"...so, Jon, are we just going to pretend like we didn't witness that artistry—the very definition of motorsport—flaunted right before our eyes...?"
"...that was a magnificent overtake, I agree, but not because of who executed it—rather because of who was overtaken. I would give the same credit to any of the twenty-eight other drivers. Aaronson is a phenomenal driver, and anyone who gets past him deserves applause, regardless of who they are..."
"...now Jon, it sounds like you're leaning to one side here..."
"...I most certainly am not, Steve. We're on Lap 15, with Addams and Hahn locked in a tight dance for the lead. The Trampos rookie is charging toward his teammate in 3rd, while Aaronson fights tooth and nail to maintain his lane. Meanwhile, the battle between Kristensen and Bellingham feels never-ending—they're neck-and-neck, and they might just drag Kristensen down with them. As for sides?
If the leaderboard holds, Trampos will walk away from George Park with the most points, just like they did in Germany..."
"...whoa, hold on, Jon—look at that! Bellingham's making a move! He's lining up right behind Kristensen, and the gap between them is shrinking fast. Kristensen's been clinging to 5th place like his life depends on it, but Bellingham looks hungry. He's been tailing him for a few laps now, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce..."
"...ah, I see it as well, Steve. Bellingham's been calculating this. You can see he's setting himself up for the straight after the chicanes—he's got a cleaner line coming out of those curves. Kristensen's been burning a lot of tire rubber defending, and it's starting to show..."
"...And here they go, into the final chicane for another lap! Kristensen hugs the inside line, determined to shut him out, but Bellingham's gaining ground fast on the outside. He's going for the outbrake—look at the control, Jon, that's precision driving right there...!"
On the 8th section of the grandstands, positioned just beneath the single glass room of the George Park Circuit, sat several agents representing the drivers contracted to various teams competing in the F2 championship. Most had attended to watch their clients race, focused and intent.
Mallow arrived late—around the 15th lap—barely making it into the filled circuit. His eyes scanning hastily for Sara, who was stationed near the 8th section. He found her amidst the noise, and they spoke in raised voices, struggling to be heard over the thunderous crowd as Miles Bellingham made the daring move to overtake Martin Kristensen.
Once he finished delivering his message, Sara nodded thoughtfully and responded without hesitation. Mallow's gaze flicked toward the 8th section, a serene island of calm with the perfect vantage point over the track and the circuit's largest TV screen broadcasting every pulse of the race.
Though officially permitted a seat in the 8th section as a driver's agent, Mallow lingered on the outskirts, clutching himself as the crowd erupted around him. Roars of excitement echoed across the stands as Bellingham slipped into Kristensen's draft, seizing the perfect moment.
The two cars barreled toward the corner, and in a breathtaking maneuver, Bellingham powered through with remarkable precision, leaving Retona's Oliver Kristensen behind in the dust to claim 5th place.
"...Bellingham's not letting up, Steve. He's piling on the pressure, and you can see Kristensen's rear tires losing grip. This could be it—if Bellingham nails the exit here, he'll have the DRS advantage on the next straight...!"
"...And there it is, Steve! Bellingham commits! Kristensen's car twitches under braking—oh, Bellingham's got him! He pulls up beside him—they're wheel-to-wheel now!"
"...Heading into the straight! Bellingham's DRS is wide open—Kristensen's fighting back, but Bellingham edges ahead! He's taken 5th! What a brilliant move by Miles Bellingham...!"
"WOOOHHHH!" The crowd at George Park Circuit exploded with cheers.
Mallow grumbled, half-heartedly shielding his ears from the noise. Over the commotion, the distant voice of the English-speaking commentators rang out through the loudspeakers, celebrating Bellingham's breathtaking overtake with fervor.
After weaving through the crowd for a while, Mallow finally reached the 8th section. He paused at the entrance as officials verified his personal information. Moments later, he was granted access, and the roar of the crowd softened behind him as he stood at the threshold. Mallow's gaze swept across the room, where agents and sponsors observed the race with focused intensity.
The action on the track was hotter than ever, yet Mallow still had no idea what position Luca was holding. Nevertheless, he trusted the lad.
At the front row, Mallow spotted a familiar figure—a certain man seated with perfect posture. His heart lifted when he noticed the empty seat beside him. As Mallow approached, the older man glanced up from under his glasses, his expression cool and unreadable. Neither man showed surprise upon locking eyes, both exuding a quiet calm at the sight of each other.
Mallow slumped into the vacant chair, running a hand through his hair in a habitual gesture. His gaze flickered to the leaderboard, and his heart melted with joy as he saw Luca's young face displayed beside the large, bronze-colored number three.
"Mr. Mallow," the man, Mr. Schafer, broke the silence without shifting his eyes from the track, where cars sped past like streaks of rainbow. "How wonderful of you to join us in this reserved section to watch your client race."
A subtle smile tugged at the corner of Mallow's lips as he settled deeper into the plush chair, his arms resting comfortably on the armrests. "I'm glad you made that distinction—my client, and no one else's. I trust you're not having second thoughts and regrets about cheating the boy back at that academy of yours?" Mallow sneered, crossing one leg over the other.
"Because if you take a good look at him now—your 'better' boy hasn't even sniffed a podium spot, yet Luca's making it his playground."
Mr. Schafer sighed quietly, removing his glasses with care. He wiped the frames meticulously with a small cloth, then replaced them without missing a beat. A brief glance flicked toward Mallow before his attention returned to the screen, as "I have no regrets about not endorsing your client, Mr. Mallow," Schafer said with measured calm. "He turned out to be a fine racer—good for him.
Miles Bellingham is a fine racer too. Achieving sixth in Germany isn't easy, as you well know. The important thing is that Grey-Husson managed to produce two excellent first drivers this year. That's what matters to me."
His index finger twitched involuntarily as Bellingham came within inches of executing a swift curve—one that could have propelled him into 4th position.
"And this Grey-Husson Academy of yours, gaffer, how long do you think it'll last?" Mallow asked, leaning back in his chair.
"What—what do you mean?"
"Mr. Schafer, I may have been just an assistant back in the day, but I know what goes on for standard. The Federation is eager to shut down the Grey-Husson program," Mallow said with a shrug. "Come on, gaffer, you know the deal—unequal engines, outdated training schemes, incompetent staff. The whole operation's deviating from the Federation's standards, and you're well aware of that.
Keeping things under wraps won't help—especially since 'someone' has pushed this problem to the top of the Federation's agenda."
Schafer's expression remained calm, but the intensity in his gaze sharpened as he stared at Mallow. "You didn't have to do that," Schafer said evenly. It didn't take him time to understand Mallow had reported his establishment.
"Ah, same way you didn't have to rip my client's rightful spot that day. If it ain't his face on Grey-Husson's, then it won't be the other. After all, when last did the renowned academy produce anyone truly special?"
Without waiting for an answer, Mallow gestured for a drink, and a server promptly handed him one. He poured a second glass and extended it toward Schafer, who gave a curt refusal with a wave of his hand. Unbothered, Mallow took a comfortable sip from his own glass. "Oh, by the way—Bellingham's sitting in 8th, according to my slip," Mallow added.
Schafer scoffed softly, rubbing the underside of his nose as the race's intensity climbed to a fever pitch. "You'll lose your money, Mr. Mallow. Trust me," he said softly.
[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL-TIME:
-Operational Status: 60% (Fair)
-Breathing: Calm & Steady
-Distance covered: 92000 m
[Tires are in average condition, host. Fuel level at 65%. DRS is now available. Engine temperature stable. Brake wear at 18%.]
[Telemetry reports smooth handling. Aerodynamic efficiency optimal. However, considering you're on lap 20, a pit stop is highly demanded.]
Highly demanded? Must be serious, Luca thought, glancing at the System interface before him, his eyes scanning the information rapidly.
**So, what do you say, lad? 21st or 22nd—your call. Just don't push beyond 22nd**
"21st it is," Luca replied, gripping the wheel with precise control. He couldn't help but marvel at how flawlessly Ansel handled his own car, far ahead with Addams—both of them dominating the race. Curiosity got the better of him, and he asked Ansel about his Operational Status and the overall condition of his car.
**I'll need a pit too, Luca. You go first. I'll take mine on the 22nd. Let's see if I can grab P1 this time.**
"Very well," Luca responded, rounding a curve smoothly. His racing line held perfectly, allowing him to breathe easily without a rival's engine breathing down his neck. The crowd blurred by his peripheral vision as he unleashed DRS along a straight, the world around him fading into speed and momentum.
"Alright," Luca confirmed, tilting his wheel to guide the car toward the third line for an optimal pit stop. He knew this brief pause would allow Aaronson to close the gap behind him, setting the stage for another fierce battle through the tight chicanes of the George Park Circuit.
The Trampos Racing garage loomed ahead, with the pit crew ready and waiting. Luca braked hard, his Dallara lifting momentarily before settling back down with a thud. Wrenches clanked, tires spun off and on, and finally, a solid pat on his chassis signaled the all-clear.
Luca slammed on the throttle, rocketing away from the pitstop at the required speed and merging back into the track's middle line with precision.
**2.9 seconds, baby!**
[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 25%]
His eyes darted to the top left corner of his System interface, watching as the Operational Status steadily climbed to 85%, the indicator shifting to a satisfying green.
[You are picking up speed.]
Feeling the surge of acceleration beneath him, Luca flicked a quick glance at the rearview mirror, gauging how much ground Aaronson had gained during his own pitstop. But what he saw made his eyes narrow with confusion.
Hatcherk Motorsport's car colors weren't black-and-golden, were they? Yet there it was—a sleek, black-and-gold Dallara barreling toward him with terrifying speed, its rear wing flared open for DRS, shimmering heat waves pouring off the front nose like a beast unleashed.
[4th Position closing in]
Luca whipped his gaze back to the track and cursed under his breath. When the hell did HE get to 4th?