“Callum!” one of the reporters called, breaking me out of my thoughts. “How does it feel to be back at the start of another title defense?”
I flashed my usual grin. “Feels great. I'm ready to get back on track.”
“What do you think of the new rookie,AurélieDubois?” someone else asked, predictably. “Do you see her as a threat?”
I glanced to the side, whereAuréliestood giving anotherinterview. Her golden hair was swept back in a neat ponytail now, swinging as she spoke. Even surrounded by chaos, she appeared composed.
A threat? Maybe.
“She's talented,” I said, my tone even. “I've seen her drive inF2. She won last year's championship. She's earned her seat, and anyone who thinks otherwise isn't paying attention.”
That got a few surprised murmurs, and in my periphery, I saw her turn slightly as though she'd heard me. She'd caught that.Good.
“Do you think she can keep up with drivers of your caliber in a midfield car?” the reporterpressed.
I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head. “Ask me again after qualifying when we see where she starts on the grid.”
The engine hummed beneath me,vibrating through the seat and into my spine as I eased the car out of the garage. My hands stayed steady on the wheel, the weight heavier than what I'd known inF2. I could feel every tiny adjustment in the suspension, the changes my team had made after ourpre-seasontesting. This felt like a whole new car.
This was it. My first practice session as a Formula 1 driver. My stomach thrummed with a mix of nerves and excitement as I rolled onto the pit lane.
The track stretched ahead like a ribbon of endless possibility, waiting for me. I'ddreamtof this moment for as long as I could remember, and now that I was here, I couldn't afford to let my focus slip.
“Take it easy on the out lap,”Henric'svoice crackled through my headset.
“Understood,” I replied. I sounded calm, but my pulse hammered in my ears.
The circuit around me was alive, the grandstands already buzzing with fans. This was practice, nothing more, and yet it felt monumental.
I shifted gears as the car glided onto the track, the power of the machine surging beneath me. It was so much more—more responsive, more aggressive—than theF2cars I'd driven. Every twitch, every bump on the track, I felt it all. I rolled my shoulders, adjusting to the heavier G-force.
Adrenaline coursed through me, mixing with the memory ofCallum'steasing voice from earlier this week:Not the only way you'll be coming for me before the end of the season.
I needed to focus!
But as I thought it, heat crept up my neck, my hands tightening on the wheel. I was here to race, not replay the words of a man who probably didn't mean half of what he said.CallumFraser was a distraction I didn't need, no matter how ridiculously smooth his voice was with that Scottish accent of his.
And yet… the way he'd looked at me in the paddock earlier, like he could see straight through me, still lingered at the back of my mind. It didn't help that I'd caught his words in the media pen the other day. Complimenting me like he meant it or some shit. He was probably fed some PR bullshit to paint a pretty picture of the rookie.
“Build up gradually,”Henriccontinued. “Focus on your braking points and throttle application.”
I adjusted my line as I pushed harder into the next corner, forcing my focus back to the car. The world outside the cockpit fell away as I settled into my rhythm, every lap shaving milliseconds off my time.Henric'supdates buzzed in my ear, but the data was just noise now. The car and I were speaking our own language, one of speed and precision.
“Good pace, Dubois. Don't overpush on the tires.”
“I've got it,” I said firmly, braking late into the next turn. My stomach dipped with the thrill of the corner, the tires biting into the tarmac with a ferocity I hadn't felt before. God, this car was a beast. It was gliding through the apexes as if it had been made for me, and not just created through thousands of hours of research and engineering.
And then I saw him. My mirrors flashed black and red, the bold Vanguard livery unmistakable even in my periphery. He wasn't pushing, not really. But he wasn't backing off either. He was just… there. Not backing off, simply tracking my lines. Testing me.
Of course, it wasCallumfucking Fraser. I couldn't let him fuck with my focus.
The competitive fire in me flared to life, and I gritted my teeth. Fine. If he wanted to play games, I'd show him what I could do. I pushed harder, faster, taking the next series of corners with a precision that had my pulse pounding. The G-force pressed me into my seat, the engine growling as I surged onto the straight.
“Watch your tire temps,”Henricwarned, but I couldn't help myself.
“Copy,” I muttered, my eyes glued to the track ahead. My mirrors showedCallumstill there, lingering just enough to annoy me.
Finally, he pulled back as I dove cleanly into the next corner. My satisfaction was short-lived, though—when I returned to the garage after my stint, the ache in my fingers and shoulders reminded me just how hard I'd been pushing.
