Page 67 of Flat Out
He laughed, shaking his head. “All right, all right. I’ll let you know how FP1 goes. Try not to cry when you see how much better the car handles without you.”
I smirked, but the ache in my ribs reminded me how much better the car would’ve handled with me still in it.
Marco studied me for a moment, his grin softening. “You’ve changed, mate.” His voice was quieter now, nearly lost under the clatter of drills. “Since Montreal. Since her.”
I stilled, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, but his gaze was steady. “Before, you were all broody and emotionally rough around the edges. You had one philosophy: win or die trying. But now…” He tilted his head. “Now you’re… different. More grounded, like you’re finally thinking about what happens outside the cockpit.”
I huffed a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Maybe getting set on fire and fearing you’ll never walk again makes you think a little harder about life.”
His mouth twitched. “Fair. But I don’t think it’s just that.”
I looked away, down at the car I wasn’t climbing into today, the telemetry screens, the crew buzzing around. My entire world, moving without me. And a few garages down, Aurélie was buried in her own data, fighting her own battles.
“Formula 1 will always be my life,” I said finally, the words rough in my throat. Then I shook my head. “But now Aurélie is too. And that’s not something I can ignore.”
Marco didn’t smirk this time. He just nodded, quiet understanding in his eyes, and for once, he didn’t turn it into a joke. “Then don’t ignore it,” he said simply. “The car, the grid… all of this will still be here tomorrow. But if she’s what makes you different? Hang on to it.”
The reserve driver fired up my engine then, the roar filling the garage and rattling my bones. Marco gave me one last pat onthe shoulder before walking off toward the pitlane, leaving me with the echo of his words.
Different. Yeah. Maybe he was right.
But as he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, his expression faltering. It was barely noticeable—a quick flicker of worry—but I caught it. He’d seen me at my best, and now he was seeing me like this. Broken, on the sidelines, struggling to keep my head above water. And even though he didn’t say it, I knew Marco was wondering the same thing I was: what if I didn’t come back?
The garage was quieter nowthat the cars were out on the track, though the screens told a story louder than any engine. I stood near the engineers, my eyes bouncing between the monitors as data scrolled across them. Throttle inputs, brake pressures, sector times—it was all there, laid bare in real time that I rarely got to see.
The sharp whine of a drill to my left sent a spike through my skull, like nails dragging across a chalkboard. I turned my head slightly, shielding my eyes from the glare of a monitor reflecting off a polished metal surface. The combination of noise and light was painful, chipping away at my patience. I shifted my weight, trying to focus on the telemetry in front of me, but the dull ache at the base of my neck had other ideas. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was a constant reminder of how fragile I felt in an environment where I’d always been indestructible.
Marco’s data came in first, clean and aggressive. He pushed hard through the high-speed corners, gaining time in Sectors 1 and 3. But Sector 2—the technical middle of the track—wasn’t perfect. I leaned closer, watching his throttle trace as he exited Turn 4.
“He’s too heavy on the exit,” I muttered, almost to myself. The rear tires were losing grip, and it cost him half a tenth.
“Not bad,” an engineer commented beside me, glancing at Marco’s lap time. “But he’s scrubbing time mid-corner.”
I nodded, watching as Marco flew through the final turn and crossed the line. His delta turned green, but not by much. “He’s overcompensating for the understeer. Look at his brake point into Turn 1. It’s earlier than Montreal.”
The engineer raised an eyebrow after the next lap. “Think he’s adjusting to the track or the setup?”
“Neither,” I said, frowning. “He’s trying to cover for a rear instability issue. Look at the micro-corrections. He’s fighting the car the whole way through Sector 2.”
Marco’s data kept streaming in, his lines precise, his confidence evident in every corner. The way he pushed the car to its limits while still maintaining control was a hallmark of his skill, a clear display of what earned him a WDC title before I swooped it from him. His throttle application was smooth, each lap building on the last.
Then there was Tobias. His braking was erratic, the telemetry showing jagged spikes where there should have been clean, flowing lines. At Turn 6, he hesitated again, lifting off the throttle too early, costing valuable tenths. It wasn’t just inexperience. It was a lack of conviction. I clenched my jaw as I watched, resisting the urge to step into the engineer’s space and demand they work on his confidence. You can’t teach instinct, and that was the difference. Marco had it. Tobias didn’t.
And me? I’d built my career on it.
“Tobias is struggling with confidence,” I noted, leaning back. “You see his steering angle? He’s second-guessing every apex.”
The engineer beside me sighed. “Not much we can do if he won’t commit.”
I bit my tongue. Tobias wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t me. Watching Tobias in my car felt wrong. The way he fumbled with the setup, the hesitance in his steering—it was like seeing someone else wear my race suit. It might fit them, but it wasn’t made for them.
This car, this team, they were extensions of me. Every corner I’d conquered, every adjustment I’d dialed in, it was all there in the data Tobias was now struggling to replicate. And as I stood there, an outsider in my own garage, a sick realization crept in: the car wasn’t the problem.Hewas.
Would he get better? The thought twisted in my gut. If Tobias improved, it meant someone else could make the car work without me. But if he didn’t, how long before the team suffered for it? How long before my absence left a permanent dent in Vanguard’s reputation?
The thought hit harder than I expected. Was it arrogance, thinking no one else could fill my shoes? Or fear, knowing that someday, someone would, and they’d do it better?
