Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

The second I stepped into the McLaren paddock, I could feel the teasing coming before anyone even said a word.

“Well, well, look who’s famous now,” one of the mechanics said, raising his coffee cup like it was a toast.

Another had the live from last night pulled up on his phone, volume low but still loud enough for me to hear my own voice slurring through laughter.

I buried my face in my hands for half a second before grabbing my laptop and heading straight to the workstation. “Focus,” I muttered to myself. “Just focus.”

The data from FP3 was up, and I dove right in—anything to shift the spotlight away from the disaster that was my social life. The car was decent, but we still needed to tweak the front grip, especially in slow corners. I sent a few notes to one of the engineers and flagged a setup adjustment for Lando’s differential.

This. This was where I felt like myself.

Outside the garage, Lando was doing interviews, sunglasses on, charming as ever. How the hell did he manage to look so fresh after last night?

“Lando, you looked... very relaxed in last night’s live,” one of the journalists said with a smirk. “Are you feeling okay to race today?”

He laughed, smooth and unbothered. “Yeah, it was just a chill moment with some friends. Nothing crazy. We’re good. I’m good.”

I rolled my eyes and exhaled sharply through my nose.

“Nothing crazy,” I whispered, glancing at my phone.

47 unread messages.

One of them from Charles.

Still unopened.

I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not yet.

Instead, I adjusted my headset, brought up the strategy model, and pretended I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself on the internet the night before.

----

I was finally breathing.
The car was perfect.
No last-minute tweaks, no chaotic changes to the setup, no engineers running around with sweat pouring down their faces. For once, everything was ready before the five-minute warning.

There was still an hour until lights out, so I let myself lean against the wall beside the garage, sipping water and chatting with a couple of the mechanics. They were making fun of me—again—for the live. I pretended to be annoyed, but honestly? It felt good to laugh.

And then my phone started ringing.

Once. Twice. Over and over.

Unknown number, but I recognized the country code immediately. Italy. I frowned and answered.

“Amy?” The voice on the other end was panicked. I knew it in an instant. Luca. Old friend. Ferrari. One of the best mechanics I’d ever worked with.

“Luca? What’s going on?”

“We need help.” His voice cracked, raw and rushed. “The car—Charles’s car—there’s something wrong with the steering rack. It’s locking up on braking, especially in low-speed corners. We’ve tried everything. We’ve rebuilt it three times. No change.”

I went still.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. FIA won’t let us run the car if we can’t solve it in the next hour. We’re out of options.”

My stomach dropped. That kind of issue wasn’t just inconvenient. It was dangerous. A locked steering wheel mid-corner? That’s how you end up in a wall at 200kph.