RACING HEARTS ---- | O.P |

1. the first race of the season

The sun hung low over the Bahrain Circuit, casting elongated shadows across the pit lane. Oscar Piastri stood there, his heart pounding in rhythm with the distant roar of engines. This was it—the moment he'd dreamed of since he was a kid, the culmination of years of sacrifice, sweat, and sheer determination. His second season in Formula 1, and today, he would take the wheel for the first race.

The Australian driver adjusted the straps of his helmet, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders. The adrenaline surged through his veins, a tempest of excitement and nerves. He glanced at the gleaming orange livery on his McLaren, the car that would carry him into the unknown. The car that would define his legacy.

But as he shuffled in the cockpit, something felt off. The usual buzz of anticipation was tainted by an undercurrent of unease. His race engineer, the seasoned veteran who'd guided him through countless practice sessions and qualifying runs, was conspicuously absent through his earpiece. Instead, a young woman stood by the car, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses.

"Oscar Piastri," she said, her voice crisp and matter-of-fact. "I'm Amelia. Your new race engineer."

Oscar blinked. "New engineer? But where's—"

"James?" Amelia finished his sentence. "He's no longer with the team. Management decided it was time for a change."

"But..." Oscar's mind raced. James had been more than an engineer; he'd been a mentor, a confidant. They'd celebrated victories together, dissected defeats, and shared late-night coffees during grueling testing sessions. Losing him felt like losing a piece of himself.

Amelia adjusted her sunglasses, revealing eyes the color of storm clouds. "I assure you, Mr. Piastri, I'm more than capable. Let's focus on the race."

He hesitated, torn between loyalty to James and the urgency of the moment. The engines roared louder now, the grid coming alive with activity. His palms were slick with sweat, and as he watched Amelia take james' seat on the pit wall, he wondered if Amelia could sense his turmoil.

"Fine," he said, sliding his visor down. The familiar scent of leather and fuel enveloped him. "But James knew every nuance of this car. How can you—"

"James was excellent," Amelia interrupted, her tone unyielding. "But I've studied your telemetry, analyzed your driving style, and memorized every curve of this track. Trust me, Oscar, I'm here to win."

The engine fired up, its growl vibrating through his bones. As he pulled onto the track, Amelia's voice crackled through the radio.

"Remember, turn three—brake later. And don't be afraid to push the limits."

Oscar clenched the steering wheel, the weight of expectation settling upon him. 

Lights out.

The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors as I rocketed off the starting line. The engine's roar enveloped me, drowning out the doubts that had plagued my mind. Amelia's voice crackled through the radio, slicing through the adrenaline haze.

"Oscar, brake later into turn one. Trust the grip."

Trust the grip? Easy for her to say. James had never needed to remind me. James, with his salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand races. James, who'd been my compass, my anchor. And now, he was gone, replaced by this sunglasses-wearing enigma.

I clenched my teeth, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Amelia," I snapped, "I know how to drive."

"Of course," she replied, unruffled. "But you're not just driving. You're racing."

The track unfolded before me—a serpentine ribbon of asphalt demanding respect. Turn three approached, and I braked later, just as she'd instructed. The car danced on the edge of control, tires protesting. I hated that she was right.

"James would've—"

"James isn't here," she cut in. "Focus."

Focus. Right. I glanced at the telemetry display, the numbers dancing like fireflies. James had never needed telemetry. He'd read my soul through the vibrations of the chassis. Amelia read spreadsheets.

"Turn seven," she said. "Trail brake. Carry the speed."

I gritted my teeth, the car's rear threatening to break loose. "James knew—"

"James," she interrupted, "was excellent. But you're not racing against James. You're racing against the clock, against your own limits."

I hated her calmness, her logic. I missed James's gruff encouragement, his muttered expletives when I pushed too hard. Amelia was clinical, precise. And it grated on my nerves.

"Turn eleven," she said. "Hug the apex."

I hugged it, but my mind veered elsewhere. James would've—

"Oscar," she said, her voice softer now, "you're doing great."

Great? I was a tempest of frustration, a storm trapped in a carbon-fiber cage. The laps blurred together—the chicanes, the hairpins, the straightaways. Amelia's instructions became a relentless rhythm, a metronome of annoyance.

"James—"

"James," she said, "was your past. I'm your present."

Present. A word that tasted like unripe bananas. I wanted to scream, to tell her that James had been more than an engineer. He'd been my friend. But the words lodged in my throat.

As the checkered flag loomed, I pushed harder, the tires screaming their protest. Amelia's voice guided me, cool and unyielding. And then, it was over—the first race of my second season. I pulled into the pits, the engine sputtering to silence.

Amelia stood there, sunglasses perched on her head now. "Well done, Oscar."

"Well done?" I climbed out of the car, my legs wobbly. "James would've—"

"James," she said, "was a legend. But legends retire."

I glared at her, my chest heaving. "You're not James."

"No," she agreed. "I'm Amelia. And I'm here to make you faster."

I wanted to hate her. But as she extended her hand, I took it. Maybe, just maybe, change was what I needed. Even if it tasted like unripe bananas.