Forgotten on the Grid

The garage is alive with motion—pre-race checks, tyre warmers buzzing, engineers double-checking every wire and bolt before the cars hit the track. It's loud, but all I hear is the thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

P2. Front row.

I should be satisfied with that. I should be proud.

Instead, all I can think about is how close I came to pole– disappointed but still smug about how I beat him.

I sit in the prep chair beside my car, half-suited, gloves resting in my lap. Serena's off talking to the mechanics. Rose is bent over a laptop, frowning at a delta chart.

Then, out of the corner of my eye—I catch a flash of red.

Dino.

Not in racing gear—just jeans, a hoodie, a team lanyard around his neck. He's here early, probably killing time before his own race. I watch as he stops near the back of the garage, hands in his pockets, casually observing everything.

His eyes pass over the car, over the team—and land on me. For half a second, he lifts his chin in acknowledgment. No wave. No words. Just a subtle nod and a flicker of a smile before he turns and continues along the walkway toward the F2 paddock.

It's not much. But it's something.

Before I can process it, another presence shifts into my peripheral vision.

"Didn't miss anything, did I?"

I turn—and there's Uncle Seb. Arms crossed, cap low over his eyes, credentials swinging against his jacket.

"You're actually here," I say, blinking in surprise.

"You said it was a big one," he shrugs. "Figured I'd show up before you win it."

He reaches out and straightens the shoulder of my suit, like I'm still twelve and need help getting ready. There's warmth behind the gesture, but it also steadies me more than I expected.

"How's she feeling?" he asks, nodding toward the car.

"Like she wants to prove something," I mutter.

Seb's smile softens. "Just like her driver, then."

I don't respond, but the corner of my mouth lifts—just barely.

Across the garage, I feel it again.

Eyes.

I glance toward the other side—and there he is.

Arvid.

Helmet off, seated by his car. Calm. Quiet. But watching.

Not at the car. Not at the data screens. At me.

There's no expression on his face. Just unreadable stillness, like he's trying to work something out he hasn't quite found the words for yet.

I hold the gaze. Just for a second.

Then Rose calls my name, and it breaks.

He looks away first.

I stand, grab my helmet, and head toward the grid.

Let him look.

I've got a race to win.

—————-

The lights blink on overhead—one by one.
The air on the grid tightens. My heartbeat thuds through the cockpit.

P2. Front row. Arvid's behind me to the left in P3.
I can feel him there, even without looking.

Five red lights.
Hold. Hold.

Lights out.
Go.

I nail the launch—clean, sharp, nearly perfect. But Arvid's quicker. His reaction is electric. By the time we hit the braking zone into Turn 1, he's alongside.

Then he dives.
Aggressive. Sharp. Right across the front of me.

I swerve to avoid contact—barely.

I'm forced wide, all four wheels over the white line, dust kicking up. My tyres scream as I fight to bring the car back under control. Two cars fly past. Then another on the straight. And one more into Turn 3 while I'm still trying to settle the car.

P6.
Brilliant.

The radio crackles. "Keep calm, Lydia. Car looks okay. Long race ahead."

I don't answer. I can't. My jaw is clenched too tightly.

He knew what he was doing.

This wasn't racing hard. This was deliberate.

I see his number—#4—on the back of his car up ahead, now comfortably running P3, like nothing happened.

Not for long.

I reset. Reset everything—mind, rhythm, grip.

Lap 4. I've found the balance again. The car is back underneath me, and I'm pushing hard now.

Lap 6—P5. I slipstream and divebomb into Turn 7. Clean. Ruthless.

Lap 9—P4. I go around the outside—high-risk, high-reward. It sticks.

Each move gives me back a piece of what he took.

Lap 13—P3.

I'm breathing heavy now, tyres starting to whisper their complaints, but the fuel's lighter and I'm flying.

Up ahead: Arvid. In P2.

Still pretending like I don't exist.

I watch his lines, his braking. He's tidy, consistent, fast—but I'm faster now.

The gap closes.

Every lap.

He doesn't defend yet. He's waiting. Trying to guess when I'll come for him.

Let him wait.

Because when I do—he won't see it coming