The morning sun was climbing, but the paddock was already hot — bodies moving, radios crackling, fuel drums thudding onto pavement. Jaxon cut across the gravel path behind the hospitality area, helmet in one hand, gloves in the other, suit zipped high. His boots crunched the loose stones in steady rhythm as he walked alone, focused, eyes scanning ahead toward the McLaren tent.
He didn't hear them first — he saw them.
Three figures standing just off to the side near the trailers, right where the fan path curved behind the fence. It stopped him cold.
Thomas.
And behind him, Terri and Adam.
Thomas was in jeans and a black hoodie, hands shoved in the pocket, looking casual like he always did before a race — not his own, just someone else's. Terri had sunglasses up in her hair and a paper coffee cup in one hand, the other resting on her hip. Adam stood behind both of them, arms crossed, just watching.
Jaxon blinked like the sun had caught him wrong. He didn't say anything.
Terri spoke first, voice calm, warm. "Thought we'd drop in."
He glanced down at the helmet in his hand, then back at them. "What… how'd you?"
Adam cut in. "Ian posted the reveal video last night. Hard to miss."
Terri smiled. "And that car? Jax… it looked incredible. And the helmet. The suit. The whole thing. You looked like a proper driver out there."
Adam nodded. "Classy. Serious. Like you've done this a hundred times."
Thomas smirked. "Yeah. Was kinda annoying, honestly. Made the rest of us look like clowns."
Jaxon tried to say something but couldn't find the words. He just stood there, blinking slow, the weight of the suit suddenly real again on his shoulders.
Terri stepped closer, reached out and brushed a thumb near his collar. "Fits you," she said, quieter now. "The whole thing. It really does."
Jaxon cleared his throat. "You didn't have to come."
"We wanted to," Adam said.
Thomas added, "It's your home race, dumbass."
Then he jerked his head back toward the fan area. "Ollie's here too, by the way. Got swarmed the second he showed up. Poor kid didn't make it twenty feet from the parking lot."
Jaxon gave a quiet snort. "Figures."
Terri smiled. "We're proud of you."
Adam gave a short nod. "Go give them hell."
Thomas glanced toward the track. "You driving again soon?"
Jaxon held up the helmet. "Yeah. Systems checks in ten."
"Then we'll shut up and get out of the way," Adam said.
Jaxon nodded once. "Cool."
Then he turned, walking back toward the McLaren garage.
His boots echoed softly on the concrete as he crossed back toward the McLaren garage, the weight of the suit settling heavier with every step. The air hung thick, dark clouds gathering low, swallowing the morning sun's warmth like it was reluctant to leave.
Jaxon's boots tapped steady on the smooth concrete as he moved toward the McLaren garage, the weight of his suit settling heavy with each step. The sky above was thick and gray, swollen with dark clouds hanging low like a warning. A distant rumble of thunder rolled quietly, the first breath of the storm waiting just beyond the horizon.
Near the garage, Ian was crouched beside a monitor displaying weather data, his gaze locked on the shifting pressure graphs. "You've got about ten minutes before the rain hits hard," Ian said without looking up, voice calm but clipped. "Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes tops."
Jaxon didn't respond immediately. He pulled his balaclava over his head with slow, deliberate movements, the soft fabric sliding tight against his skin. Next came the helmet, resting on the bench moments before. He secured it firmly, the visor catching the faint glow of the overcast sky.
Gloves followed—each finger sliding into place with precision, the leather creaking slightly as he flexed his hands. The routine was a ritual, a focus point, a way to lock everything else out.
"Yeah," Jaxon finally said, tightening the chin strap. "Grip's gonna drop off quick once it starts."
Ian nodded. "You'll need every bit of control you've got."
A sudden murmur of voices and a flurry of camera flashes pulled their attention toward the edge of the paddock. Ollie appeared, moving easily through a swarm of fans and media, his red Ferrari jacket bright against the gray sky. He wore sunglasses low on his nose and carried a casual, relaxed air—as if this was just another day, no pressure.
"Jax," Ollie called quietly as he drew near, ducking past a fan reaching out for a photo.
Jaxon glanced up, raising a gloved hand in greeting. "Oi, Ollie."
Ollie glanced up at the sky, smirking. "Storm's rolling in fast."
Jaxon shrugged beneath the helmet, voice steady. "Nothing new."
They stood for a moment, the distant thunder growing louder.
"You still busy with F2?" Jaxon asked, breaking the quiet.
Ollie shrugged again, voice low. "Busy as hell. Not surprised you don't see me around much."
Jaxon smirked beneath the visor. "Yeah, well, you still manage to find time to show up here."
Ollie laughed softly, nudging Jaxon's shoulder. "Can't miss your home race."
A sharp high-five met between their gloved hands, the sound crisp and familiar. Ollie threw an arm around Jaxon's shoulder in a quick, one-handed hug — simple, no fuss, but solid.
"Keep your head out there," Ollie said quietly.
Jaxon nodded slightly, voice low beneath the helmet. "Thanks."
Ian glanced up from the monitor, eyes sharp beneath the furrow of his brow. The tension in the air matched the darkening sky outside. "You've got to get moving soon," he said, voice low but firm.
Jaxon tightened his helmet straps and nodded. "Ok. I'll see ya."
Ollie stepped closer, a grin tugging at his lips. "Don't make me regret coming all this way, yeah?"
Jaxon's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Jaxon's eyes followed Ollie as he slipped back through the crowd, the Ferrari jacket a flash of red against the muted paddock colors. The grin still lingered on Ollie's face, easy and genuine—something Jaxon rarely let himself notice, but couldn't quite ignore.
A sharp crack of thunder rolled overhead, distant but growing. The first drops of rain tapped lightly against the concrete, cold and quick. Jaxon tilted his head back slightly, feeling the wet specks dot his visor.
—
The engine rumbled alive beneath him, vibration bleeding up through the seat and into his spine. Jaxon tightened his grip on the wheel. The rain hadn't eased. If anything, it sounded heavier now — hammering the roof in sheets, wipers flailing against a windshield that barely kept up.
"Still wet through Sector 2," Ian said through the comms, clipped and fast. "They lied. It's not clearing. Everyone's backing off. You've got one shot — that's it. One lap, or we're buried."
Jaxon didn't respond. He never did when it counted.
The pit lane light flashed green. He released the clutch and rolled forward, the tires slicing through standing water as he nudged out into the lane. Cold slicks. Bad grip. Everything against him.
Outside, the world was smeared and violent — water bouncing off the pavement, clouds churning overhead like they were holding a grudge. The GT4 felt twitchy even at pit speed, rear end uncertain with every little puddle.
"Push on the out-lap. Build temp. Then send it."
Jaxon gave a short, hard breath.
The light turned green.
Jaxon eased off the clutch, the McLaren shuddering slightly as it rolled forward, tires spitting water on the slick pit apron. His right hand rested firm on the wheel as he nudged the car out of the stall, steering gently around the puddle collecting along the inside concrete barrier.
The pit lane stretched ahead — long, narrow, bordered by temporary walls and tents soaked from hours of rain. He stayed right, keeping clear of the painted white lines, which shimmered wet and greasy under the grey sky.
The car crawled past the other pit boxes, wipers clicking, windshield already misted with a fresh sheet of water. He didn't rush. This wasn't the lap. This was just setup — heat the tires, feel the grip, stay sharp.
He glanced left as he approached the pit exit proper — no traffic screaming down the main straight. Good.
He guided the McLaren down the merge lane, narrow and wet. Kept right of the blend line. Ahead, Turn 1 loomed fast, even in the rain.
The car squirmed slightly under throttle — the cold slicks biting but not grabbing. Jaxon corrected automatically. Nothing dramatic. No sudden moves.
Rain trickled down the inside of the side window. The wipers struggled to keep up.
Just as the pit exit narrowed out and fed toward the brake zone for Turn 1, he tucked the car in behind a slower GT4, eyes scanning the spray ahead, right foot feathering the throttle, keeping the revs steady.
The rain was still coming down.
The track was soaked.
The McLaren rolled into Turn 1 with hesitation. Cold tires. Wet track. Not the time to test the limit.
He braked early, almost too early — just enough to feel the front tires squirm, the nose floating half-planted. Slow in. Steady wheel. No curb. He let the car run wide on exit, short-shifting into third before easing back into the throttle.
Turn 2 passed in a blink, just a setup for the next sequence.
He felt the water gathering along the right edge and steered clear.
Now the Moraine Sweep.
Turns 3 through 5 were fast, flowing, but on a day like this, they were a trap. He coasted through 3 with light throttle, reading the spray off a car a few hundred meters ahead. Braked early for 4, a soft press — long travel, waiting for feel. The pedal gave a slight pulse as the rears slipped, then caught. That was the margin.
Into Turn 5 now — heavy braking downhill. Grip was garbage here even when dry. He stayed off the racing line, moved right to avoid the rubbered-in section. Braked straight, no turning until the speed came down.
Still too cold. Still not there.
The GT4 slid just a little on entry. He caught it with minimal steering. Turned in late. Ran it deep. Let the car settle before squeezing the throttle.
Up the hill.
He clicked up to fourth early, keeping torque low. Wipers flailed hard. Rain smeared across the side windows. He wasn't looking out of them anyway.
He braked lighter for Turn 6, but carried more speed. The car responded better now — not perfect, but at least predictable. Tires were starting to bite.
Turn 7 — the second part of the Hurry Downs — was all about flow. He cut it tighter than usual, skipping the exit curb, avoiding standing water that pooled on the outside. The rear moved — not much, just a hint. Enough to remind him what he was driving on.
Downhill again.
Into Turn 8, short burst of brakes, then a crisp turn-in. The McLaren's weight shifted hard but balanced. He could feel the chassis finally working with him.
Now the Carousel.
Turns 9 and 10 — a long, sweeping right-hander where grip disappeared if you weren't perfect. He braked early and shallow, rolled the wheel in, and held steady throttle. No curb. No mid-corner adjustments. Just patience.
The rear slid a little at the apex. Nothing dramatic. Just a note to file away.
Still raining.
He exited wide, smooth, onto the run toward The Kink.
No risk here. Not yet. He lifted, stayed straight. This wasn't the lap.
The McLaren twitched even on the lift. Just wind and water and cold rubber still trying to wake up.
Through Kettle Bottoms, he focused on brake feel. Just the slightest touches to keep the heat building.
Canada Corner next — Turn 12.
A heavy stop. Critical reference point. He braked right at the marshal post, long and straight. The rears protested but held. He turned in later than usual, staying inside the drying line where rubber had gone slick.
He felt the grip improve.
Up through Thunder Valley — Turn 13 — he fed in throttle earlier. Not confident, but testing.
The engine note rose through the cabin, steady and mechanical. The chassis was awake now. Finally.
Turn 14 — last corner.
He braked in the wet, wide of the racing line, and turned in sharply, avoiding the polished rubber on the apex. Good rotation. Little slip. Clean exit.
He upshifted early. Straightened the wheel.
The main straight ahead was a wall of grey and rain.
The tires were ready.
The brakes were up.
And he had one lap.
Windshield blurred. Wipers still fighting. Rain dancing in streaks across the glass.
Jaxon kept the wheel straight, full throttle down the front straight. The GT4 surged forward, engine spooling tight through the gears. Fifth gear. Rain hammered the roof.
His hands didn't move. Just clenched tighter.
Turn 1.
He spotted the 300 board and braked hard — straight line, no input. Pedal long. Tires grabbed late.
The front wriggled as he turned in, late apex, minimal curb. The car understeered, wanted to wash wide. He modulated throttle — light, just to keep weight rearward — then tucked it in tighter with a quick flick of steering.
Slight four-wheel drift. He didn't correct. Let it ride.
Caught it on exit. Puddle mid-track. Tires sliced through it clean.
Turn 2 flashed past.
Flat. No lift. Just tracking left to set up.
Moraine Sweep.
He buried the throttle as the track dipped.
Steady hands. Rain off the trees blurred the braking point into a shadow. He braked earlier than he wanted — instinct.
Turn 3. Quick jab of the brakes. The car squirmed. He turned in while still releasing. Fronts grabbed, barely. Rear stayed calm.
He clipped the inside white line. Let the car drift wide. No curb. Too wet.
Back on throttle. Short shift to keep the torque down.
Turn 4 — fast kink right.
He feathered the throttle, one twitch of countersteer mid-corner. The rear tried to kick. He caught it. Left hand stayed dead calm on the wheel.
Turn 5.
One of the hardest braking zones on the track. Downhill. Slippery even dry.
He braked straight. Long. Waited. Waited.
Turned late.
The front snapped to grip — then started to go.
He held it with throttle. Balanced.
Rear slid wide on exit, tires fighting for traction. He didn't lift. Corrected gently, traction control kicking once, then off.
He didn't even blink.
Up the hill. Engine pulling hard. Dash flashing.
Turn 6.
Tight and blind.
He braked light, used a touch of curb on entry — risk.
Front end bit.
He turned sharp, got rotation early, then straightened quickly for the exit. The car felt planted — better than the lap before. Tires were in.
Turn 7.
Short burst. Slight brake. Turn-in fast.
He rolled in early. Didn't even wait for the car to settle. Trusted it.
Clipped the inside. Let it run wide. Full throttle on exit.
Down through Hurry Downs.
Wet patch. Rear slid. He kept foot in.
No panic.
Turn 8.
Harder braking.
The pedal vibrated under his foot. He felt the ABS cycling. Trusted it.
Late turn-in. Rear stepped, just a twitch.
He caught it with the wheel. No lift.
Nailed the apex.
Carousel.
He exhaled once. One long breath.
Long right-hander. He braked before turn-in, feathered throttle through entry.
Held it.
The car wanted to push wide. He let it.
Wider arc, less angle. More exit speed.
Midway, he added throttle — not too much.
The car rotated perfectly. One clean motion.
Held it flat. Exit was clean.
The Kink.
No braking. Just bravery.
He turned in early, straight through the center.
Water everywhere. Car darted. Rear light.
He didn't lift. Didn't move.
Stayed planted.
Kettle Bottoms.
Tight hands. Wet curbs flashing past. Engine at full song.
Spray misted the inside of the windshield. No time to care.
Canada Corner.
Final major braking zone.
He braked hard. Dead straight. No games.
Turned late. Trusted the grip.
The rear stepped once — twitch.
He corrected with throttle and angle — back to power early.
Felt the traction come in clean.
Thunder Valley.
Slight lift. Fast section. Left kink.
Car was twitchy here all week.
This time it stayed in line. Tires were alive.
He sent it.
Turn 14.
Final corner.
He braked earlier than usual. Slippery as hell here.
Didn't risk the apex curb.
Held mid-line. Car rotated sweet.
Back on throttle. Full send.
Rear slid. He didn't lift.
Steered through it. Perfect catch.
Main straight.
Wipers still flailing. Water blurring the pit wall.
He stayed full throttle.
The car screamed up through the gears.
It tore past the checkered flag, rain still pelting the windshield, wipers fighting a losing battle. No fist pump. No yell on the radio. Just the sound of water and engine and his own breathing in the quiet that followed.
One lap. That was it.
Now he waited.
He stayed flat past the line.
Wipers still thrashing. The rain hadn't let up. If anything, it sounded harder now — hammering the roof, streaking off the rearview like ghosted spray.
Then the voice cut through the radio.
Ian, clipped and cold: "Hold position. We're waiting for all cars to finish their laps."
Jaxon lifted. Let the car breathe. The McLaren coasted past Turn 1, engine easing down through the gears with a soft whine. He stayed right. Kept it off-line. Didn't speak.
The tires hissed over the soaked tarmac, cutting through water like razors on glass.
In the mirrors — no one.
Out front — just grey.
The silence inside the car felt deeper now. Like something had been left behind on that lap, and he didn't know if it made it across the line with him.
Rain tapped the windshield like fingers.
Still no time on the dash. No response from pit wall.
He exhaled through his nose and let the car roll.
Waiting.
That was the worst part.
The rain kept falling.
Jaxon stayed right on the back straight, engine down low, the car humming through the standing water like it still hadn't let go of the lap. Windshield blurred. Wipers fighting. The GT4 hissed beneath him.
Then the comms clicked alive.
Ian's voice came in hot. "You fucking did it."
Noise flooded the background — distant shouts, clapping, someone yelling something about sector three. A hand hitting a desk. Cheers cutting through static.
"P1. Half a second clear. That lap's gonna be in the data sheets forever."
Jaxon didn't reply.
Just breathed. Sat there, hands on the wheel, the weight of it all sinking down into his chest. His heartbeat was still up, but his face stayed blank. Focused. Eyes still scanning the slick track ahead like the lap wasn't over.
Ian came back on, louder now, over the background chaos. "Nobody matched that. You owned the rain out there. Full send all the way through. That lap was pure class." Another burst of muffled cheering. Laughter. "Jesus, Jaxson that was a fuckin' statement."
Still nothing from Jaxon.
One long breath. That's all he gave it. Then a slow nod, visor catching the rainlight off the dash. Just for himself. Not for cameras. Not for anyone.
He reached for the radio switch.
His voice was calm. Flat.
"Copy."
That was it.
Back to silence.
Rain still hammering the roof. Wipers still dancing.
—
Jaxon swung the door open and stepped out of the McLaren, the wet paddock humming around him. The crew was already moving — clapping, exchanging quick smiles, their excitement barely contained. Ian was there, eyes bright, shouting something over the noise.
Jaxon pulled off his gloves slowly, then lifted his right hand and held up a single finger — simple, quiet. Not a show, just a signal. Number one.
Cameras snapped, catching the gesture. The pit crew responded with cheers and whoops, some raising their own fingers to match.
A few steps off, just outside the bright orange team tent, the Bearman family stood watching — Thomas with his usual grin, arms crossed; Terri steady and calm, hands tucked into her jacket pockets; Adam nodding quietly in approval; and Ollie leaning slightly forward, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Jaxon's eyes flicked toward them for a moment, then back ahead. No words. Just a steady, sure moment.
Ian came up beside him, clapping his shoulder. "Pole position, kid. You earned that."
Jaxon's jaw tightened slightly. "Let's finish it."
Jaxon stepped away from the buzzing pit crew, the quiet calm returning as he moved toward the Bearman family standing just outside the deep blue team tent. Thomas's grin stayed wide, arms crossed in his usual easy stance. Terri stood steady, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her gaze steady but warm. Adam nodded in quiet approval, while Ollie leaned slightly forward, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Jaxon reached the group and gave a quick nod. "Come on. Let me get you inside."
He led them past the pit wall and through the entrance of the tent, where warmth and activity buzzed in contrast to the damp air outside. Inside, the team's voices rose in low chatter.
A mechanic paused mid-wrench, brow lifting. "Is that Ollie?"
An engineer glanced up from a laptop, smiling. "Yeah, F2 driver, right? Busy season for him."
Another crew member nodded. "Good to see him here."
Ollie gave a quick nod, quietly settling in.
Thomas cracked a grin and nudged Jaxon's shoulder. "Looks like you're bringing your own crew."
Thomas and Ollie strolled across the paddock, the wet ground soft beneath their boots. Thomas glanced at the McLaren's sleek silhouette and joked, "You ever think the car's gonna start judging us for standing too close?"
Ollie smirked. "Nah, it's just jealous it doesn't have a fan club."
Thomas chuckled. "Right. Because that's exactly what it's missing — more attention."
Ollie shook his head, grinning. "Maybe we should get it a social media account. #McLarenMood."
"Only if it promises not to post selfies," Thomas shot back.
They reached the car, its deep blue paint gleaming under the paddock lights, droplets of rain clinging to every curve. Ollie eyed it like it was an old friend. "It's like the car's saying, 'I'm here, but I'm too cool to care.'"
Thomas nodded. "Yeah, it's got that 'I don't do autographs' vibe."
Ollie laughed softly. "Well, it's got the speed to back it up."
They shared a look — quiet appreciation for the understated power sitting right in front of them.
Ollie pulled his phone from his pocket as they stood beside the McLaren, its deep blue paint gleaming under the paddock lights. The rain had eased to a steady mist, beads of water clinging to the sleek curves.
"Oi, Thomas," Ollie said with a grin, "let's get a pic. Gotta remember this beauty."
Thomas rolled his eyes but smiled, sliding closer to Ollie. "Fine. But make sure I look good."
Ollie held the phone out at arm's length, angling it to capture them both framed against the car's "Elkhart Legacy" livery. He clicked the shutter and glanced at the screen, satisfied.
"Alright, time for the caption," Ollie said, fingers already tapping. "Something cheeky, you know?"
He chuckled as he typed "Just hanging out with the competition... but don't worry, I won't let them get too comfortable. 🏎️💨 #McLarensucks #FerrariFamily #FriendlyRivalry"
Thomas nudged him. "Classic."
Ollie laughed, hitting post.
Ollie and Thomas were outside by the McLaren, snapping a photo and joking around, but inside the tent Jaxon was with Adam and Terri, going over his lap.
Ollie and Thomas were outside messing around near the McLaren, phones out, laughing. Inside the tent, Jaxon kicked back with Adam and Terri.
Adam rubbed his chin. "So, Turn 1 — how'd you keep it together? That corner's tricky when the tires are cold."
Jaxon smirked, shaking his head. "Barely. The throttle wanted to slip, but I held it."
Terri took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes half-closed like she was just here for the show. "Sounds like a challenge."
Adam chuckled. "Turn 5 had you dancing a bit, huh?"
Jaxon ran a hand through his hair. "The rear stepped out a little, but I didn't let it throw me off."
Terri raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're not just making excuses?"
Jaxon grinned. "Maybe a little."
Adam glanced at the data. "Kink — fast, tight, unforgiving. How'd it feel?"
Jaxon shrugged. "Like walking a tightrope. One slip and you're done."
Terri shook her head with a small smile. "You always sound like you're about to crash."
Jaxon shrugged again. "Keeps it interesting."
Adam looked toward the window. "Weather's still up in the air. Could make the race interesting."
Terri laughed softly. "More reason to watch, right?"
Jaxon exhaled. "Yeah. Looking forward to it."