Adrenaline

07 | australian grand prix pt. i

Things are looking good for Windsor this weekend. Their domination of the practice sessions and qualifying have them in a front row lockout, with Idris taking another pole position—which I'm assuming is what they say for someone starting in first place—while Brendon takes a second-place starting position.

Since this is Brendon's home race, there's a lot of pressure for him to perform well. While waiting for someone to take us outside for our rounds, we read over the numbers from the weekend and learn Brendon isn't far behind Idris Johnson. Ultimately, commentators are speculating he has a chance to take home the trophy, which would be the first for an Aussie driver at their home race.

        After twenty minutes, they bring us onto the track. My heart races at the anticipation of the crowds, and I count down in my head to calm the nerves. Using Jun's arm as leverage, I steady myself under the glaring Australian sun.

        My mind goes into overdrive as the smell of gasoline and rubber floods my senses. It's a cacophony of colors with members of all of the different teams rushing back and forth, trying to get ready for the race.

        The Windsor employee escorting us leans in close. "Since you're here as official guests of Windsor, we ask that you please don't pose for photos with other teams in their garages, though you are free to introduce yourselves if you wish. We hope you understand."

        Rami agrees to the terms before Seira can make a snide comment. Avoiding photo-ops should be easy. The press is limited with where they can go and keeping away from other teams will be fine.

        We pass a few garages but don't stop since we're on a route to Windsor. I recognize one of the other drivers from Brendon's recent Instagram post.

        I spot him off in the distance and lift my arm in anticipation of waving him over when a figure steps between us. In what is a cinematic moment too perfect for life, the sun casts an outline around the godlike figure in front of me, and when he steps aside to allow for introductions, I get a better view.

        Idris Johnson's is a face I've seen many times before. Before Brendon, he's the only driver I remember hearing about. I knew his name before I figured out what he was known for. He's that much bigger than the craft he masters like no other, proven in the record-breaking titles he holds.

        "Welcome to Windsor," he says with a blinding smile and a voice as smooth as a glass of whiskey by the fire. "It's nice to meet you. I'm a huge fan."

        "I'd say the same but I don't know shit about F1 so—" I shake my head. "Sorry, I mean it's nice to meet you, too. But yeah, I'm a newbie."

        His laugh is as equally soothing as his voice. "No worry. Bash said you're good friends but not to expect you to know anything."

        "The first part is an exaggeration but that about sums me up."

        "Maybe after today you'll be a fan."

        Out of the corner of my eye, I see another driver with an all-red suit walk past; tall and slim with a dark crown of sleek black hair. He turns before he walks past us, his eyes equally as bewitching as his figure, and shoots me an imperceptible grin of mischief.

        "Yeah." I turn back to Idris. "Maybe."

        "Geoff told us not to say anything but—" Idris leans in, shielding our exchange from any bystanders. "I heard this is because you're getting a show."

        "You mean they don't just want us here for our good looks?"

        Idris flashes me a blinding smile that puts the sun above us to shame. "Windsor does like having pretty people stand next to their cars."