My Formula 1 System

The podium was mounted for the seventh time this season as the seventh round of the F2 championship concluded, with one Trampos driver and two Velocità drivers dominating the Hungarian GP leaderboard.

Luca rushed to his team in the paddock as soon as he climbed out of his car, leaping into their waiting arms. They erupted into cheers, hoisting him high as champagne burst prematurely from several bottles. McCauley led the charge, spraying anyone within range. The celebration was electric, with the Trampos paddock roaring in triumph over Luca's second consecutive Grand Prix win.

Laughing, Luca finally extricated himself from the throng and headed deeper into the garage, where Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton awaited him. The transition from the chaos outside to the relatively quieter interior struck Luca as surreal. Evening had fallen over the circuit, and the bright floodlights cast sharp shadows, amplifying the lingering energy of the day.

"You did well. Are you alright?" Ms. Vallotton asked, her sharp eyes scanning him for any signs of strain.

"I definitely am!" Luca grinned, his excitement undimmed.

"Good. Wonderful race, wonderful driving. Get a towel around your neck and head to cool off," Mr. Grant added, trying to keep his tone even, though his pride was evident. In truth, when Ansel's car had crashed earlier, he feared the day would end disastrously for Trampos.

Luca greeted more of the team on his way to the cool-down room, swept up in the joy of victory and the warmth of his colleagues' congratulations. He peeled off his gloves, his fingers finally relaxing after gripping the steering wheel with unrelenting focus for over an hour.

Entering the cool-down room, Luca felt the roar of the crowd shake the walls. It was a strange contrast to the stark white of the room, designed to offer a moment of respite. Mr. Moritz greeted him with a playful but firm slap on the back.

"You showed that scruffy bloke that the podium is for the big guns!" Moritz joked, referring to Luca reclaiming P1 from Kristensen, who held the position only briefly.

Luca chuckled, accepting a towel handed to him. He sank into a seat, letting his muscles relax for the first time since the race began. On the screens before him, race highlights replayed—the overtakes, the breathtaking pace, and the critical moments that defined the event. Watching the replay was almost surreal, like experiencing the race for the first time. The tension in the crowd was palpable even through the footage.

As the screen transitioned to a clip of a crash, Luca's stomach dropped. He watched as Ansel's car veered off at Turn 6, the rear end losing grip before slamming into the barriers. The force of the impact made him wince, the slow-motion replay capturing every devastating detail. The commentators' voices overlapped, describing the chaos and confirming Ansel's early retirement from the race.

Luca sat bolt upright. He had completely forgotten Ansel and his DNF.

Ansel's crash had been a pivotal moment in the race, and Luca had been so consumed by his own battle for the podium that he hadn't even checked on his teammate.

Heart pounding, Luca grabbed his water bottle and stood. "Where's Ansel?" he asked Mr. Moritz, who glanced up from the replay.

"He was just in the paddock. You didn't see him?"

"Nope. I'll go check," Luca said, leaving the cool-down room without hesitation. He weaved through the garage and returned to the paddock, which was still thrumming with energy. There, he was told Ansel had gone up to the dressing room.

Luca heaved a sigh and headed to the escalator, his footsteps quick and purposeful. Walking through the halls, he soon reached the dressing room and stepped inside. Ansel was standing near one of the benches, methodically packing his duffel bag. His movements were calm but deliberate, as though he was packing more than just belongings—perhaps thoughts or frustrations that lingered. He definitely was.

Luca's gaze swept across the room before he stepped aside to let two crew members pass. Both were young women, and as they exited, they patted his shoulder and cheered in passing. Luca offered a soft smile but felt a twinge of disappointment because they'd inadvertently revealed his presence to Ansel.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Ansel, however, didn't even glance back.

"I don't think we'll be leaving for another two hours," Luca began, lingering in the doorway.

Ansel took his time before responding, his focus still on his duffel bag. "Yeah, I know. I just like to pack ahead. Makes things easier later, especially when we're stumbling around drunk." He straightened his posture and turned, standing tall at an even six feet. Ansel had an appealing masculine frame, far better than Luca's. He turned around, offering the nicest smile he could. "Congratulations, man. Second Grand Prix for you."

Luca narrowed his eyes slightly, scrutinizing his teammate before shaking his head. The gesture seemed to confuse Ansel, who spread his arms in mock bewilderment. "What?"

"That was the weakest congratulations I've ever heard," Luca said, stepping further into the room. "It wasn't even remotely genuine. I know you're bummed about your fate today. I'd be angry and sad too."

Ansel let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he zipped his bag shut. "It's somewhere between anger and sadness, honestly," he admitted, his voice having this touch of resignation. "But still, congrats, man. I mean it."

"Thank you," Luca replied, aiming to sit on the bench beside the bag. Before he could, someone entered the room in a rush, face flushed. "Luca? Media wants a word."

Luca sighed, running a hand through his hair before rising to his feet. "First-place responsibilities," he muttered under his breath.

"First place responsibilities, indeed," Ansel replied with a faint smile. "Don't worry about me. Go on, handle your moment. I'll be out of here before it's time for the podium."

Luca nodded, offering a quick glance of reassurance before jogging out of the room to catch up with the crew member waiting in the hall. As they made their way through the winding corridors of the paddock, Luca's thoughts churned.

He couldn't shake the weight of Ansel's disappointment. A DNF on the very first lap wasn't just frustrating—it was humiliating, especially for a driver of Ansel's caliber. Luca understood the frustration, even empathized with it.

To him, Ansel's sullen mood was justified as anyone in his position would feel the same. Still, Luca hoped the disappointment was rooted in the sting of the early retirement itself and not tinged with resentment over his own victory. He promised himself he'd be there to support Ansel through the slump—so long as the gloom stemmed from his own setback, not bitterness over someone else's success. At least, Luca hoped.