Lap after lap, I keep climbing. Everything I’ve learned in all my years in Formula One, in eighteen months of watching from the sidelines, all the simulator work, all the training—it’s all clicking right now. Every instinct sharp. Every decision instant.
On lap 28, I catch up to Luca. He’s fighting his brakes, I can see it in the way he’s braking early into corners. I get a run on him out of Turn 9 and pull alongside down the straight.
“Sorry, amico,” I mutter as I take the inside line and pass him cleanly.
P6.
I keep pushing. On lap 35, the car in P5 makes a mistake in Turn 14, runs wide over the curb. I’m there immediately, diving to the inside, taking the position before he can recover.
P5.Then P4 as someone ahead pits for tires.
“Jack, you’re P4,” Marco says, disbelief clear in his voice. “The Mercedes is leading. Two cars between you. Be careful with your tires.”
Careful isn’t in my vocabulary right now.
The cars ahead pit and suddenly I’m P2. The Mercedes is right there in front of me, close enough I can see every twitch of his rear wing.
Five laps to go. Four laps. Three.
I’m faster. I can see him struggling with grip in the high-speed corners, the rear of his car sliding slightly. My tires are newer. I have the advantage.
Two laps to go.
The long straight approaches and I get a perfect exit out of Turn 10. DRS opens up and I pull alongside him, the engines screaming as we hurtle toward Turn 11 side by side. The braking zone approaches fast. Too fast.
I brake later than I should, later than is smart, riding the absolute edge of what’s physically possible. The Mercedes has to back out or we both crash into the barriers.
He backs out.
I’m ahead.
P1.
“FUCK YES!” Marco shouts over the radio. “P1, Jack! One lap to go! Bring it home!”
The final lap is the longest of my life. Every corner precise. Every input perfect. No mistakes. No giving the Mercedes a chance to come back at me. I can hear the roar of the crowd even over my engine, this wall of sound that rises as I pass eachgrandstand. It burns through me, this electric energy that makes every nerve ending feel alive.
I cross the finish line and the emotion hits me like a physical force, crashing over me in waves.
I won. From P18 to P1. I fucking won.
“THAT’S P1!” Marco’s screaming. “THAT’S A WIN! INCREDIBLE DRIVE, JACK! INCREDIBLE!”
The team principal comes on the radio, his voice breaking. “Jack! Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent! Welcome back!”
I’m shouting into my helmet, adrenaline and relief and pure fucking joy coursing through every cell in my body. I pump my fist as I do the cool-down lap, the crowd in the grandstands on their feet, fireworks exploding over the Strip in bursts of red and gold. The cheers are deafening even through my helmet, thousands of people losing their minds.
I pull into parc fermé and kill the engine. The sounds of celebration hit immediately. Mechanics running toward me, cameras flashing everywhere, the crowd roaring so loud it’s like standing inside thunder.
I pull myself out of the car and stand on it, raising my fists to the crowd. The team swarms me, everyone screaming and hugging and clapping me on the back.
Thomas appears through the crowd, grinning so wide his face might split. “You just fucking landed your seat!” he yells over the noise. “That was incredible! Ferrari can’t say no to that drive! Jack, that was the drive of a lifetime!”
I’m grinning back, still trying to process what just happened. “I told you I could do it.”
“Yeah you did!” Thomas pulls me into a hug, then pushes me toward the podium.
Luca appears, pulling me into a back-slapping hug. “Bravo, amico! Fantastico!That was incredible!”
