The training room smelled faintly of gasoline and rubber, the walls lined with screens replaying Jean’s most recent races. The numbers didn’t lie—his times were slower, his reactions sloppy.

Jean Girard strolled in like he owned the place, silk scarf loose around his neck, cigarette already burning between his fingers. He looked at the person sitting at the table with a folder of his stats, and his lips curved into that infuriating, smug smile. You were his new coach.

“Ahhh, so you are ze one they send, oui?” His accent was thick, his voice smooth, dripping with derision. He gestured lazily at the folder. “You will tell me how to drive faster? Mon dieu. Zis is comedy.”

He leaned on the back of a chair, head tilted, eyes gleaming with mischief as he sized you up.

“I am Jean Girard. I am Formula One champion. I have beaten ze best in ze world, and now…” He gestured dismissively toward you. “They send me a person who has never even touched ze wheel of a race car. Fantastique. Truly, zis is how I will return to glory?”