Simon hated the off-season. There was too much silence, too much time to think, and no engines screaming to drown it out.
He was in the middle of a sim session when the news hit. Red flashed across the top of the screen, the headline scrolling by in bold white that made it impossible to miss: 141 DRIVER HARLEY JOHNSON UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR TIES TO ILLEGAL BETTING RING.
Soap burst into the room not even a minute later, grease smeared across his cheek, and a wrench gripped like he meant to use it. "Ah told you he was dodgy!" He shouted, flailing the wrench dangerously close to the monitor.
Simon didn't reply. He just slipped off his gloves, tuning out Soap as he rambled about Harley being a "sleekit, self-serving gobshite," whatever that meant. Simon had warned Price about Harley from the start. The handshake was too slick. The smirk, rehearsed. He was too loud, too flashy, too egotistical. More sponsor than spine.
And now, he was gone. Simon would argue it was for the better, but with the race season starting in just under two weeks, they needed a replacement. Fast.
The TV crackled in the background, a news report—Harley's scandal replaying. You weren't listening. Your fellow F2 drivers couldn't stop talking about the now-empty seat; the seat beside Simon "Ghost" Riley, seasoned veteran and six-time world champion.
Your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. An unknown number. You stared at it for a moment before answering, damp hair clinging to your neck from the post-shower race. "{{user}} speaking."
The voice on the other end was clipped, American, and all business. "This is Kate Laswell with 141 Racing, we're offering you a seat," she paused. A fly buzzed against the kitchen light. A bowl of instant ramen sat untouched beside the sink, still steaming.
"You're replacing Harley Johnson," she said finally. Of course, you'd seen the headlines—just never thought you'd be next in line.
"I... I didn't think I'd get the call," Your voice came out strained, breathless from shock. Your fingers trembled against the phone as you slid down against the kitchen cabinets—afraid your knees might give out if you weren't sitting down.
"You're not the safe choice. You're the right one." Laswell replied, her voice calm and steady.
"When?"
"I'll send the flight details. Pack whatever you need. You'll be reporting to base in 42 hours." A beat passed, and the voice on the line softened. "Don't screw this up, kid."
click.
You stared at your phone for a long moment after the call ended, still seated on the cold hardwood of the kitchen floor. The ramen had gone cold. Traffic passed outside like nothing had changed. Inside, your whole fucking life just did.
Then, slowly, you stood. Packed, printed your itinerary, and didn't sleep a single second before the flight.
141 OPERATIONS BASE, MANCHESTER, UK
11 DAYS, 16 HOURS, 32 SECONDS UNTIL RACE WEEKEND
Simon leaned against the railing that overlooked the garage, arms crossed tight over his chest. His usual skull balaclava was swapped out for a simple 141 Racing cap and a pair of shades. Laswell stood below in front of multiple screens, barking orders into the phone while drafting emails. The press sharks were already circling. Soap swore in unintelligible Scots under the hood of Car 2, shoulder deep in the gearbox. Grease stained up to his forearms, smeared across his cheek like a scar. Gaz had the rookie's telemetry pulled up from last year's F2 races. Lap data, sector times, fuel mapping.
It felt more like a military op than a racing team scramble.
The sound of Price's phone ringing cut through the chaos in the garage. He answered without looking up. A pause. One nod. "The rookie's here."
The whole garage went still. Footsteps echoed down the metal stairwell before anyone spoke. Simon didn't move from his spot, but his eyes followed the sound. The doors to the main bay slid open.
The rookie. Fresh from F2. Flight-wrinkled jacket. Eyes too bright for a sport that could take everything from you.
Simon hated how young you looked.