Page 52 of Close Contact
AURÉLIE DUBOIS: A LEGEND IS BORN.
The fence line was crowded with faces—women, young girls, families—and their cheers broke through the rain like a symphony. My name echoed over and over, rising above the noise of the team and the track and the rain.
I couldn’t hold back. I ran to the fence, gripping it with both hands, laughing and crying as I leaned into it. “Thank you!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Thank you so much!Merci!Mercibeaucoup!”
To make history in a French-speaking country, no less.
The faces blurred as I tried to take it all in. Women were crying, holding hands, shouting my name. Little girls waved flags, their eyes wide with wonder. I clung to the fence, tears mixing with the rain on my cheeks.
“This is for you,” I said, my voice barely audible but carried by the moment. “This is for all of you.”
Someone tossed me a small flag with my name on it, and I held it high, waving it as the cheers grew louder. The emotions surged through me, overwhelming and unstoppable. I grabbed hands through the fence, screaming my appreciation in French as I moved down the line to make sure all these fans knew I saw them.
This wasn’t just my victory. This was ours.
The interviews were a blur of cameras and microphones, the questions firing at me from every direction. But I didn’t shy away. I met every question head-on, unapologetic and fierce.
“What does this victory mean to you?” one reporter asked, her excitement bleeding into her voice.
“It means everything. I was told I didn’t belong here. That this wasn’t my place. Well, today, I proved them wrong. And this is only the beginning.”
Another asked, “What message do you have for young women watching you today?”
I smiled, the tears threatening to spill again. “You can do this. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You belong, just like I do. We all belong.”
A third reporter, standing slightly further back, raised their voice to cut through the others. “Aurélie, your radio communications failed mid-race. How did that impact your strategy?”
I hesitated, the memory of those tense, silent laps flashing through my mind. “It was disorienting, honestly,” I admitted. “No updates, no warnings, no feedback. It was just me, the car,and the track. I had to stay vigilant for flags, monitor the weather by myself, had no idea what the gaps were. But, I think that’s when I truly realized what I was capable of. I had to trust my instincts, my preparation, and everything I’d learned to navigate those laps.”
Another voice chimed in, pressing further. “You delayed your pit stop longer than anyone expected. What was going through your head?”
I took a deep breath. “I knew my tires were degrading, but I also knew the rain was coming. Pitting too early would’ve cost me track position and potentially forced a second stop for wets. I couldn’t risk it. When I saw Fraser andBianchi struggling on their newer tires, I knew I’d made the right call. It wasn’t just about defending my position—it was about playing the long game.”
“Was there ever a moment you doubted yourself?” a younger journalist asked, her tone almost hesitant.
“Every single lap,” I said honestly. “Every corner, every braking zone, every decision. It’s a constant battle between doubt and determination. Definitely there at the end after the safety car, where I had to find a gap that barely existed when overtaking Marco andCallum. I had to trust my instincts, even rely on that doubt a little bit. The key is to lean into that, to trust that you’re enough. Because in those moments, when everything is on the line, you realize that you are.”
The room fell quiet for a beat, and then another reporter asked, “What do you have to say to your critics and those who said you didn’t deserve this seat?”
My chin lifted, the steel in my spine solidifying. “I say thank you. Because every time you doubted me, every time you told me I couldn’t do this, you gave me fuel. And today, I turned that fuel into fire.”
The crowd of reporters exchanged murmurs, some nodding, others scribbling furiously in their notepads. The flash of cameras felt less intrusive now.
One reporter raised a hand hesitantly, a younger woman whose determination to be heard reminded me of my own. “Aurélie, what message do you have for women aspiring to break into male-dominated industries?”
I straightened and looked out at the crowd, at the rain-soaked signs, at the faces pressed to the barriers, and I knew this was my moment to say what needed to be said. My eyes snagged on one young girl, holding a sign that had a cutout of my face on it and my driver number—47. She looked in awe, and my next statement was directed to all the girls just like her.
“They will try to tear you down,” I began, steady and deliberate. “They will call you vile things. They will reduce you to your body, your appearance, your gender, anything they can use to strip you of your identity and your capability. There will be people who smile to your face and degrade you behind your back. People who say they want diversity until they have to deal with what it actually means.”
A murmur rippled through the press, but I didn’t stop. “But those people aren’t the ones you surround yourself with. You find the ones who uplift you, who challenge you to be better because they know you’re capable, and who celebrate your victories with the same passion as their own.”
The silence that followed was deafening. And then, because the press couldn’t resist drama, a reporter from the second row leaned forward with a pointed smile.
“IsCallumFraser one of those people?” he asked, the insinuation clear.
My heart jolted, but I didn’t falter. By instinct, my eyes drifted toward the cool-down room, as if I could spot him. Iwished I could find his blue eyes in the crowd, giving me silent reassurance.
My love.
