The tension in the pit was thick with anticipation, though a muted, drizzly gray still hung in the air despite the creeping noon. Luca sat on a bench in the Trampos Racing garage, head tilted back, his gaze on the ceiling as he listened to the steady thrum of heavy metal in his ears—a personal ritual to settle his nerves. But his focus was broken when a teammate leaned over, breaking into his solitude.
"You've got 33% backing you today, Luca. They've put your name at the top of their list," the crew member urged, his voice somewhere between motivation and pleading. "If you can't win it for anything, win it for us. That 33% aren't clueless—they know why they put their money on you."
Luca gave a crooked smile, the hint of a smirk. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, McCauley interrupted from behind, shoving the over-eager crew member aside with a scoff.
"Quit telling him that crap," McCauley voiced, scowling at the funny crew member before turning his attention to Luca. Luca's smile widened with amusement as if he was holding back laughter.
"You think you can finish top five at least? Starting at P8 with such competition is a difficult thing, and we need at least two-figure points from you and Ansel to stay at the top," McCauley said. "So, can you?"
"Yes, I will. Podium might prove difficult, but I assure you, I won't finish below P5," Luca replied. "There's nothing for you to worry about though."
McCauley's scowl softened, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rubbed his gloved hands together against the chill to grant himself some warmth. "Good to hear it straight from you." He looked past Luca, toward the paddock where the grandstands buzzed with a steady hum of spectators. The morning's sprint race had set a high bar for the team, with Ansel dominating from pole position to take P1, while Haas secured P4, missing a top-three finish by mere seconds.
It was a good result, but once again, Luca wasn't satisfied. Just like before, the top teams had put in their reserves to participate in the Sprint Race, and not their main drivers, which was less competition for Ansel. Luca still congratulated him and urged him to perform even more as the main event for the day approached rapidly.
"How long until lights out?" Luca asked, dropping his gaze to McCauley.
McCauley paused in the doorway, his brow quirking as he glanced at his watch. "About an hour," he replied, glancing out toward the murky sky. "This weather makes it feel like we're in a waiting room, right?"
Luca chuckled, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, feels like I've been sitting here forever."
McCauley glanced back with a knowing nod. "Let's see if I could get you a set of grid lights set up so you can keep your reflexes sharp until Ansel's back."
"Sounds good," Luca replied, eager to shake off the dull lull. His fingers flexed in anticipation as he set down his headset, already visualizing the starting lights.
Ansel entered a few moments later, greeting Luca before settling quietly onto the bench adjacent to Luca's. He remained quiet, leaning in to interlock his fingers as he gazed endlessly at the floor.
Luca had learnt this was Ansel's way of preparing for a race–by being quiet and concentrating at a random spot, his cold eyes focused intently on nothing in particular. Today, though, there was something more intense in his gaze; his eyes were sharper, almost icy, and the only part of his face visible beneath the black balaclava that masked his nose and mouth. He was half-dressed, clad only in a fitted vest, compression sleeves and boots.
Luca, on the other hand, had only his vest and boots on. He wanted to speak to Ansel, but McCauley and a few other crew members slipped in, their presence noisy and crowded.
"Forty minutes left till lights out, gentlemen," McCauley announced, striding over to Luca with a tablet in his possession. "Let's run through quickly. Gaffer will be here anytime soon."
Ansel didn't bother to look up, his ritual never disrupted by anyone if not Mr. Grant. Luca sat up right and accepted the tablet, tapping its screen as it flickered to life. The same setup from all light reaction drills he had practiced, and Luca was getting good at it.
He focused intently, going through session after session as a few crew members gathered nearby, watching his progress with growing excitement. At the end of his 55th session, Luca exhaled deeply, his fingers lifting from the screen as the crew cheered. An impressive 84% accuracy across so many rounds. It was no small feat.
Luca stood up, blinking hard as he rubbed his eyes, which ached from the constant focus. The grid lights still seemed to flash in his vision like an afterimage that lingered even as he looked away. He blinked rapidly, then shook his head clear and strode over to where his racing suit lay folded, ready.
Ansel rose as well, his quiet moment finally over. The hum of the crowd's cheers and the commentary echoed from the screens and speakers around them. The announcer's voice grew louder, welcoming spectators and detailing the season's highlights so far as they approached midseason.
Both young drivers slipped into their suits, the fabric hugging their bodies like a second skin. The bold white letters of 'Trampos' stretched across their chests, catching the room's light and grounding them in the moment—this was the British Grand Prix, and everything they'd trained for was right ahead.
Luca tugged on his balaclava, then his gloves, flexing his fingers to get a feel for the grip. From the corner of his eye, he studied Ansel, whose expression hovered somewhere between calm and fierce. He didn't look happy nor sad, he had a face of determination, if Luca could call it that.
Ansel noticed Luca's scrutinizing gaze and chuckled beneath his head sock. "Is there something wrong?"
Luca shrugged. "No, just... you look... too ready."
Ansel rolled his eyes, rubbing his wrists. "Aren't we supposed to be? Besides, gaffer's here."
Luca turned to see Mr. Grant and Mr. Moritz stepping into the room, their expressions as focused as ever.