JACK
The Ferrari garage in Las Vegas hums with pre-race energy in the late afternoon. Through the open garage door, the sun has just begun sinking toward the horizon and the Strip is coming alive, neon signs flickering on as the sky fades from blue to orange. Every casino is lighting up and the buzz of the crowd is building, music and announcements echoing across the circuit. Hours before the race and Vegas is already electric.
Davis got food poisoning from a bad meal last night. Spent the early morning hours throwing up, and the team doctor pulled him from the race two hours ago. Which means I’m racing tonight. Starting P18 because of the mechanical issue Davis had in yesterday’s qualifying. Seventeen cars ahead of me. Seventeen opportunities to prove I deserve to be here.
This is it. This is what I’ve been training for, waiting for, fighting to get back to for eighteen months. My shot at getting my full-time seat back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket for the third time in ten minutes. My brothers, mostly. They’ve been texting on and offfor the last two weeks, ever since I left Dark River without saying goodbye.
Not the first time I’ve pulled a vanishing act when things got complicated, but apparently they’re not letting it slide this time. Calvin and Theo both figured out something was wrong with Lark. They’d sent careful check-in texts, the kind of concerned older brother messages that made me feel like shit. All of them had given me endless shit once I’d finally admitted the truth, that Lark and I started as fake dating, then it became real, then I fucked it up spectacularly by walking out on her.
I ignore the buzzing and try to focus on the engineering briefing happening in front of me. Marco, the lead race engineer, is going over telemetry data from yesterday’s qualifying session.
“The brake system was giving Davis trouble in the corners, but it should be good now,” Marco says, pointing to data on his tablet. “We’ve adjusted some calibrations for your driving style. Should feel more responsive.”
I nod, absorbing information. This is what I need to focus on. Not Lark. Not the fact that I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Not the hollow feeling in my chest that’s been there since I walked out of her apartment.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, half hoping it’s Lark even though I know it won’t be.
Thomas. Of course.
Thomas:Where are you? Need to talk about tonight. Media briefing in 30 minutes.
I text back quickly.
Me:Garage. Engineering briefing.
Thomas:Good. Find me after. This is happening, Jack. Don’t fuck it up.
No pressure or anything.
Marco continues the briefing. The track is unforgiving. Narrow and high-speed with concrete barriers that don’t give you any margin for error. One mistake and you’re out.
“P18 is not ideal,” Marco says to me, which might be the understatement of the century. “But the car is fast. Luca’s been P3 and P4 in recent races with this package. You can move forward. It’s just going to require patience and picking the right moments.”
What he’s not saying, what everyone in the paddock is thinking, is that getting into the points from P18 would be a minor miracle. Top ten means passing at least seven cars on a circuit with limited overtaking opportunities. The online betting odds I saw this morning had me finishing P14 at best. Even the most optimistic racing journalists are predicting P12 or P13. A points finish? P10 or better? That’s wishful thinking.
Thomas had been blunt about it during our call this morning. “Look, no one expects you to win from P18. Hell, most people would be shocked if you crack the top ten. Just drive clean, show them you can race smart, don’t bin it into the barriers. That’s all Ferrari needs to see.”
But that’s the thing. I don’t want to just drive clean and finish P12. I want to prove I’m better than that. That eighteen months on the sidelines didn’t dull my edge. That I can still do things other drivers can’t.
I nod at Marco, my mind already running through the race, calculating possibilities. It’s going to take perfect execution and a bit of luck. But I’ve made impossible overtakes before.
LARK
The green room backstage at the Las Vegas Strip Circuit is smaller than I expected, which is saying something because my expectations were already pretty modest. It’s really more of a glorified closet with a mirror, a chair, and a folding table.
The race doesn’t start until later this evening, but the pre-race entertainment is already in full swing. I’m part of the “emerging talent showcase” on a smaller side stage, which is basically the opening act before the opening act. The thing people mostly ignore while getting settled.
But if Maya is right, the footage will be everywhere.
Through the thin walls I can hear the bass from the main stage, and my stomach does that familiar clench. Stage fright has been my constant companion for years now, and tonight it’s brought all its friends.
My phone buzzes on the table and I grab it, desperate for distraction.
Maren:YOU’RE GOING TO BE AMAZING. I’m manifesting success for you right now. Calvin says to tell you to break a leg!
Maren:YOU’VE GOT THIS. Can’t wait to hear all about it!!!
