The Trampos crew made their way back to their designated residence in the bustling metropolis of Barcelona. It was no easy task, as the streets and roads leading from Circuito del Barca–Raval were overwhelmed by throngs of people, including the two hundred thousand fans who had filled the grandstands and many more who hadn't managed to secure a spot inside the circuit.
Every available road was gridlocked, and the cacophony of engines, cheering fans, and excitable chatter filled the night air. The F2 teams struggled to navigate through the chaos, and the journey back to their bases stretched on interminably. What should have been a straightforward drive took four times longer, with the golden hues of dusk giving way to the inky blackness of night by the time traffic began to ease.
Even then, the team's convoy crawled at a snail's pace, hindered by throngs of pedestrians weaving through the vehicles. Luca, frustrated by the slow progress, found it difficult to access the internet due to poor connectivity. He instead engaged enthusiastically in a lively conversation with McCauley, Dennis, and a few others, rehashing the highs and lows of the race earlier that day.
Within the hour, Mr. Robert, the team's lead cargo manager, radioed in with a development. One of their cargo trucks had grazed a lamppost in the chaos and needed to pull over to assess the damage. He suggested halting the convoy briefly, but Mr. Grant decided to press on, reasoning that waiting would only delay them further. The leading vehicles and buses resumed their slow progress through the congested streets, leaving the cargo trucks to catch up later.
Eventually, the team neared their base, but their relief was short-lived. Just as Mr. Grant had anticipated, their progress was interrupted again—this time by a group of overzealous Trampos fans who had somehow discovered their route. Most of these fans had traveled from Germany, much like the team itself, with only a few hailing from the local area. Security had to be called in to disperse the small but enthusiastic crowd. Before they left, however, a few lucky fans managed to snap selfies with members of the team, especially with their winning driver, Luca.
Once the way was clear, the convoy resumed its approach to the facility, finally arriving at 7 p.m.
Finally, two bars, Luca thought as he glanced at the top of his phone screen while disembarking from the bus. He fell in line with the rest of the team, his eyes fixated on the updated standings after this eighth round. As they filed into the facility, Luca scrolled through the championship rankings.
He tried to remember the previous figures and calculate it himself, but he just ended up jumbling the numbers.
PROVISIONAL TEAMS' CHAMPIONSHIP STANDINGS (TOP5) Scroll for more.
Position | Team | Points
-----------------------------------------
1. | Trampos Racing | 241
2. | Bueseno Velocità Jnr. | 187
3. | Squadra Corse Jnr | 134
4. | Hatcherk Motorsport | 109
5. | Retona Racing | 57
A 54-point lead. Luca nodded to himself as he processed the numbers. That margin felt reassuring. Even with the fast-approaching Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, there was no realistic way they could lose the lead after the ninth round. It simply wasn't mathematically possible for any team to earn more than 50 points in a single race. The maximum achievable was 45 points, and that required flawless execution—a feat no team had managed this season.
No team, that is, except Trampos Racing, during their extraordinary performance on that unforgettable night in Stellar back in April.
Luca slipped his phone into his pocket as the automatic glass doors slid open, revealing the main lounge of the team's residential facility. Almost everyone bypassed the elevators that would take them to their rooms, instead sprinting toward the lounge to relax and celebrate together.
Luca found himself slowly growing fond of alcohol, but only in small quantities and always paired with something sweet, like a soft drink. He remembered the first time he'd tried a cocktail—hesitant at first, unsure about the mix of spirits and soda. But once it touched his tongue, he was hooked—not because of the alcohol's strength, but because of the unreal balance and the bubbly sensation that tickled his palate.
Moments later, McCauley played some music, and soft jazz began to emanate from the hidden speakers. To everyone's surprise, Ms. Vallotton came downstairs and joined the celebration, and even Mr. Grant followed a few minutes later. Dressed in a casual outfit, Mr. Grant helped himself to drinks that Luca was certain weren't cocktails, but rather strong alcoholic beverages.
Damn, Luca whispered to himself, taking in the sight of the new Trampos Racing F2 team celebrating together, dancing and chatting lightheartedly. A year ago, they hadn't been this big in number, nor had they achieved such heights. But now, here they were.
Luca's eyes scanned the room in search of Ansel. He figured this was the perfect moment to talk to his best friend about the beach day he had planned for them.
After scanning the room for a while and finding no sign of Ansel, Luca set down his cocktail and started asking around. A few team members mentioned that Ansel had gone straight to his room after they arrived. Luca sighed, realizing he should've guessed that. Picking up his duffel bag, he told the others he was calling it a night and headed for the elevator.
The ride up was brief, and the quiet hum of the elevator gave Luca a chance to collect his thoughts. When the doors slid open, he stepped into a dimly lit hallway bathed in a soft golden glow. The air was calm and still here, a complete contrast to the lively atmosphere of the lounge below. Room 56B was just a few doors down.
When he reached Ansel's door, Luca knocked softly and waited. After about thirty seconds with no response, he knocked again, a bit louder this time. Just as he raised his hand for a third try, the door swung open, revealing Ansel. His expression was neutral, almost distant. Their eyes met briefly.
"What's up?" Ansel asked, his tone as neutral as his face.
Luca took a moment to study his friend, noting that Ansel was already dressed for bed and had likely showered. Determined to make the conversation quick, he said, "Hey, uh… when do you think you'll be free in the next few days? Remember Harry? We've been planning a beach day since before the race, and I thought we could finally make it happen before we head back to Berlin. You in?"
For a moment, Luca thought Ansel might brush him off. Those cold, piercing eyes seemed to weigh him carefully, as though measuring his intent. Then, to Luca's surprise, Ansel nodded almost immediately.
"Sure. No problem," Ansel replied.
Before Luca could say anything else, Ansel stepped back and began closing the door. The abruptness caught Luca off guard, and he scrambled for a response. "Good night," he blurted out just as the door clicked shut.
Luca stood there for a moment, staring at the polished wood, unsure of what to make of the interaction. He wasn't sure what was wrong—or if he didn't want to know.
All he knew was that he didn't want their friendship to fall apart because of this career. Luca really liked Ansel and considered him his closest friend throughout his eighteen years of life, and he'd be devastated if anything ruined it.
With a soft sigh, he turned and walked to his own room.