My Formula 1 System

Three FIA delegates, wearing white gloves and dark jackets, approached Luca. Luca spotted the symbols of bureaucracy amid Haddock Racing's glory. Without much communication between him and them, he allowed himself to be guided gently by the arm toward the weight check area. Suit clingy and sweat-damped, but he offered no resistance, and even teased the lady—or some might call it flirting with her.

The FIA delegates meticulously conducted the weight check, but also as quickly as possible, although Luca's amiable nature made them take their time. Still in full race kit, Luca stepped onto the scales, and one of the delegates adjusted a tablet and also scribbled notes.

"All good. Clean run, congratulations."

The older man nodded and said this when a beep confirmed the reading. The young lady then handed him a slip of paper that verified his post-race weight. Luca accepted it, thanked them for their diligent duties, and continued on his way to his team's garage.

Behind him, however, the trio hadn't yet moved on.

"You know he's not even gonna remember you after today. Don't think he'd date you because he said some nice words."

The youngest among them muttered with a big smirk, clearly to taunt his colleague as he nudged her arm. His colleague turned to retort with slight fury at his uttered truth.

"Don't flatter yourself. Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"Enough, both of you."

A flat, firm tone interrupted their scuffle. It was the older delegate. He was used to their tomfoolery, so he didn't spare them any time to evolve this one.

"Let's not smear the logistics. We've got a clean weight, and we report it clean. That's our job."

With that, their silhouettes faded into the blur of post-race celebrations and procedures as they turned and made their way down the pit lane. Luca, on the opposite side, had a team to entertain.

In due time, Luca was standing for the team's debrief, which they had nearly forgotten. Distracted by the euphoria of 20 points—a double finish—Trampos Racing almost skipped a very important debrief. Without delay, a handful of key team figures were in the debrief room, a room that was quite close to the telemetry viewing room and the main garage altogether. Debrief rooms were where Ms. Vallotton often sought clean air during the hell of their campaign last season.

"It was a very good race. Strategy nailed, pit stops tight, pace consistent... honestly, we did our job today."

Mr. Colt said this proudly and went on to give a generalized review of the Canadian Grand Prix in terms of Trampos Racing's performance.

As usual, Luca was the better driver. His fluid compliance with the team's instructions throughout the race was immensely commended. But none was as irreproachable as his leap from P5 to P2 in the closing laps.

Victor, too, had made solid strides. A P9 finish might not steal headlines, but in a field of savages, it marked genuine progress and fortification. It was the kind of drive that showed he was beginning to build something steady, something that could one day hold its own.

As Mr. Colt, Mr. Grant, and Ms. Vallotton spoke, some nodded, and a few jotted important notes relating to round five's performance. Other active personnel stood around in their suits and caps, just listening.

As expected for any thorough debrief of a Grand Prix, Luca's grid start failure was one of the first matters addressed. That dire one-second stall had cost him his starting spot on the grid. Because of it, Luca dropped all the way to P9 before the race even properly began, a painful hiccup that had nearly jeopardized the entire race strategy for Trampos Racing.

With composure and space, Luca did salvage it and turned the disaster into a recovery. But the team still needed to speak about what happened to prevent it from happening again.

"Luca might just be a little too strong for what we can afford."

Mr. Ruben said that, and it drew laughter from all corners of the debrief room. Even Luca chuckled softly with his arms folded around him, until the moment passed quickly.

"—But it's true. We can't delibitate our driver. This is a challenge for the team to improve as such."

The room quieted down a bit after Mr. Ruben's bold words. After a few seconds of silence, the head of strategists nodded and said he agreed, but reminded the room that it was easier said than done. Engineering at this level wasn't something that could be redefined overnight. These weren't off-the-shelf parts—they were bespoke, monetized builds tied into long-term manufacturer partnerships, development cycles, and cost caps.

Improvement would come, but only in increments. As they would have it, they were on the right path. All that was required now was time.

Telemetry was pulled up onto the screen, and the data told the story in precise strokes of a graph. There was a clutch slip in reading after a sharp torque spike before launch that hesitated the engine. All this was exactly what had gone wrong in the blink of an eye.

Luca sighed inwardly as he watched the alphanumeric data of the Sigma being weak to his aggression instead of tolerating it and moving along. He wondered how he'd begin to mitigate Grid Launch to the extent that his car could tolerate. Surely it wouldn't be that much of a difference.

Apart from the start-line hiccup, the team reckoned it had been a solid Grand Prix weekend, and Canada, by all measures, was a success. Points were gained, performance was sharp, and spirits were high. It was the kind of momentum they needed. Step by step, race by race—this was how a championship came together.

As the final slides of data faded from the screen, chairs shuffled back and bodies stood, arms stretched, and soon, the room filled with the soft clatter of pats on backs and warm, tight hugs. Everyone embraced each other, satisfied with a job well done.

"Luca, I will be staying back for a quick word with…."

Ms. Vallotton said to Luca, mentioning the names of those who were considered in charge of Trampos Racing's active administration and heads of strategic and engineering departments. In short, these were those who were aware of his special rear wing in the race. No doubt, their further conversation would be about it—to assess its performance and so much more relating to the risk that was taken in St. Lawrence.

The rest of the team took the cue and began to file out in small clusters. While exchanging low jokes, Luca used the moment to narrate to Victor the moment of his grid start failure and how nearly catastrophic it was.

Just as Luca was finishing his sentence to Victor, a pitlane boy in a navy bib jogged over with a slight puff of urgency. Luca had previously played with him, signed an autograph, and taken photos, so he wondered what he might want again.

"Sorry for disturbing, Luca, but one of the delegates is asking to see you!"

Confused, Luca raised an eyebrow. A delegate? He thought, as he understood there was no protocol he had missed.

While thinking, he hoped it wasn't the one he'd flirted with. Surely, she didn't think he had been serious. Then again, Luca doubted she'd have the guts to send for him like this. Still, he gave Victor a brief nod and curiously followed the direction the boy pointed toward.

Luca took less formal routes—first from the pit lane's tunnel, then up a narrow path beside the media's canopy. A few people tried to call out to him for selfies, autographs, and praise, but he politely shook his head while he moved, wanting no delay and knowing full well he wasn't even supposed to be here.

It wasn't a long walk anyway. The boy had clearly directed him well, because standing at the far end was a sharp figure in a fitted suit, arms clasped behind his back, and a pair of dark shades on his familiar face.

Luca clenched his jaw.

'This guy again…?'