Chapter 167
callum
Racing teaches you to perform under pressure. Love teaches you to perform under fire. And I was doing both at once. –Aurelie
The formation lap felt like an eternity, the rain making every turn feel like a gamble.
My tires fought for traction, not quite warm enough for the slick surface and felt like a punishment for any slight misstep.
By the time we lined up for the start, my heart was pounding, the adrenaline drowning out everything else.
Two. Three. Four. Five.
Lights out.
The start was its usual insanity, but slightly worse with the visibility reduced to nothing but spray and instinct.
I gained a place into Turn 1, barely avoiding contact as two cars right beside me collided, their debris scattering across the track.
Aurélie was holding her ground in P10, her car dancing through the puddles with expert precision.
Sometimes I forgot the sport still called her a rookie, because her determination and focus made her one of the best on the grid.
I wanted to focus on my own race, my own strategy, but my eyes kept finding her in my mirrors, tracking her every move. Lap after lap, the rain never lightened, the conditions growing worse as the track grew slicker.
The whole grid was on full wets today, just trying to keep it on the fucking track, but three safety cars later and five retired cars, and it was anyone’s race.
Over and over, any progress a driver made reset.
Back to being in the middle of the pack on each rolling restart.
The order of cars didn’t even matter at this point.
Marco was holding steady with his place in P2, his pace quick despite the challenges. Kimi shadowed me, his cautious approach paying off in the slippery conditions. But Aurélie, now ahead of me in P8, was pushing harder than anyone.
Too hard, maybe. With this class four rain—a heavy storm that posed major safety risks—she was definitely riding the line of reckless and aggressive. Every time I saw her car darting into corners, her lines so tight I thought she’d spin off, I had to remind myself of my own race.
“She’s going to get herself killed,” I muttered under my breath, my grip tightening on the wheel as I pushed harder to close the gap with the car in front of me—Schrieber, I think, but the visibility was too poor to know for sure if it was him or his teammate.
“Focus, Callum,” Dom’s voice said through the radio. “Don’t get caught up in a fight. Keep it clean.”
A fight. He meant the pack ahead of me, but all I could see was her. Aurélie, defending two cars into Copse, practically brushing the apex. She overtook one, then another, clawing her way to P6.
And me? I wasn’t far behind.
By Lap 17, Aurélie and I were running almost nose-to-tail, each overtaking move a calculated risk in the treacherous conditions. My frustration grew with every lap, every attempt to pass her thwarted by her razor-sharp defense.
She was driving like someone with nothing to lose, and it was infuriating.
Because she did have something to lose.
I finally saw an opening heading into Brooklands.
She went slightly wide, her tires struggling for grip, and I pounced, diving up the inside.
The move was clean, but I caught a flash of her helmet turning sharply toward me, and I knew she wasn’t going to let me keep the position for long. At least, not without a battle.
Sure enough, two laps later, she was dangerously close, pressuring me through Maggots and Becketts. My radio buzzed with strategy updates, but I barely heard them. All I could focus on was this intricate dance we were doing just to hold P fucking 6.
I held her off through the first sector, but in the second, she made her move, taking the inside line into Vale as she caught a slipstream from me. I felt the spray from her tires as she shot past, the force of her precision driving twisting something hot and agitated in my chest.
“Damn it, Aurélie,” I muttered, gripping the wheel tighter as I fought to close the gap again.
By Lap 25, it wasn’t just a race anymore—it was personal. We were in our own battle, overtaking each other every few laps, neither willing to yield an inch. I could feel the tension mounting, the frustration bleeding into every move.
She blocked me heading into Abbey, her car cutting sharply across the racing line. It was aggressive—too aggressive—and I had to back off to avoid contact. My radio crackled to life.
“Watch it, Callum. Play the long game,” Dom said in my ear.
“Copy,” I responded, voice muffled through the G-forces pressing me back into my seat. But I couldn’t. Not with her. Not when every move she made felt like a challenge, a dare to push harder, to fight for it.
If I wasn’t fresh off injury, if my neck wasn’t aching and my shoulders weren’t burning, I would be way more defensive than I was. But I knew what my limits were.
I took her back on Lap 29, squeezing past her on the inside of Stowe, but she was right there again, pressuring me through the next sector. The pain in my neck was distracting, and every corner felt like a balancing act on the edge of disaster.
Lap 31. We traded sector purples we had no business chasing in this rain.
Suddenly the weather felt like an omen.
By Lap 34, the tension reached its breaking point.
Heading into Luffield, I could feel her right on my ass again, her car dancing on the edge of grip with tires that needed to be changed, but I had a feeling Luminis was waiting to pit her in the hopes there would be another safety car.
It was a smart but risky strategy, but every team out here was hoping for the same.
Not for injured drivers—never that—but for the chance to get a free pit stop without losing position.
Aurélie had the inside line, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. I wouldn’t let the discomfort in my body stop me from being the driver that had gotten me to four titles.
I braked late, later than I should’ve, trying to force her to back off. But she braked later—way too fucking late. Goddamnit. It was like we were playing a game of chicken, pushing one another on the track the way we should only do in the bedroom—to the absolute limit.
It was so fucking stupid, and yet here we were, doing nothing to stop it.
Our tires touched. Just a graze at first, but it was enough to throw us off balance. The rear of her car slid out, swinging sideways as mine followed suit. I fought for control, my hands gripping the wheel, but the track wasn’t forgiving. Not today.
The world spun in slow motion. Gravel pinged the floor, the anti-stall kicked, and the engine sputtered into a dead quiet as double yellows rippled through the marshals’ posts.
Rain hammered my visor, the snap of carbon fiber breaking apart sounded like a gunshot, and her rear wing flickered across my view.
For a heartbeat, it felt like rehearsed, choreographed chaos, but then reality slammed back in, reminding me to wrench the wheel to avoid the barriers.
By the time we stopped, the silence was deafening.
For a moment, I just sat there, my hands still gripping the wheel, my heart pounding against my ribs, my body aching with an indescribable pain that I’d pushed myself too far, too fast. Rain pelted the visor of my helmet, the faint sound of the race continuing without us reaching my ears.
“Callum, you okay?” Dom’s voice crackled through the radio, but I didn’t answer. My eyes were on her car, stopped just a few feet away.
My limbs felt like lead as I unstrapped and climbed out, the marshals already waving us toward the barriers.
She was pulling herself out with tight and careful movements.
I thought about the way she’d flinched when I touched her earlier, the way her hand had ghosted to her ribs in the garage.
Concern jabbed through my ribs harder than the impact had.
Aurélie stood a few feet away, her back to me, posture stiff. Even with the rain blurring everything, I could see the fury in her stance. She didn’t turn around, and maybe that was the worst part—how she didn’t even need to say anything to make me feel like I’d failed her.
I stalked toward her, removing my helmet and balaclava, the rain soaking through my suit, my hair. I hated this part. Hated the fighting. Hated how convincing we had to make it look.
She turned to me, visor up now, eyes flashing with frustration.
“What the hell was that, Callum?” she demanded, sounding muffled. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a harder impact. You could’ve exacerbated your injuries!”
“What the hell was that?” I shot back. The rain drenched us as I pointed at the wreckage of our cars, my voice cutting through the storm.
“You braked way too fucking late, Aurélie! In this weather? With your setup already compromised? You can’t just throw the car into every gap and hope for the best.”
She ripped her helmet and balaclava off, rain streaking down her face. “And you can’t slam the door like that in these conditions, Callum. You weren’t even clear! You’re the one who’s hurt, you’re the one who shouldn’t be racing, and now look—crash number two for you!”
Somewhere beyond the rain and the ruin of two cars, a boom mic edged closer. I squared my shoulders and delivered the next line.
“I was defending my position.” I forced my voice to rise just enough, frustration bubbling but not venomous. “That’s racing! What part of that don’t you understand? You’re always pushing too hard, driving like you’ve got nothing to lose, and now look! We’re both out because of it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re blaming this on me?” she shot back, her voice sharp. “You’re the one who warned me about sabotage. And yet you’re out here trying to box me out? You should’ve waited longer to come back. You’re not ready, and you proved that today.”
Itook a step closer, my hands clenched at my sides. The rain blurred everything—the marshals, the cars, the world around us—but not her. She was the only thing I could see clearly, even as the words spilled out of me.
“Don’t turn this around on me. This is about you and that deathtrap of a car you keep throwing around like it’s invincible.
You think you’re proving something by driving it on the edge every weekend?
You’re not. You’re just proving how reckless you are.
And coming from a four-time world champion, I’m not guessing. ”
Fuck. I knew the moment the words left my mouth that I’d crossed a line. Because she flinched away from me, much like she had in Monaco when I’d shut down kissing her in public.
And I realized now, that look was something like betrayal.
For a split second, I saw it in the way her eyes widened, her lips pressing together as if she was trying to hold something back.
She dropped her helmet to her side, her free hand brushing low across her stomach for the briefest second before curling into a fist in a protective, instinctive gesture.
My pulse tripped over itself, but I buried it.
I could’ve stopped this whole argument now. I could’ve said something else, something to fix this instead of making it worse. But the frustration, the guilt, the goddamn helplessness wouldn’t let me.
I swallowed the apology, because the cameras were still on and the script wasn’t finished.