"Then you'll be in good company. Half the grid's done it." I shift to face him better. "Look, I was in your exact position last year. Nobody expected anything from me. The team was a joke. I was the guy who couldn't keep his fists to himself. You've got more raw talent than I did coming in."
"You're just saying that."
"I don't 'just say' anything. Ask Violet if you don't believe me." I give him a reassuring smile. "Nervous is normal. Use it. Channel it into focus."
EJ's eyes widen further as he takes in the gleaming team motorhomes, the carefully choreographed chaos of F1's traveling circus setting up for the weekend.
I pay the driver while EJ collects his things. His nervousness seems to have transformed into something more alert, focused.
We step out into the Melbourne sunshine, the heat immediately wrapping around us like a blanket. Compared withLondon around this time of the year, this is paradise. March is dreadful there.
The paddock entrance looms ahead, already buzzing with activity despite the early hour. Mechanics, engineers, and team personnel stream through the gates, lanyards swinging against team-colored shirts.
"ID ready?" I ask EJ, patting my pocket to find my own access card.
He nods, then freezes. He frantically pats every pocket of his jeans and team jacket.
"Shit, shit, shit." His face drains of color. "I can't find my card."
A security guard glances our way. Great start to EJ's first official race weekend.
"Calm down," I say, keeping my voice steady. "It's in your bag somewhere."
EJ's hands shake as he unzips his backpack, dumping contents onto a nearby bench. Water bottle. Headphones. Energy bars. Phone charger. Notebook.
"It's not here. Violet's going to kill me." His voice rises with panic.
"No, she won't." I place a hand on his shoulder. "Deep breath. Let's think."
I've been there—the pre-race jitters making you lose basic motor functions. The more he panics, the less likely he'll find it.
"When did you last have it?" I ask.
"At the hotel. I remember putting it in my bag."
"Then it's still there." I kneel down, methodically sorting through his scattered belongings. "What else did you pack this morning?"
EJ thinks for a moment. "My book. I was reading in bed last night."
I spot a thick paperback with a spaceship on the cover half-buried under his jacket. Picking it up, I fan through the pages. Aplastic card slides out from somewhere in the middle, landing on the bench.
"Your bookmark?" I hold up the access card, grinning.
EJ's relief is palpable. "Thank fuck. I was about to call Maya to bring my spare."
"Crisis averted." I help him stuff everything back into his bag. "Le Guin?" I ask, nodding at the novel as he carefully tucks it back into his bag.
His eyes light up. "You've readThe Dispossessed?"
"Tried once. Too many big words." I grin, shouldering my own bag. "Now come on, rookie. Time to make your grand entrance."
Inside, the paddock is a strange mix of chaos and precision. Team staff hustle between garages. Media crews set up equipment. Everything gleams under the morning sun—the polished hospitality units, the fresh paint on barriers, even the asphalt seems to sparkle.
"William! EJ!" A familiar voice cuts through the noise.
Oliver Lenox strides toward us, his championship-winning smile impossible to miss. At thirty-four, he's still the benchmark—four titles, over seventy wins, and somehow, genuinely nice. This man was my bedroom wall poster for years, the reason I begged my parents to let me try karting, the benchmark against which I've measured every achievement in my career.
"Ollie," I say, extending my hand, proud of how steady it remains. "Good to see you, man." I still can’t believe I can call him like this. As if we were friends.
