Monaco, Thursday Night

Jacob was never sure about Monaco. He wasn’t one for parties so the evenings always held a certain unsettling element to them, as his mechanics tried every year to persuade him to leave his room and join them at La Rascasse. It’ll be fun, they said.

The usual polite knock at his door came early evening, just as Jacob had put the kettle on. While being a born New Yorker, he had a distinct addiction to tea (black, no sugar), which he suspected stemmed from the long and frequent rain delays during GP2 races while he’d been in Europe. His teammate back then had been British and now Jacob thinks back, hadn’t had a very high opinion of the seventeen year old American, and so had decided to teach him the English way of tea.

“Jacob, it’s me,” drifted Valerie’s voice from outside the front door. Down the hallway in the kitchen, Jacob paused and turned the kettle off again.

“Jacob, we’re going down to La Rascasse for a few drinks, I thought you might want to come,” she called, but he couldn’t work out whether her tone was sarcastic or hopeful.

Maybe she’ll think I’m in bed.

It’s only 6pm, you idiot.

Jacob opened his mouth to call back but couldn’t find any words, so irritably set his mug back down on the glass counter and desperately glanced around himself, clicking his tongue as he tried to think of a way out.

If he was looking for escapement inspiration he was disappointed, as he knew he would be, as the flat he was staying in was largely empty. It belonged to his uncle Robert, who was often away on business and had only acquired the flat recently. The lack of furniture or generally anything useful was, Jacob thought, a combination of his uncle’s occasionally lazy nature and lack of time to spend on things like furnishing a house in Monte Carlo.

Valerie knocked on the door again.

Almost tripping over the boxes piled up along the bright and open hallway, Jacob reluctantly made his way to the door. He could hear a giggle from the other side as he audibly tripped on the doormat, gritting his teeth as he opened the latch.

“Valerie, you know I don’t-“ words caught in his throat as he saw his race engineer was dressed in the smartest (and shortest) black dress he had ever seen her in, fabric glossy in the evening sunlight streaming down onto the porch, her dark hair tied elegantly up.

“You look lovely,” he managed to croak out. Jesus, she’s your race engineer, get a grip.

“Thanks, Jake,” she answered brightly, glancing down, and Jacob realised with more than slight embarrassment that he was only wearing boxers and a white shirt he’d dug out his case this afternoon. Instinctively he tried to close the door but Valerie put a hand on the wood to stop him.

“Have you brought a suit?”

“Val, this is me you’re talking to,” Jacob replied blankly, not even sure why she was asking.

She frowned and promptly invited herself in, breezing past him in twelve inch heels. He suddenly noticed she was now exactly his height and it unnerved him.

While it was mid-May, there was still a breeze in the air and Jacob shut the door with a shiver and a last doubtful glance down the small street on the edge of town. It was deserted, as it usually was on the Thursday night before a race.

“Look, you’ve got a jacket in here.”

Jacob turned around and was dumbstruck to see Valerie holding up a black suit jacket, having just opened the wall wardrobe on the far side of his room, directly on the left in the hallway. Although he wasn’t entirely surprised: Valerie had never had any qualms about sorting through his stuff. He’d even been stupid enough to let her pack for him once, in a rather hurried departure from his own flat in NY, the cause of which was a bad hangover (Jacob didn’t like parties) and a broken alarm clock, the consequence of which was arriving at Spa only one hour before FP1. He had been lucky Valerie had come looking for him.

That awful morning floated in front of his eyes and, slightly panicked, he rushed into his room and grabbed the jacket from her with gritted teeth. “Yes, that’s the same one you tried to put me in for Amber Lounge last year-“

“That was fun!” she laughed, but let him take it. “So are you coming then?”

Jacob sighed, still instinctively trying to make himself more presentable by holding the jacket in front of him and failing. “I’m tired, the car was being difficult this morning-“

“Jake,” she tutted, turning back to the wardrobe and digging out some black trousers, a belt and white shirt, “I was there, remember? I was the one that spotted the exhaust issue, remember?”

That morning in second practice, Jacob’s McLaren had coughed and died next to the swimming pool, not the most ideal place to park an F1 car on the streets, and consequently his session had been cut short with an hour to go. FP1 had been peppered with rain. All in all, not a very successful day, he thought glumly.

“Oh for god’s sake, Jake,” she snapped suddenly, shoving the clothes into his arms, “Go get dressed and come out looking happier, please.”

She left his room, heels clicking on the polished wood, snapping the door shut behind her.

Jacob wasn’t sure what to do, but when his race engineer ordered him to do something, he usually took her advice, so it was hard not to do the same here. He was pleased to find the suit fit him just as well as it had done last year.

“I don’t have any sh-“ he pointed out as he emerged into the hallway, buttoning the top of his shirt up and slipping the jacket over. Valerie had produced a pair of black shoes from nowhere and the last flicker of hope in Jacob’s chest died, finally accepting he was being forced out to a party.

Wait how did this happen? I’ve managed to refuse every year before this.

Granted, this is only my third time in Monaco, second in F1.

First for McLaren.

Hardly believing what he had just been persuaded to do, Jacob hastily put a comb through his messy hair, locked up the flat and followed Valerie into the street. He was impressed she strode the whole twenty minute walk down the hills without falling over in heels which looked thinner than his front wing.

“Ahh, Val, you got him!” Joe, one of Jacob’s best mechanics, turned as he and Valerie neared the growing throng of people at La Rascasse. Jacob had felt, as usual, the strange tension as they’d stepped onto the first stretch of track earlier in the road, like they weren’t meant to be there, and he didn’t liked it. He felt no more comfortable as they passed the countless bars along the side of the barriers, past where his car had given up on him that morning, and began to weave between the dinner tables set out on the tarmac. Jazz was playing from somewhere. The golden sunlight was just about beginning to fade from the top of the hillsides and the street was now in shadow.

“Nice suit,” Joe noted appreciatively (Jacob thought he heard a tone of surprise too) as Jacob hesitantly sat at the table his mechanics had occupied, while Valerie continued on through the crowd. “Armani?”

Jacob had no idea so he gave a small laugh and nodded, shrugging at the same time.

“Hey, Jacob.”

He turned slightly to see his teammate’s engineer, Marcus, looking at him somewhat seriously, and he raised his eyebrow.

“Raven was looking for you earlier. He said he needed to talk to you about something,” Marcus said, shrugging as Jacob opened his mouth to enquire what about. “I don’t know, I think he’s down by the harbour if you want to find him.”

Jacob tightened his lips slightly, but got up all the same, and managed to leave the table without Joe noticing. He sighed to himself as he squeezed inbetween two groups of men standing by the bar in the street and went back the way he’d came down the tarmac. He caught sight of Valerie making her way back to the table with drinks and felt slightly guilty about leaving as soon as he’d arrived, but shook his head and continued walking across the track down to the harbour.

As he strode down the edge of the restaurants, Jacob felt his stomach tighten slightly, half with curiosity and half with a sense of unease at what his teammate, Raven Sanderson, could possibly need to tell him.

There is always a certain line of division between two drivers in a team: a point at which the two men stop sharing information and focus on trying to beat the other. It is a dangerous line which also determines the extent of strong teamwork to bring the best possible results for everyone.

This line within McLaren was a sharp and painful one, certainly one that the team boss, Jessica Canter, tried desperately to hide from the press. She did a pretty good job of it, Jacob always thought, but the occasional story still leaked through.

Jacob hadn’t had an easy ride into McLaren. He’d got his first break into F1 with Force India two years ago- his first season had been steady but unremarkable. However, Force India agreed to keep him for another year.

Jacob was adamant he would not be put down and turned his determination into race results: he put his Force India on the podium four times out of the first six races.

Then, as the media began to grow wild over him, halfway through FP2 at Silverstone, a McLaren representative approached him with an offer.

It was unheard of. A top team like McLaren was not expected to replace one of their drivers midway through a season.

But it happened, and after a terrifying hour alone in the Force India meeting room, Jacob made his decision and joined McLaren for the remainder of the year.

The lulling mix of jazz and good natured conversation faded from Jacob’s ears as he walked slowly down one of the little side streets that eventually led to the harbourside. He felt calmer away from the tarmac and sighed with relief, breathing in the salty air and letting it fill his lungs. As he emerged onto the deserted walkway that dropped off into the gleaming waters of Monaco Bay, Jacob realised, not for the first time, how lucky he was to be driving in F1.

While he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he quickly spotted his tall black-haired teammate, Raven Sanderson, halfway down the jetty. As usual, two of his engineers were leaning on the mooring posts next to him, deep in conversation with the world champion. 

Raven kept himself to himself, in general, and Jacob was grateful for it. He’d never been particularly apt at the whole working-with but working-against balance within motorsport, and other than his year in GP2 he’d never been friends with his team mates. Raven was five years older than him and had experience in almost every field of racing- Jacob admired his attention to detail greatly. Raven got the job done, whatever it was.

However, there was, of course, the factor of the man Jacob replaced at McLaren.

Callum Sanderson and Raven Sanderson were almost identical in appearance and had similarly excellent talent in racing between them. For them, it made sense that they would both drive for McLaren, so they did.

When Jacob replaced Raven’s brother, he was sure McLaren had made a massive mistake. To destroy the balance within a team like that, when they were right at the top, fresh from Raven winning the championship the year before, was motorsport suicide.

But somehow they managed it, and managed to maintain their success.

Jacob began to get a little nervous as he strode across the gleaming wood.

Raven, either deliberately or not, didn’t turn until Jacob was a few metres away, his sharp eyes for once harbouring slight concern.

“Jacob,” he nodded in acknowledgement, and his two engineers smiled slightly as Jacob shifted his weight uneasily. “I guess Marcus told you to find me?”

“Er, yeah.” Raven usually gets straight to the point. What does he want this time?

“I think…” he paused, which was an usual occurrence from the British-born champion. “There’s something you need to know.”

“What is it?” Jacob frowned.

Another pause.

Jacob supposed this was a reflection on how difficult their relationship was, although he’d never seen Raven this uncomfortable before. The two engineers ignored their conversation almost completely, as if they were on their own.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you.”

Right.

“Okay,” Jacob answered slowly. If it were anyone else he was talking to he’d be pretty irritated by now, but he’d never seen Raven like this before so it must be important.

Raven tightened his lips, his eyes hardening and he seemed to make a decision.

“I can’t tell you, it’s not mine to tell.” He took a deep breath, brow furrowing a little between his eyes. “I know we don’t consider each other as friends but I am your team mate and sometimes there are things that are more important than past events so I need to do this.”

The whole sentence was rather rushed and Jacob was astonished. Raven was renowned for choosing his words extremely carefully, especially when under pressure.

“I can’t tell you but you need to find Jessica and ask her.”

“Ask her what?” Jacob was too astounded to slide any irritable sort of tone into his reply.

“Just ask her.”

And that was it. Raven turned his back determinedly on Jacob, instantly starting up his previous conversation about tyre pressure with his engineers like nothing had happened.

Jacob’s heart was running just that little bit faster than normal.

As he made his way back to the streets and the tarmac he was beginning to dread, he began to feel sick and prayed he’d make it to his team bosses’ office before he threw up.

Taking a quick decision he avoided the street parties and headed straight for the paddock.

Moments later he arrived, panting like he’d just driven two grand prix in three minutes, at his team’s engineering offices building.

It was quiet and calm around the team motorhomes, away from the chatter of the bars at the circuit, but Jacob’s head was messy with panic.

What would Jess tell him and not me?

Have I done something wrong?

Have the media started a scandal?

Have-

His turbulent thoughts were interrupted by the sound of angry yelling from the windows above his head. He looked up and squinted.

He couldn’t make anything out so flung open the glass door and launched himself up the silver stairs as quietly as he could. One at a time, don’t trip, whatever you do don’t-

He promptly smashed into someone at the top, swearing under his breath and staggering for a foothold on something.

“Valerie?” he hissed, rubbing his head, which had apparently made contact with her shoulder. She looked furious at being barrelled into, which Jacob could understand, but his nerves were so stretched by this point he hardly cared. “What the hell are you-“

“Shh, I’m trying to listen,” she spat back, crouching a few feet away from him, in front of Jessica Canter’s main office door. She was still in heels and Jacob wondered how she managed it.

Jacob crawled forwards.

“How come you’re up here?” he whispered as he squatted painfully on the other side of the door.

“Came to talk to Jess about your front wing update,” she muttered. “But I think…” Valerie cast me a wary glance. “I think Callum’s lawyers are in there.”

“What?”

“Shh!”

Jacob and his engineer put their ears to the door carefully. His heart slammed against his chest.

“…isn’t what you said last year.” Jessica’s voice. She sounds stressed. Shit.

“But it’s what we’re telling you now,” came a man’s voice, Scottish accent, tight and perfectly pronounced. “BP had a contract for six months that was supposed to be renewed four days after you dropped our client in favour of Mr Jackson. You terminated the contract before the given date without BP’s permission and therefore our client’s situation was put at risk.”

“This wasn’t in the papers I was given last year.” Jacob thought he could hear a distinct note of desperation in his bosses’ voice.

“It was, Mrs Canter,” another male voice replied crisply. “Our client, however, failed to notice the terms in which his contract with McLaren had been agreed. He now, however, understands that he was mistreated and will be pursuing the issue under court of law. Unless our terms are agreed today.”

Jacob glanced at his race engineer nervously and she slowly shook her head. She apparently didn’t understand what was going on either.

“I can’t do this to him,” Jessica said quietly after a long pause.

Jacob held his breath.

“I can’t replace one of our drivers again, do you understand how hard I’ve worked to stop this team collapsing?” Jacob heard the familiar furious tone in Jessica’s words but it didn’t reassure him.

“Mrs Canter.”

Jacob squinted and he thought he could hear a piece of paper being slid across a table.

“The contract, within which are the terms of Mr Jackson’s termination as number two driver of McLaren, and Callum Sanderson’s reinstitution as number two driver.”

All Jacob could see was Valerie’s horrified expression. Blood pounded in his ears as he struggled to comprehend what they had just overheard.

This is not happening.

“I’m very sorry to disappoint you but I can’t sign this,” Jessica said, loudly and firmly.

A small sigh from both men.

“Your choice, Mrs Canter. We will be back within a month to start the legal process and take you and your team to court.”

Jessica said nothing.

“We are aware of the family relationship between your number one driver and our client-“

“He’s his brother, jesus christ,” Jessica hissed.

“-between your number one driver and our client,” one lawyer repeated stonily, “and so have informed Raven Sanderson of the court proceedings if we so wish to call him to witness.”

“You are not going to tear my team apart.”

Jacob felt a wave of pride wash through the numbness in his brain.

“Mrs Canter, we only wish to bring justice to our client.”

“Get out of my office.”

Jacob was suddenly hauled round the corner by a desperate Valerie as she realised they’d be caught once the door opened. They collapsed out of sight of Jessica’s office door just as it swung open and two men in suits carrying briefcases began to descend down the stairs. They disappeared through the door.

“Jake,” Valerie whispered, stunned.

Jacob said nothing and scrambled to his feet, almost tumbling down the stairs but steadying himself.

“Jessica?” He swung himself around her open door to see her sat at her desk, head on her folded hands, eyes closed.

She opened her eyes slowly.

“You weren’t meant to hear any of that.”

He didn’t reply. He suddenly felt very, very vulnerable, as if someone had put him in the middle of a busy highway with a broken leg. Everything in front of his eyes was moving too slowly.

“But you did, am I right? Did you hear all of it?” his team boss seemed strangely calm and Jacob wondered how she could possibly be so composed.

“I heard enough,” he swallowed. Oh god. This is not happening to me.

“What are you going to do about it?” Valerie stepped in, frowning at Jessica. Jacob, as much as he was terrified and frozen to the core, nudged his race engineer in the ribs in a gesture for her to shut up.

There was a long and painful pause.

Jacob thought his career was over.

Asshole, wait a minute, nothing’s been done yet. Just like qualifying last and be expected to win. Wait a minute.

“I have fought too hard and for too long to let these bastards take it from me now,” Jessica hissed. “To let them take it from us. Jake,” she looked Jacob straight in the eyes and he stood that little bit taller, “have you ever been taken to court before?”

Thursday night in Monaco, what has happened to me in order to hear that question?

“No, I haven’t,” he replied hoarsely.

“Well I have. It’s messy, Jake,” she said grimly. “But we’ll do it. I don’t have another choice.”

“You could get rid of me,” Jacob said croakily before he could stop himself.

Now it was Valerie’s turn to jab him in the ribs. “Shut it,” she hissed, and he felt a hint of affection for his engineer creep through the terror.

Jessica frowned. “Jacob Jackson, you really are stupid sometimes. You’re staying here, Callum is not coming anywhere near us.”

He still couldn’t relax, his heart drumming against his chest and he tried to swallow, his throat dry.

“Are you sure?”

“For the love of god, Jake, of course she’s sure,” Valerie snapped at him. Jacob thought for a moment she was going to slap him and braced for impact. “Stop being such an idiot, we’re your team.”

“Valerie is right, I’m not going to give in just because he throws some lawyers with pieces of paper at me,” Jessica frowned even deeper. “Are you in? I can’t do this without your help.”

All Jacob could think about was the press conference on the Sunday after he’d taken Jessica’s offer to join McLaren.

‘Jacob, do you think McLaren is the right place for you? After a smaller team like Force India?’

‘Yes,’ he had answered. ‘It already feels like a family. I was ready to take the next step in my career and this team will help me achieve it.’

‘So you’re not thinking of moving again anywhere else at the end of the year?’

‘Well I can’t say much now, but no, I would like to stay here.’ He had paused for a moment. ‘Yes, I’d like to stay here.’

He looked at his race engineer’s half angry half desperate face, then back to his team boss.

“Yeah, I’m in.”

Lessons in Pain and Apologies

The press will have a field day.

This was the first and only thought that blinked through Callum Sanderson’s electric mind as the car spun. Light turned white then red then black before his eyes as everything changed in an instant- burning rubber. His instincts told him he’d been stabbed or shot or been smashed in the side of the head with an axe because the pain was surely going to kill him. Wet eyelids and cold skin.

Then everything froze. There was no sound. Panic tore its way through the pain as he realised he couldn’t breathe- he could taste metal against his lips.  Opened his eyes but still the blackness.

He knew he had to get out because of the fire. Was there even fire? He couldn’t see anything but he could smell the rubber. His skin felt even colder as he tried to move his hands and found they were trapped, under what, he had no idea. Bad. That’s the word they always use. This is bad.

The clock started to tick inside his head.

Arms. No longer paying attention to the piercing pain that itched his skin, he ripped his right hand from under whatever was clamping it, an involuntary moan pushing against the metal on his lips. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he tried to lift his arm out of the mangled chassis to try and attract attention. Terrifying whirlwinds of images flashed at him- what if he was left there? What if no one came? What-

He felt his stomach drop fifty feet as his world shifted again- he noticed the sky was a crushed green.

Something gripped his hand again and he would have screamed in shear agony had it not been for the cold clamped against his mouth. Then yet again everything flipped, his head felt like it was going to shatter.

Callum? Can you hear me?

Wait.

The air felt cool on his lips.

Callum snapped his eyes open and felt his shoulders drop with relief that he could see again. He could breathe and nothing had ever felt better. He wasn’t trapped in his cage; the world was open and breeding vulnerability.

“Callum.”

Tipping his head back and instantly regretting it, he groaned as he tried to make sense of where he was. He was out of the car, he knew that much. And someone had sat him upright in a chair- bright white occupied his grateful vision. Eyelids flickering haltingly. As he swallowed he tasted metal again, this time blood.

“Where…” he rasped, gulping down the air like they were his first ever breaths. He was now aware of the woman sat opposite him and recognised her as someone from the medical team on track, but he couldn’t remember her name and instantly felt guilty. “What’s…” he tried to choke out, but she handed him some water and he instinctively drank.

“Morgan and Harrison are on their way, they were held up-”

Time seemed to elongate at annoying times and Callum frowned, wanting her to complete the sentence.

“-another incident at turn seven.”

“Same lap?” he managed to force out. She nodded somewhat slower than usual.

“You spun on turn two and hit the barrier.”

He nodded blindly, sure that he was going to throw up. He noticed she had pretty brown eyes, whoever she was.

Wait.

“He hit me?” his tongue was painfully dry and his blood ran cold.

The woman sat opposite him hesitated and paused for the longest pause Callum had ever seen. While she looked at him carefully as if wondering whether he was in any fit state to hear this information, he also noticed they were in the small medical office above the pit lane here at Interlagos. He wondered how they’d got him there.

“Yes, he hit you.”

“Hurt?” he was sure she’d know what he was trying to get out.

“No, he’s fine. They red flagged it, he’s-“

Before she could say another word, Callum gritted his teeth, prepared for the pain and promptly stood up. He had known before forcing his leg muscles to work that he would not be able to walk very well because he’d had a crash like this before. Nothing was broken, he knew that now, but everything still screamed like fire as the adrenalin of shock pulsed through his veins.

“Callum,” the woman mirrored his actions but he ignored her gentle attempts to get him to sit down again. He knew where he was going and by god he was going to get there.

“Callum,” she cried louder, panicking that he was opening the office door. He could no longer hear her but his determination wavered for a fleeting second as he noticed his right hand was laced with gleaming red, still sticky. Shrugging it off he flung open the door with newfound strength and staggered out into the corridor.

Morgan was the chief medical officer, he definitely remembered that. Harrison was his boss at Red Bull Racing but he had no desire to see him right now.

Again, as he stumbled as quickly as he could down the brightly lit passageway, he shifted both of his arms and knew they weren’t broken. Okay so maybe his rib was broken, his chest was sucking in on itself, but he could feel it was nowhere near his lungs so he could deal with that. It had been a bad crash and he was sure it would be good to watch on the replay later but right now he had something more important to do.

He fell down the stairs rather than walked, but he no longer cared. Callum knew that when the adrenalin started to fade, more pain would take its place so he had to move quickly- and Harrison would no doubt try to stop him before he got to the McLaren garage.

Ragged breathing in his ears, he finally emerged into the bright Brazilian sun but didn’t pause, throwing himself between the pale trailers and ignoring the shocked gazes of team staff as the blood soaked driver in RBR overalls hurled down the tarmac.

His head was a mess and all he saw when he blinked was the few seconds he remembered before the black. The bright glitter of a fearsome white tiger, otherwise known as a McLaren, snarled inches away from his right eye as it tried to take him on the inside. After that, the world accelerated and shattered.

Barely thinking, Callum tore past his own garage, dodging the tyres and other equipment cluttering the asphalt.

“Sanderson!” he heard Harrison’s familiar roar from behind him. Don’t stop.

Clicking of cameras like mosquitos nibbled his ears and he gritted his teeth, swallowed sand.

The electricity in his blood had carried him this far but now it ran cold- thankfully he collapsed in the right garage.

Thousands of bees scribbled and mumbled in the air around him and people surrounded him as he staggered to his feet-

“Raven!”

Callum let loose the angry yell and the bees went silent.

He wanted to tell all the people around him to move away, he felt trapped again and took deep breaths. Don’t punch him.

The blood roared in his head and heart thumped against his chest as the crowd parted. Russet eyes identical to his own met Callum’s gaze.

“Jesus, Cal.”  His brother stared at him in shock. “You look bad.”

Now he was finally here with the person he wanted to kill directly in front of him, Callum lost the ability to talk or make decisions and simply stood there, drops of blood rolling slowly down his forehead.

“I was going to head straight over, Morgan said they’d taken you to the office upstairs, but I had to bring the car back,” Raven Sanderson continued, somewhat shakily.

Callum couldn’t say anything.

“Boys,” Harrison suddenly appeared behind him and shoved him not-too-delicately forwards and grabbed Raven’s arm on the way, dragging them both from the view of all the press gaggled excitedly around the entrance.

“The fuck are you doing, Callum,” his team boss hissed at him, producing two chairs from nowhere and forcing the two brothers to sit opposite each other in the back of the deserted garage. Callum knew he must be annoyed because he didn’t swear like that very often. “You need to be in hospital, look at you.”

For perhaps only the second time that afternoon, Callum looked down and tried to assess his injuries. Okay, maybe it was a few broken ribs; the stabbing pain was really starting to kick in now. Most of the skin on his right hand was bloody and raw and he winced, despite himself.

“Cal, look at me,” his brother said quietly.

He snapped his head up, hearing his neck crack. Raven sat there, arms crossed over his McLaren overalls, looking almost identical to him- the same wide eyes and tousled mousy hair, the only difference being a slightly tighter jawline and thinner eyebrows.

“You tried to take the inside,” Callum managed to force out, yet again feeling like he was going to throw up. He closed his mouth.

“The hell does it matter,” Harrison snapped, but Callum didn’t take his eyes off his brother. “I’m not even supposed to be in here- I’m going to get Morgan. Raven, keep this idiot here.”

Then he promptly left.

They sat in silence for a moment. Callum let his shoulders drop and he sank deeper into the chair, the dizziness and nausea really setting in.

“You tried to take the inside,” he repeated again, his words slurring. Pause. “Stupid.”

“I thought we said we wouldn’t talk in our overalls if this happened,” Raven said. Callum saw his gaze travel down to his hand.

“If you…” Callum paused to spit blood out of his mouth, grimacing. He must have bitten his tongue with the impact. “You mean if you hit me.”

“I mean if either of us hit each other. We’re still in our team colours; I thought we said we wouldn’t talk. My god, Cal, look at you,” he repeated, another string of panic breaking into his voice.

“Say it.” Callum muttered through his teeth.

Raven tightened his lips and for a moment Callum thought he was going to punch him and braced for the impact.

“Sorry. It was stupid.”

Callum narrowed his eyes and waited for his hammered brain to process his brother’s tone of voice. Silence for a moment. He decided it was as genuine as Raven ever was with apologies.

“Ok.” He hadn’t got any energy to say anything else but dimly nodded.

Most of the anger had left him, or rather; his body was refusing to hold onto the rage energy from before. It hurts, he thought numbly to himself, black and red blotches flickering in his vision.

“D’you want me to change and we can talk about it?” Raven paused. “On the way to the hospital.”

Callum hated hospitals.

“S’kay,” he mumbled. His thoughts were clearing ever so slightly and he started to remember where he was- a Red Bull driver in the McLaren garage was not ideal. The two teams had grown used to the two brothers over the past two years, but some things were still awkward. The time Raven had accidentally walked in on the new RB14’s front wing and Harrison had threatened to tie him to a chair and never let him out of the factory if he talked. They tried their best to keep only the most necessary of secrets from each other. It didn’t always work.

“Well at least you don’t have to fix your car,” Raven attempted to keep a straight face and coughed to cover up his laugh. It took a moment for Callum to focus on his words. Last race of the season, you don’t need it anymore.

“Shut up,” he managed to say, half grinning, before blissfully sinking into blackness.

Night Wait

Jacob wasn’t exactly sure how he’d worked out that Stoermer Vonich drove around the tracks on a Friday evening, every grand prix weekend. Maybe it was the noise- he also wasn’t sure how no one else seemed to notice, or if they did, seem to care. Maybe it was the fact that he noticed Stoermer’s Ferrari was always the wrong way around in his garage on Saturday mornings.

And he didn’t really know why he came to watch him. It has surprised him how easy it was to sneak into the grand stands at night, or at least at most circuits. Sometimes it meant he didn’t get much sleep, because sometimes the Ferrari would only come out after one in the morning. Sometimes it rained and could be very cold.

He shivered and let out a frosty breath into the crisp night air. Tonight was one of those cold nights. Tracks like Valencia or Spa were usually quite pleasant after the sun went down, but this was Canada, and the temperature dropped pretty quickly.

Wrapping his McLaren team jacket more tightly around him and rubbing his ribs in an effort to get warmer, Jacob craned his neck to see further over the barriers onto the track. He always sat right at the bottom row if he could, out of the way of the brightest lights that were always on at the sides of the seating area, and out of sight of anyone in the windows of the commentary and press boxes.

So this is the ‘glamour’ of the F1 life.

Just as he was sick of the podiums, he was sick of the hiding and the secrecy. He knew it was his own fault, his own fault for falling for someone he could never have, but he hated it all the same.

Jacob reluctantly peeled his sleeve back, exposing his wrist to the cold air as he checked the time. It was past midnight, and he’d usually spot the lights go on in Stoermer’s garage by now. Squinting, he sighed and sat back against the seat again- all the garages past the pit wall were shrouded in blackness.

The track was very dark, but there were a few lights around and it was probably enough to see by. Jacob’s stomach squirmed. He always got so nervous, waiting for the noise of that V8 engine. Often, different scenarios played over and over again in his head- what if he locks up and goes into the barriers, what if something goes wrong on the car, what if he has a serious accident. It was like a broken record, sharp and painful. He didn’t really know what he would do- he had no idea where to find the stewards, they were probably all in bed, and there wasn’t anyone else in particular to call. All he thought about was having to run across the tarmac towards the flames.

It made him feel sick just thinking about it, so he tried, as always, to turn his thoughts away from racing. Instantly an image of his little sister floated into his mind. Jacob’s family was small, but he liked it that way- fewer complications. His mother had died when he was much younger, and he didn’t remember a lot about her, only that she had been quite sharp-tongued and he had thought at the time, unfair and strict. But from what he had heard from his father, she had cared about him very much.

He had been born in the city of New York, but he had never been particularly attracted to it. Too many tight spaces. Far too many people. He had much preferred his long summers in Virginia, karting every day and enjoying the outdoors. It was his father who had first persuaded him to have a go at karting; he’d always had a fascination with cars (mainly the speed factor) but had never previously had the money to start anything. For an F1 driver he started relatively late into the karting championships, but quickly passed in to the Formulae.

He remembered that his mother had never particularly approved of his karting activities, but he wasn’t sure why. At the funeral his father had taken him aside and said, Jacob remembered the seriousness of his tone, that he should always continue doing what he loved, no matter who approved of it or not.

His sister, Jessica Jackson, was born just three months before his mother passed away. It was a hugely difficult time for him and his father, having to manage his karting while looking after a baby on their own. But he didn’t remember much other than the freedom he felt when he raced.

Of course, she wasn’t very little anymore- she turned thirteen next month. Since Jacob had progressed into Formula 1, he had grown more and more distant with his family, his father only occasionally coming to see him race, Jessie hardly ever. But Jacob forgave him for that; it probably only brought back memories of when his mother had been alive, and he suspected that his father didn’t want Jessie growing up in this kind of environment.

The main contact he had with his family was his uncle Robert, who often came to the circuits when they were in Europe, and here in Canada. Jacob really did like his uncle- he was his mother’s brother and so he felt like he was the main link back to her. Robert had been his family support that all drivers seemed to need at one stage or another, and Jacob was grateful for it.

His meandering train of thoughts was cut short as distant footsteps broke the shadowy silence of the grandstand. Jacob’s blood froze as they got louder and his body insisted on staying exactly where he was, as if the darkness would keep him safe. Get up, run that way-

But his legs refused to operate. The footsteps stopped and Jacob reluctantly turned his head, bracing himself for whatever extreme telling off he was about to get-

“Thought you’d be here.”

His eyes widened in surprise and relief. “Valerie?”

“Hey, Jake,” she smiled. His main engineer plonked herself in the seat next to him and shivered. “It’s freezing out here.”

“How did you get in?” Jacob asked, a little stunned.

“Same as you, I guess,” Valerie kept smiling, but he suddenly noticed that her usually enthusiastic olive green eyes were wary and worried. He opened his mouth to speak but frowned and closed it again, sweeping his gaze back to the pit wall on the other side of the track. They sat in silence for a minute.

“Are you waiting for him?” Jacob felt Valerie shiver next to him.

Jacob suddenly felt a flare of anger. “Can I not do anything anymore without someone knowing about it?” he muttered, tempted to stand up, but he wasn’t sure why.

He was hoping Valerie would respond with an equally irritated reply, but she remained silent. After a few moments the anger faded and he sighed, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair.

Still no sign of him.

“Jake,” she began, then hesitated as he glanced at her.

“There isn’t any point in telling me not to,” he said stubbornly.

“I wasn’t going to,” Valerie crossed her arms, shivering again. “I was going to remind you that Joe wanted to talk to you about the set up for tomorrow, and you need to see Karsten before he goes to bed.”

Jacob groaned. Karsten was his trainer out here on track, and while the German was very thorough in his night-before-qualifying exercises, it never put Jacob (or Karsten) in the best of moods. Usually he would get all his jobs done before midnight, so he could come down to the track.

“Is he still up?” he rubbed his cheeks, trying to get some warmth into them.

“Well he usually waits up for you, doesn’t he?”

Jacob detected something else in her tone and narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

Valerie paused again, and it was a long and thoughtful one. “You know the team care a lot about you, you know that, right?”

Jacob stared stonily out past the fence to the pit wall, still watching for any signs of light from the Ferrari garage. Nothing.

“And you don’t have to do this to yourself.”

Jacob turned his head. “Do what exactly?”

She gestured towards the silent circuit beyond the fence. “I’m talking about you, beating yourself up every race. I’m not the only one that notices.”

He gritted his teeth slightly but squared his shoulders. “I doubt anyone would guess.”

“It’s not about if they’d guess or not,” Valerie suddenly snapped. He glanced at her and her expression was not positive. “It doesn’t do you any good, Jake.”

He was about to reply with well I can’t exactly stop it, can I?, then realised how childish that sounded. Once again his anger faded into nothingness.

“I just mean that sometimes, it would do you good to look around at the people who care about you more than he does.” Valerie sighed, reached over and gently squeezed my hand. “I don’t like you being like this, it doesn’t do you or the car any good. You ruined the tyres far too quickly in Spa.”

Jacob couldn’t help but give a little laugh. Silence again. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there for in the darkness, just gazing out onto the track. His thoughts wouldn’t go to his family anymore, he was back thinking about the qualifying he would have to do tomorrow, and the race on Sunday. His main engineer, Joe, certainly thought he could get another podium, maybe even a win if they could get a good position over the Ferrari drivers.

No V8 noise. No light in the pit lane. Nothing.

“Maybe someone saw him last time,” Valerie whispered. It suddenly felt much more silent and Jacob agreed on the need to whisper.

“Apart from me, y’mean?” he asked sarcastically.

She nudged him with her elbow. “You should get some sleep. Q3 tomorrow, Joe said, nothing less.”

Jacob sighed heavily through his nose. “Okay.” He gave another small smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

His engineer grinned back, green eyes now back to their normal excitable self. Jacob was relieved. She stood up and disappeared up the shadowed steps.

Jacob sat more upright than before and gave one last, slightly forlorn glance over the track and pit lane opposite. She’s probably right, maybe he realises how stupid he’s being. He swallowed as he realised that sentence could also relate to himself.

‘You know the team care a lot about you, you know that, right?’

Without looking back, he stood up, wrapping his jacket around him once again, and started to walk back to the paddock to find Karsten.

Just smile and you'll be fine

Another race day, another podium.

As Jacob Jackson jogged up those fateful stairs, heart drumming wildly against his chest, he wondered miserably whether it would be worse than last time.

He was used to fake smiling now. Beaming at the race girls who stood, applauding and giving almost equally fake grins back, at the top of the set of steps, he desperately tried to block every single thought out of his head. Just smile and you’ll be fine, Valerie had told him.

The room. There was probably a name for this room but Jacob no longer thought about it, it was just the room. His body was refusing to work properly again, his legs felt like thin strips of paper and fingers fumbled as he hurriedly put on the watch they were supposed to wear.

This isn’t how this is supposed to happen dimly floated through his head. I should be happy.

Time irritatingly slowed down. A camera was hovering nearby but he ignored it the best he could, trying to act like a driver who had just come second should act. He was just being handed a cap when the source of his grief bounced into the room.

He looked exhausted, but excitedly so- his eyes gleamed with delight, his usually tidy black hair was messy and dripping with rain. He had unclasped the neck strap on his crimson Ferrari overalls and waved cheerfully at the camera as he bounded over to the table next to Jacob.

Jacob’s stomach now seemed to fall to the floor with a heavy thud and he desperately willed himself not to collapse. Don’t say anything, just pretend to fix the watch-

“That was brilliant,” the Ferrari driver said breathlessly, and Jacob saw him reach for a watch out of the corner of his eye.

Just ignore him, he’s not talking to you. Then Jacob realised that the third member of their podium, Gilles Lanier, hadn’t yet entered the room. Oh.

“Yeah, shame about the rain,” words tumbled out of Jacob’s mouth without him thinking. As usual the adrenaline that was still surging through his body kept his voice steady.

As the Ferrari driver fitted the cap on his drenched hair he grinned.

He’s waiting for you to say something else-

“What was it, lap 34 I think, started to aquaplane-“ he began, not really sure where he was going, but was interrupted anyway.

“Yes, pretty good, where’s Gilles?” He was still adjusting his cap, and whirled to look at the doorway, droplets of rain peppering Jacob’s neck as he did so.

“Always late, the French,” Jacob attempted a laugh but had to hastily turn it into a cough. He willed with all his heart that time would go faster and Gilles would appear in the doorway so they could get this over with. What you just said makes no sense, you fool.

His brain was already over analysing every single moment that had occurred in that room so far. The Ferrari driver had his back to him and the cameras were focused somewhere else, so for a few painful seconds he could close his eyes, try and be back on the circuit again. Blissfully, he could still hear the screaming of the engines and the bullets of water hitting his helmet if he listened hard enough and shut his eyes tight enough.

Thankfully the Mercedes Frenchman appeared at the doorway, looking vaguely irritated to have been held up by press, and within a few moments all three of them were ushered outside.

The weather seemed to agree with the awful pit that had formed in Jacob’s stomach, and it was still raining, the podium steps gleaming in the dull late afternoon light. Easily drowning out the noise of the water hammering on the surfaces was the mass of screaming fans down below.

Everything was a blur. Like it always was. He was standing on one side of the Ferrari driver- he could see the Ferrari mechanics down below, cheering and screaming and being generally beside themselves. It was their fourth podium out of six races so far in the season; they had reasons to be happy.

It was Jacob’s third time up there this year, and McLaren’s fourth. He could also make out his own mechanics through the lashing rain, mainly Valerie beaming and Joe yelling at the top of his lungs, at the barriers. Suddenly his heart lifted and he so badly wanted to jump down there with them, but instead he gave a wave and thumbs up back to them, his grin not entirely faked this time.

The German national anthem began, well known as being one of the longest on the podium, which was part of the reason Jacob disliked it so much. As soon as he took his eyes off his team, they immediately flicked to glance at the driver stood on the top step.

Stoermer Vonich, his name was. He was quickly becoming a strong and respected driver, easily one of the fastest on the grid and a fiery determination that not many could match. He was only twenty three years old, one year older than Jacob, and he had already driven for three teams and had sixteen podiums under his belt, having only been in F1 for three years.

Jacob blinked the rain out of his eyes, adjusting the cap on his head and fixing his gaze somewhere in the distance, above the heads of the crowd, but the rain dripping constantly off the brim of his hat distracted him. He stole another glance to his right. Stoermer was standing with his chin up and eyes closed, hands clasped behind his back, a truly satisfied and relieved smile playing on his lips, as the anthem went on.

It was difficult, racing against someone you love.

It was also difficult for Jacob to keep the grin on his face, glaring hard into the distance through the sheets of grey water. He hated being up there. Formula One was a glorious sport in which one could avoid a lot of people quite easily. He never had to talk to him on the grid, always avoided him around the paddock and when occasionally he was shoved into a press conference with him, it was quite easy to ignore the crimson cap and black hair in the row in front.

But on the podium, it was unavoidable to recognise the other drivers. Impossible not to at least share a few words about the race, impossible to not at least glance in the other’s direction, impossible to ignore the other’s existence.

To Jacob, podiums were a reminder of what he could never have.

Of course, it would be quite easy to avoid podiums all together. But he was a racing driver, it was physically impossible for him to not do the best he could, get the best out of the car and try for wins. It was what they lived for. But when Jacob had been given a seat at McLaren last season, falling in love was a complication he had not anticipated.

As the anthem ended, there were the trophies, then the inevitable champagne. Jacob moved and laughed and grinned instinctively, letting his body do the work and trusting himself to behave perfectly naturally. He had to. The only one who even had any idea that he was unfortunately in love with a Ferrari driver was Valerie, and while he trusted her completely, he could not afford to let slip anything else. Press followed him almost every waking moment of his life.

He wasn’t even sure if it was love. Love was a weird word to him, something that didn’t quite describe what was happening but it was the closest thing he could think of. As the champagne sprayed and cheers and yells from the crowd reached his ears, he caught a glimpse of Stoermer grinning through the rain. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and Jacob felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, then it passed.

It probably wasn’t love. The last time he had had an actual long conversation with him had been four weeks ago, in Monaco- Stoermer had asked him what he liked to do outside of racing, while they were in the press circle after qualifying. They got chatting about cooking (Jacob had no idea how the topic had sprung up, he didn’t even like cooking), then someone from Sky Sports had grabbed Stoermer and dragged him away to be interviewed.

No, it was something else, Jacob thought dimly as they left the podium and the rain and headed for the conference room. Occasionally he told himself that it couldn’t be love, and then he would suddenly hope that he could just ignore it.

There was another moment in the corridor, with Stoermer walking just in front of him, where he could let his smile fade a little. It was still hard to believe he was only inches away from him, yet he could never tell him. It would probably ruin him, cost him his seat (not that he thought McLaren would particularly dislike him for it, but they’d have extra pressures and he’d probably quit anyway, rather than put them through that) and not to mention shame Stoermer for the near future of his career.

A little niggling thought at the back of his mind started to ask him the question that he wanted more than anything to know the answer to. But what if he-

They filed into the press conference room, the cameras turning towards them. Fake expression back on. Just smile and you’ll be fine.

---

I've sort of gone a bit mad with the planning for all of this. I've written out most of the drivers, their teams, main mechanics/ team principles and everything. :/ This fic joins on to my other one, and I think any F1 writing I do in the future will be part of this universe :) It's so fun to write, even though I have no idea what I'm really doing and I don't think it's very good. 

Anyway yeah, this was great fun, I'd really appreciate comments if you have the time :)

Night Drive

“The feeling I get when I’m racing is that it’s so much fun and gives me more satisfaction than anything else in life… You have the tremendous forces on your body when you step on the brakes and turn the wheel, your brain screams ‘Stop, that’s impossible!’ But then the car shows you that it can be done.”

Sebastian Vettel

--

Can’t think. Mustn’t think. Noise.

Roaring. The sound is like a thousand wild animals screaming from behind my ears. Impossibly, terrifyingly loud and fills my whole head, sharp tendrils of screeching burrowing into the deepest corners. Impossible. Anything natural should not be able to contain it, anything manmade should shatter and break and tear apart from the sheer force.

I can feel the earth inches away from my body. It protests against me, the power at my fingers and feet as I fly. Blink for a second and the view out into the dark has changed.

The lights on the track are lit but dimmed. Every three metres, blackness. Every three metres I am threatened with the dark, it could suck me in and never let me out; but I hold my nerve. Flash, flash, flash. Warmer and more comforting than the cameras.

Don’t hesitate.

I am alone. Hidden from sight, I can avoid the questions and the doubt and resentment from outside; and concentrate. On the thing I wanted.

Slowly, my fingers mould into the wheel and my legs fit with the contours of the carbon fibre. I don’t relax but it’s the closest I can get. I begin to hear my breathing over the animals behind my head. They were still there, of course, keeping me company and reassuring me that I was still alive and in danger.

As my lines got tighter and tighter with each lap, each corner, I feel the familiar ache of my body saying that it didn’t want to continue with the torture anymore. It was impossible that I was surviving this.

Formula One is about impossible things.

The ache wasn’t an ache anymore; it was more of a lifeline. Telling me that every part of my body was somehow still working and working together with the machine cocooning me.

Soaring.

I knew I couldn’t be out for much longer: not enough fuel. This was when it was best- the smallest amount of fuel possible. Lighter. Faster. Scarier.

Then came the stage of rhythms. I begin to notice distinct patterns in the different sounds around me, around my head. From the steady up and down howling of the engine to the tap of rubber against white paint, everything blends together inside my helmet.

It wasn’t quite Sunday yet. It was Friday night. Other people in the world might go out for a Friday night- well so did I.

Final lap. Sharp and almost painful bolts of electricity spin around my body- scientists call it adrenalin. I love it. The darkest part of the track engulfs me and if I dare to glance upwards I would be able to see the pinpricks of silver against the blackness of the sky.

Then comes the worst part- slowing down. Even as I enter the pit lane my drumming heart sinks.

Speed is what I live for.

The Ferrari sat in the darkened garage, the wrong way around. The driver was still sat in the cockpit, motionless, helmet still on and head tilted back, as if waiting for something. Even though the engine was no longer running, parts of the car were still moving, still hissing and cooling down. The garage, as well as the track, was deserted, as it was nearly two in the morning.

Outside, it was pleasantly warm, on the edge of humidity. A light breeze danced with the trees on the edges of the tarmac but other than that it was mostly silent now.

The driver of the Ferrari slowly climbed out of the car. He laid his snow white helmet on the sideboard and peeled off his balaclava, running a hand through his flattened black hair. Closing his eyes, he stretched his arms out and flexed his fingers, groaning as he did so, and then picked his way around the car again to find the light switch-

“Stoermer, you can’t keep doing this.”

As he flicked the lights on, his heart sank even lower. Damn.

He turned around, and sat on one of the stools at the other side of the garage was another, slightly older man dressed in Ferrari red. “If you seriously thought-“ the man began, but Stoermer cut him off.

“No, I didn’t, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he snapped, inadvertently slipping into a tone of sarcasm. His thoughts were still on the track.

Don’t hesitate, don’t think, just drive-

“You can’t do this again, it’s too much work for us.” The man’s expression was serious, but there was something in his eyes that Stoermer couldn’t quite see from across the garage. His hand was on the door handle that led to the corridor beyond, but he hesitated.

“For a driver you are so stupid sometimes,” the man said gravely.

Stoermer let out a heavy breath through his nose, unclenching his fist from the handle. A tingling, uncomfortably loud silence hung across the empty air over the car.

“Promise me you won’t do another night drive.”

Stoermer closed his eyes. There was no blackness behind his lids- he was back on the track, animals behind my head, corners tearing my body apart, lights go flash flash flash-

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I can’t, you know I can’t,” Stoermer gritted his teeth and turned around, unclasping the neck strap on his overalls. The familiar giddy crackling was firing around his body; he wanted to get straight back in the car and feel that roar again. “I can’t, it’s too…” he hesitated, trying to think of a better word but failed to come up with one- “too good.”

“Sit down,” the older man growled, and Stoermer had heard that tone before, and knew better than to ignore him. So he, as much as his body screamed and protested, promptly sat on the stool opposite him.

“Charlie, you know I can’t-“ Stoermer began, but the angry fire had lessened in his voice.

“Christ, Stoermer, stop feeling so god damn sorry for yourself, it’ll get you killed.” Charlie Bates was one inch shorter than Stoermer at six foot. This was usually to Stoermer’s advantage when they argued, but now they were both sitting down and for some reason Charlie’s stool was a bit higher than Stoermer’s own.

He couldn’t help but scowl. “We said this last-“

“Last time. Last time,” Charlie snapped aggressively. His dark eyes were even more fiery than normal. “That was two months ago. D’you know how long it takes me to cover up your mess after you come back? I had to wake Sam up in Spa!”

“Sam knows?” Stoermer asked, dismayed.

“Yes he bloody well knows! The whole team does!” Charlie clenched his jaw as Stoermer opened his mouth to speak, looking a little horrified. “Okay, not the whole team, I knew someone would blab and we can’t have the press knowing about your foolish-“ he waved an angry hand at the Ferrari sat next to them.

“I only drive for two hours every time, it’s not-“ Stoermer protested, but his chief engineer cut him off again.

“You drive. At night. Night, Stoermer,” he gritted his teeth. “This isn’t Singapore.”

“There’s enough light to see.”

“Not the point,” Charlie snapped shortly. “You make enough noise to wake the whole paddock up. Oh and did I mention that I had to wake Sam up in Spa?” He glared. “Y’know he doesn’t like being woken up at three in the morning. I don’t like dragging my mechanics down when they’ve had no coffee. It took us forever to move the car round.”

“Yeah, I guessed…” Stoermer realised how awful it sounded out loud. “I mean, I wondered who’d moved it round in the morning.” His ears reddened a little- he knew Charlie very well, he wasn’t afraid of arguing with him. But Sam, one of his mechanics, was probably his best friend on the team, and he would have preferred for him to not know about his night driving.

“Last time you said to me you’d stop it.” Charlie fixed him with that piercing glare of his, like an eagle pinning down his prey.

Stoermer ran both hands through his hair. His heart had almost returned to normal, but not quite. When he blinked instead of darkness, he could still see the track blazing out ahead of him. “I like driving at night,” he said carefully, and managed to keep any kind of aggressive tone out of his voice. Charlie didn’t interrupt him so he continued while he felt he had a chance. “It calms me down. I like the empty track, easier to find the right line.” He paused, hoping his words would somehow take effect. “And I’m not hurting anyone.” He knew immediately this was the wrong thing to say.

“What if you went off?” Charlie frowned, intensely serious. “Who’d come and help you?”

Stoermer opened his mouth but closed it again, rubbing his eyes. “I know. Just…”

“Just what?” the anger was back in his voice again. “It’s been two years since you’ve moved here. I am not letting this happen on my watch.”

“But-“ Stoermer looked up, but it was a half-hearted protest.

“You’re not young anymore, you’re supposed to be experienced. Not arrogant.”

“I’m not-“

“Yes, you are being arrogant. Going out there with no stewards around, d’you realise how mad that is?” Charlie looked resigned. “If I catch you again, you’re off the team.”

Stoermer felt like his heart had just dropped to the floor, all the breath knocked out of him. His body acted of its own accord and he stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the stool over.

“And I mean that,” Charlie frowned, but Stoermer thought that the fire had almost gone from his eyes.

Everything was still silent outside the garage, one of the lights on the pit wall flickering and the breeze still playing in the trees. Stoermer breathed in slowly, nodded shortly and with one glance at the car, turned on his heel, walking as purposefully towards the door as he could, but his arms were shaking somewhat. For the second time that night he clenched his fist around the handle and opened the door, gazing into the darkness of the corridor beyond. He paused.

“I know that I could die.” He didn’t look around. “I could die every time I step into that car. But I don’t like doing anything else,” he said simply. “I would risk myself all day every day if I could.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s what I could die for, but it’s what I live for.” Without glancing back, Stoermer walked into the darkness of the corridor beyond.

--

‘These things bring you to reality as to how fragile you are; at the same moment you are doing something that nobody else is able to do. The same moment that you are seen as the best, the fastest and somebody that cannot be touched, you are enormously fragile. ‘

Ayrton Senna