The rain had finally let up by the time they were walking toward the paddock exit.
"Alright," Adam said, tugging his jacket tighter as the wind cut across the lot, "we're starving. Be honest — where do people actually eat around here?"
Terri added, "Yeah, not the VIP buffet. We want the local stuff."
Jaxon didn't even glance back. "Culver's."
Thomas raised a brow. "Seriously?"
"Yep."
Ollie caught up beside him, half-smirking. "That's what you're going with? Not even, like, a small-town diner with history or charm?"
"They butter the buns," Jaxon said flatly. "That is history."
Adam chuckled. "Not exactly what I had in mind, but alright."
Terri tilted her head. "So what's good there?"
Jaxon finally looked over his shoulder. "ButterBurger. Fries. Dr. Pepper. Don't overthink it."
Thomas laughed. "You said that like it was a warning."
"It was."
They reached the parking lot, where the Bearmans' rental SUV sat under the dim overhead light. Adam pulled the keys from his pocket.
"You riding with us?" he asked.
Jaxon shrugged. "Unless you want me to jog fifteen miles."
Ollie opened the back door. "Shotgun."
Thomas shoved him. "You're not even driving."
"Yeah, and neither is Jaxon," Ollie said, swinging into the front seat. "We're all just along for the ride."
—
The inside of the Culver's smelled like fryer oil and nostalgia. Linoleum floors. Blue booths. Everything lit too bright under humming fluorescents. A teenage cashier with a headset stood behind the counter like he was waiting for a challenge.
Thomas leaned in close to the menu. "Why are there so many options? This place sells ice cream and pork tenderloin sandwiches?"
Ollie elbowed him. "They call it custard. Don't insult the locals."
Jaxon stepped up to the counter like a veteran. No hesitation.
"ButterBurger with cheese. Crinkle fries. Dr. Pepper Large."
The cashier tapped it in. "Anything else?"
Jaxon just turned slightly, eyeing the others. "Don't get the mushroom Swiss unless you hate yourself."
Thomas squinted at the menu. "What about the fish sandwich?"
Jaxon stared at him. "It's not Friday."
Ollie burst out laughing. "What does that even mean?"
Adam, behind them, chuckled. "He's got a point."
Terri glanced around the spotless interior, arms crossed. "I expected more grease."
"It's all hidden," Jaxon said, stepping aside.
Ollie walked up next. "Alright. Double ButterBurger. Cheese curds. Chocolate shake."
Thomas blinked. "You're just copying him but making it worse."
"No," Ollie said, holding up a finger. "I'm improving it."
Thomas shook his head and turned to the cashier. "Regular burger. No cheese. Fries. Sprite. And, uh… a concrete mixer thing?"
"What flavor?" the cashier asked.
Thomas looked lost. "There's flavors?"
Jaxon muttered, "It's Wisconsin, there's always flavors."
"Peanut butter and chocolate," Ollie offered.
Thomas nodded. "Fine. That."
Adam and Terri went last, grilled chicken and salads, the sensible order. The cashier handed them their number and pointed toward the waiting area.
The five of them sat at a corner booth, trays in hand a few minutes later. Steam rose off the burgers. Ollie had already dipped a fry into his shake.
"You ever gonna admit this place is good?" Jaxon asked, mouth full.
Ollie shrugged. "It's not bad. Just not Italian."
"You're not Italian," Jaxon said flatly.
"Close enough," Ollie shot back, licking salt off his thumb. "I'm in Ferrari red half the year. That's basically citizenship."
Adam raised his root beer. "To local legends."
Thomas clinked his cup against it. "And imported troublemakers."
The last of the Culver's fries sat limp and forgotten in the paper basket. Jaxon was leaned back in the booth, hood up, legs stretched out under the table. Ollie was halfway through explaining why cheese curds were the real reason Ferrari had never won at Elkhart when Jaxon's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He checked the screen.
Ian.
He stood without a word, already swiping to answer as he stepped outside. The glass door hissed shut behind him, muting the laughter from inside. Night air hit his face — cold and damp, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt.
"Yeah?"
Ian didn't waste time. "It's the manifold."
Jaxon didn't respond. Just waited.
"Hairline crack. Left bank. We didn't catch it before quali — must've been building all session. Probably started at startup, widened once you hit full temp."
Jaxon's jaw set. "So?"
"So we can't patch it. Whole unit's coming out tonight. New engine's already on the way from Chicago."
He closed his eyes. "Penalty?"
Ian sighed. "Yeah. Full drop. Back of the grid."
Ollie sat up a little straighter. "Seriously?"
Jaxon nodded once.
Thomas blinked. "You're joking."
"Nope," Jaxon said. "Manifold cracked sometime during quali. Full swap. I'm starting dead last."
The table went quiet.
Adam leaned back in the booth, brow furrowed. "Hell of a thing to find out over burgers."
Jaxon didn't smile.
Terri set down her drink slowly. "That doesn't seem fair. You earned that pole."
"I know."
Thomas looked down, then back at Jaxon. "So… what now?"
"Doesn't matter," Jaxon muttered. "It's gone. Lap meant nothing."
Ollie raised an eyebrow. "It didn't mean nothing."
Jaxon's eyes flicked up, sharp. "I didn't keep it."
Ollie held his stare for a second, then leaned back, hands raised. "Alright."
Jaxon looked away, jaw tight. The ice in his root beer clinked as he lifted it again, but he didn't drink.
"You know," Adam said after a moment, voice low, "a pole's just a number if the engine gives out in the race. Better now than tomorrow."
Jaxon didn't respond.
Thomas tried to ease it. "You'll still pass half the grid by Lap 5."
Jaxon snorted. "Not if they're all parked in Turn 5 like they were today."
Ollie chuckled once, but it died quick. "You pissed?"
Jaxon paused. Then said flatly, "Yeah."
Silence again, but this time it held a weight to it. Not awkward — just real. A kid sitting with the news that the best lap of his life got ripped off the sheet.
Terri reached over and nudged the last fry toward him. "You want the pity fry?"
He didn't look at her. "No."
Thomas grabbed it and popped it in his mouth. "More for me."
That broke it a little. A breath, maybe not a laugh, but something lighter. Jaxon leaned back again, arms crossed, head tilted toward the ceiling.
Jaxon leaned against the stone column outside the Culver's, staring out at the parking lot like it might give him a different answer. The rain had stopped, but everything was still soaked. The puddles in the pavement were lit up by buzzing yellow streetlights.
"How bad was it?"
"We ran the numbers. Power loss was minimal, but heat spread was wrong. Could've gone full failure mid-quali. We're lucky we caught it."
Jaxon stayed quiet.
"I know it's brutal," Ian added. "Pole to last isn't exactly a reward for that lap. But we'll make it work. Race pace is solid. Clean air or not."
Jaxon finally said, "Copy."
And hung up.
He stood there for another second, then walked back inside, sliding into the booth like nothing happened. Ollie glanced up.
"Everything alright?"
Jaxon picked up his drink and took a long pull of root beer before answering. Then, casually:
"Engine's cooked. Manifold cracked."
Thomas blinked. "Wait, what? That's bad, right?"
"Yeah." Jaxon wiped his hands on a napkin. "They're swapping it tonight. Grid penalty. I'm starting dead last."
Ollie sat up a little straighter. "Seriously?"
Jaxon nodded.
—
Ollie sat up a little straighter. "Seriously?"
Jaxon nodded once.
Thomas blinked. "You're joking."
"Nope," Jaxon said. "Manifold cracked sometime during quali. Full swap. I'm starting dead last."
The table went quiet.
Adam leaned back in the booth, brow furrowed. "Hell of a thing to find out over burgers."
Jaxon didn't smile.
Terri set down her drink slowly. "That doesn't seem fair. You earned that pole."
"I know."
Thomas looked down, then back at Jaxon. "So… what now?"
"Doesn't matter," Jaxon muttered. "It's gone. Lap meant nothing."
Ollie raised an eyebrow. "It didn't mean nothing."
Jaxon's eyes flicked up, sharp. "I didn't keep it."
Ollie held his stare for a second, then leaned back, hands raised. "Alright."
Jaxon looked away, jaw tight. The ice in his root beer clinked as he lifted it again, but he didn't drink.
"You know," Adam said after a moment, voice low, "a pole's just a number if the engine gives out in the race. Better now than tomorrow."
Jaxon didn't respond.
Thomas tried to ease it. "You'll still pass half the grid by Lap 5."
Jaxon snorted. "Not if they're all parked in Turn 5 like they were today."
Ollie chuckled once, but it died quick. "You pissed?"
Jaxon paused. Then said flatly, "Yeah."
Silence again, but this time it held a weight to it. Not awkward — just real. A kid sitting with the news that the best lap of his life got ripped off the sheet.
Terri reached over and nudged the last fry toward him. "You want the pity fry?"
He didn't look at her. "No."
Thomas grabbed it and popped it in his mouth. "More for me."
That broke it a little. A breath, maybe not a laugh, but something lighter. Jaxon leaned back again, arms crossed, head tilted toward the ceiling.
—
The sun hadn't fully cleared the treetops yet, but Road America was already humming — engines turning over in the distance, coffee brewing somewhere down the row, radios squawking with early check-ins. The sky was dry, pale, the kind of crisp Wisconsin morning that made everything feel deceptively calm.
Jaxon stood with his arms folded just inside the McLaren tent, fireproofs half-zipped and sleeves tied around his waist. The Artura GT4 sat low and still behind him — same blue skin, different heart. Fresh engine, fresh start. But the number boards still read "P1," and Jaxon hadn't looked at them once.
Ian sipped from a Styrofoam cup, steam curling past his face. "Everything's quiet so far. Track walk was dry. Grip should be decent in the opening hours."
Next to him, Kurt was thumbing through the updated telemetry on a tablet, jaw tight like he hadn't slept. "New power unit's stable. Clean install, full sync. ECU matched to your previous trace. No changes to throttle mapping."
Michelle stood further off, running down a checklist on her clipboard, tapping the side of her pen. "We ran a test heat cycle at 3 a.m. No anomalies. You're not losing anything — engine's strong. If anything, throttle response is tighter."
Jaxon didn't say anything.
Ian tilted his head toward the track beyond the open paddock. "Race window's still 5:00. Dry start, but we're getting light rain around 5:45. Maybe earlier. Depends how fast that front moves in from Sheboygan."
Michelle added, "That storm's thick. Once it hits, it won't let go quick. You'll need both setups in your head."
Kurt chimed in. "If the rain lands during your second stint, you'll be on slicks just as the surface gives out. That's the danger zone."
Jaxon finally spoke, voice flat. "I'll handle it."
Ian gave a slow nod, reading him. "You'll have to. Starting from the back means we don't get to play it safe. The pace has to come early — but if you chew up your tires too fast, you're dead when it turns."
Kurt pointed at the car without looking. "Pressure's back in the tires. Brake bias is pre-set. We adjusted rearward slightly to help in low grip, but you'll feel it shift once it starts raining."
Michelle marked something off and looked up. "You want to get eyes on the dampers before they close warmup?"
Jaxon shook his head once. "I trust it."
Ian glanced over at him again. "You slept?"
"No."
"Thought so."
He clapped a hand against Jaxon's shoulder. "Walk the track again if you have to. Nap in the truck. Just stay locked in."
Jaxon's eyes drifted toward the McLaren, still gleaming under the early light.
"I am."
Michelle checked off the last item on her clipboard, tapping the side with her pen. "We'll update you again after warmup. But we're confident in the package."
Jaxon gave a small nod. That was all.
Ian took a last sip from his cup, then looked past Jaxon. "Media's circling. You want me to run interference?"
Jaxon followed his gaze — a slow-moving cluster of reporters forming near the tent line, clipboards in hand, cameras out, all trying not to look like they were waiting for him.
"No," Jaxon said. "I've got it."
He stepped out into the morning light, boots clicking over the concrete paddock. It was still early, maybe just after eight, but the media was already awake — a handful of local motorsport outlets, a couple freelance reporters, and one guy from a national feed who looked way too energetic for this hour.
"Jaxon," one of them called. "You've got a minute?"
He slowed to a stop, arms still folded across his fireproofs. "Go ahead."
The first reporter stepped forward, recorder already running. "Tough break yesterday. That lap was something else — and now you're starting at the back. What was your reaction when Ian gave you the news?"
Jaxon kept his eyes steady. "Didn't need a reaction. Just needed a new plan."
One of the others, a woman with a tight ponytail and media lanyard swinging off her windbreaker, chimed in. "That rain lap — Ian called it one of the best he's ever seen. You think it still holds weight even with the penalty?"
Jaxon shrugged lightly. "It wasn't for weight. It was to survive qualifying."
Another followed up: "But emotionally — do you feel robbed? Pole to last overnight?"
His tone didn't change. "I feel ready."
That quieted them for a beat. Pens scratching. A camera lens clicked twice.
Then another question: "You've been running the weekend with the Bearmans. They've been seen around the garage, and Ollie was here for qualy. What's the connection?"
Jaxon's answer came without hesitation. "They're my family."
Someone raised an eyebrow. "Even Ollie?"
A small smirk tugged at Jaxon's mouth. "Especially Ollie."
The group chuckled. The ponytail reporter asked, "What's that relationship like? You're in GT, he's in F2 — doesn't seem like you'd cross paths much."
"He doesn't care," Jaxon said simply. "He shows up anyway."
Another reporter, flipping through notes, looked up. "He posted something yesterday — selfie with the car, joking about McLaren paint being too nice for a Ferrari guy. That all in good fun?"
Jaxon nodded. "That's just him. Can't help himself."
"Does it help," another asked, "having people like that around? Familiar faces in a high-pressure weekend like this?"
Jaxon's voice dropped slightly. "Yeah. More than people know."
Someone toward the back raised a question. "You planning to hang back early in the race, let things settle before the rain hits?"
Jaxon shook his head. "No. We go forward."
A pause followed. The ponytail reporter spoke again. "And if it goes sideways?"
"Then we adapt."
Behind him, a few quiet murmurs passed between the reporters.
"Fourteen years old…"
"Still flatlined. Doesn't blink."
"…kid's built different."
Another one, older, with a press badge tucked into a crumpled windbreaker, stepped in. "Jaxon, let's talk strategy. You're starting from the back — are you hoping for early safety cars? Or is the plan to move up clean?"
Jaxon shifted slightly on his heels. "Hoping doesn't change the track."
"So you'll attack right away?"
"If the car lets me. And if traffic behaves."
A shorter reporter, clearly newer, raised her voice next. "Are you more comfortable in the wet or the dry, honestly? Everyone keeps talking about your rain pace yesterday."
He shrugged. "Comfort doesn't matter. Rain doesn't ask."
Another journalist piped up. "You were seen rewatching the qualifying lap last night on the team monitor. Were you picking apart your own line, or just watching it back?"
"Both," Jaxon said. "Always both."
The questions kept rolling.
"Any changes to the car's balance this morning?"
Jaxon glanced toward the tent. "New engine. Same setup. What we had worked."
"Some drivers your age would've cracked after losing pole like that," another said. "How do you stay composed?"
He didn't answer for a second. Then: "Because being mad doesn't move the car."
That got a few nods. Pens kept moving.
The woman in the ponytail leaned in again. "Off-track for a second — you've been staying with the Bearmans for a while now. What's that been like?"
Jaxon blinked once. "Normal."
"Come on," she said. "It's gotta be different. They're racers too. You and Ollie joke around like brothers."
Jaxon gave a flat smirk. "He's loud. But he means it."
One of the local guys chuckled. "They're out-qualifying you for press attention this weekend."
"Good," Jaxon said, almost under his breath. "Let 'em."
Then a final question — from the guy with the national badge who hadn't spoken yet. His tone was casual, but the phrasing was tight.
"If this ends in a win — from the back of the grid, through the rain, after the engine change — what does that say about you?"
Jaxon looked him dead in the eye.
"It says I did my job."
"Ok that wraps up questions for now, come back later." A familiar voice said behind Jaxon.
Jaxon turned around, surprised. It was Lila.
She gave a small nod and motioned toward the paddock. "Let's get out of here."
Jaxon followed, weaving through the crowd. The cameras and chatter faded behind them until it was just the hum of the early morning paddock.
"I heard about the engine," she said quietly but with an edge. "That manifold crack. That's not just a hiccup, Jaxon."
He shrugged, trying to stay calm. "Stuff happens."
"No," Lila shot back, stepping closer. "Stuff can't happen. Not this. Not now. Not after everything I put into this plan. After pitching you, convincing the higher-ups… this was supposed to be my win too."
Jaxon blinked, caught off guard. "Your win?"
She exhaled sharply. "Yeah. If you don't deliver, if this thing falls apart, I'm the one who looks bad. This whole push? My project. My job's on the line."
He met her gaze steadily. "I get that. But it's not like I wanted the engine to break."
Lila's jaw tightened. "No, but it's my problem now. I'm the one dealing with the fallout. You're the driver — you're supposed to be the solution, not the complication."
Jaxon's eyes didn't waver. "I'm still here. Still going to race."
She softened just a bit, but kept her tone firm. "Good. Because if you don't win this, neither of us has a future with McLaren."
The paddock was waking up, but the chaos hadn't swallowed the whole place yet. Cameras floated here and there — mostly focused on Ollie as he strolled alongside his family. His easy grin caught a few flashes, and reporters whispered snippets as he passed by.
Jaxon spotted them from near the McLaren tent — Adam steady and calm, Terri quietly observant, Thomas's usual grin, and Ollie owning the moment with that half-smirk that seemed to say, Yeah, I know I'm here.
Ollie caught Jaxon's eye and waved, holding up his phone like he was ready to snap another picture of the McLaren's glossy blue paint.
Jaxon made his way toward them, helmet still tucked under his arm.
"Hey," he said, voice low enough to cut through the mild buzz.
"Hey, man," Thomas replied, stepping up with a nod.
Ollie smirked, "The circus isn't in full swing yet, but I'm working on it."
Terri smiled softly, hands folded over her jacket. "It's good to see you here."
Adam gave a quiet nod. "Ready for the big day?"
Jaxon shrugged, a small edge of tension in his stance. "Ready's a strong word."
Ollie laughed. "Come on, you've got us. That's half the battle."
—
The Bearmans had slipped away from the paddock early morning, the humid warmth of Wisconsin sun slowly rising. Thomas was glued to his phone, scrolling through race stats and snapping candid shots of the cars gliding by, while Ollie's usual smirk was on full display as he teased his brother.
Adam pulled the group toward Canada Corner, the iconic fast right-hander where cars leaned in, tires biting the smooth asphalt. "This is where the real moves happen," he said, eyes gleaming with that familiar motorsport hunger.
Terri, steady and calm, carried a small backpack filled with snacks and water, always prepared but relaxed. "I'll grab some ice cream from the vendor after," she promised, her voice soft as they walked.
Thomas paused, phone out again, capturing the roar of engines and blur of race liveries. "Gotta get some good shots for the socials," he grinned.
Ollie nudged him. "Just don't post anything embarrassing, alright?"
They settled on the grassy knoll overlooking the corner, the track humming beneath them. The smell of rubber, fuel, and Wisconsin's pine trees mixed into an intoxicating rush.