ's first official race weekend.
"Calm down," I say, keeping my voice steady. "It's in your bag somewhere."
EJ's hands shake as he unzips his backpack, dumping contents onto a nearby bench. Water bottle. Headphones. Energy bars. Phone charger. Notebook.
"It's not here. Violet's going to kill me." His voice rises with panic.
"No, she won't." I place a hand on his shoulder. "Deep breath. Let's think."
I've been there—the pre-race jitters making you lose basic motor functions. The more he panics, the less likely he'll find it.
"When did you last have it?" I ask.
"At the hotel. I remember putting it in my bag."
"Then it's still there." I kneel down, methodically sorting through his scattered belongings. "What else did you pack this morning?"
EJ thinks for a moment. "My book. I was reading in bed last night."
I spot a thick paperback with a spaceship on the cover half-buried under his jacket. Picking it up, I fan through the pages. A plastic card slides out from somewhere in the middle, landing on the bench.
"Your bookmark?" I hold up the access card, grinning.
EJ's relief is palpable. "Thank fuck. I was about to call Maya to bring my spare."
"Crisis averted." I help him stuff everything back into his bag. "Le Guin?" I ask, nodding at the novel as he carefully tucks it back into his bag.
His eyes light up. "You've read The Dispossessed?"
"Tried once. Too many big words." I grin, shouldering my own bag. "Now come on, rookie. Time to make your grand entrance."
Inside, the paddock is a strange mix of chaos and precision. Team staff hustle between garages. Media crews set up equipment. Everything gleams under the morning sun—the polished hospitality units, the fresh paint on barriers, even the asphalt seems to sparkle.
"William! EJ!" A familiar voice cuts through the noise.
Oliver Lenox strides toward us, his championship-winning smile impossible to miss.
At thirty-four, he's still the benchmark—four titles, over seventy wins, and somehow, genuinely nice.
This man was my bedroom wall poster for years, the reason I begged my parents to let me try karting, the benchmark against which I've measured every achievement in my career.
"Ollie," I say, extending my hand, proud of how steady it remains. "Good to see you, man." I still can’t believe I can call him like this. As if we were friends.
His grip is firm but friendly. "Heard you guys had an eventful off-season."
EJ shifts uncomfortably beside me, but Oliver's attention is already on him, warm and welcoming.
"First race weekend, right? How're you holding up?" Oliver asks, his Australian accent thicker here on home soil.
"I'm good. Just, uh, almost lost my pass," EJ admits with a sheepish smile.
Oliver laughs. "Mate, I still panic about that sometimes, and I've been doing this for twelve years. Don't sweat the small stuff."
The three of us fall into step together, walking down the paddock as team personnel and early-bird fans watch us pass. There's something surreal about walking alongside Oliver Lenox like we're equals, like my name deserves to be mentioned in the same sentence as his.
"This is a good track to start your F1 career. Technical but forgiving." Oliver glances at me. "Our friend here proved that last year."
"P5 was lucky." I shrug.
"Luck is preparation meeting opportunity," Oliver counters. "That drive was solid, safety car or not. Surprised a lot of people."
The compliment from a five-time world champion hits different. I try not to look too pleased, but I’m preening inside.
"Speaking of surprises," Oliver continues, "you planning to make a habit of those podiums? That Silverstone drive was something else."
"If the car cooperates," I say.
"It's not just the car." Oliver's tone turns serious. "You've got something, Foster. Raw speed. Reminds me of myself before team politics got in the way."
For a split second, his gaze is melancholic, as if recalling something painful, but then, he shifts to his trademark smile.
I almost trip over my own feet. Oliver Lenox comparing me to himself? I must be in an alternate reality.
"I'm not quite at your level yet," I manage.
"Yet," Oliver repeats, winking. "That's the keyword."
EJ watches our exchange with wide eyes. I forget sometimes how this looks from the outside—casual conversation with a living legend.
"What about you, EJ?" Oliver asks. "Goals for your rookie season?"
"Learn as much as possible," EJ answers automatically, then adds, "and beat my teammate at least once."
Oliver's laugh is genuine. "Better watch this one," he tells me, jerking a thumb at EJ. "Quick learner. Might be teaching you tricks soon."
F1 Drivers’ World Champions, yet the contrast between Oliver Lenox and James Farrant couldn't be more stark.
Where Farrant wields his success like a weapon, using it to belittle and intimidate, making enemies wherever he goes with his "fuck you" attitude, Oliver wears his achievements lightly.
There's a reason everyone in the paddock respects him, beyond his remarkable skill behind the wheel.
"Speaking of quick," Oliver continues, checking his watch, "I should let you get to your team. Just wanted to say hello and welcome the rookie properly."
We're approaching the Colton Racing motorhome now, its black and red exterior gleaming in the morning sun. Oliver stops, turning to EJ with a more serious expression.
"Bit of advice? This first season, don't focus on results. Focus on learning. Every lap, every session. Absorb everything. You’re on a good team, with a good teammate and an even better leader.
" He squeezes EJ's shoulder. "And ignore the bullshit from the media and couch commentators. Half of them have never sat in a race car, so they’re talking from their ass. "
EJ nods, clearly committing every word to memory. "Thanks, Mr. Lenox. That means a lot."
"Crikey, it's Oliver. I’m not that old, Ethan! I’m literally the same age as your boss!" He grins, then turns to me. "As for you, William"—his voice drops, just between us—"I'll be waiting when you're ready to mix it up front. Won't make it easy for you, though."
"Wouldn't want it any other way," I reply, meaning it completely.
With a final clap on my shoulder, and a nod to EJ, Oliver continues down the paddock, stopping occasionally to greet fans pressed against the barriers.
We enter the motorhome, greeted by the familiar faces of our crew.
Tom stands by the coffee machine, his glasses slightly askew as always, his afro now neatly trimmed with a slight fade on the sides making him look both cool and smart as hell.
Beside him is Maya Midorikawa—EJ's newly assigned engineer—her black hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, tablet already in hand.
"Morning," I call to Tom, who raises his coffee mug in greeting.
I can't help noticing how, lately, Maya's eyes flicker toward Tom when she thinks no one's looking, a faint color rising in her cheeks when he asks her a technical question.
There's something endearing about it—two brilliant minds circling each other, unaware of their mutual orbit, and one clearly fascinated with the other. I’m calling it; those two will, eventually, date.
EJ gravitates toward Maya with a shy smile on his face, already deep in discussion about setup options for first practice. I head for the breakfast spread, grabbing a protein bar and some fruit as Tom joins me.
"Sleep well?" he asks, voice lower than usual. "You look tired."
"Jet lag," I lie, not mentioning how I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Violet in her hotel room just floors away.
Tom studies me, too perceptive for comfort. "Right. Well, Felix’s simulator data looks good. If the track temperature stays consistent, we should—"
The motorhome door swings open, and Blake strides in, clipboard in hand. "There you two are. Media's waiting. Both of you, media pen, five minutes ago."
I stuff the last piece of banana in my mouth. "Duty calls," I tell Tom with a shrug.
Time to face the first inquisition of the season.