The podium glow faded quickly. By Monday morning, Leo was no longer "the miracle rookie" or "the phoenix from Silverstone." He was a commodity.
Sponsors who had once ignored him now crowded the garage. Agents he had never met pressed business cards into his hands. Journalists demanded interviews, not just about the race, but about his "brand." The world didn't see a boy chasing his dream anymore. They saw an asset — something to sell.
The team's hospitality suite was packed that morning with suits and smiles. Javier beamed with pride, but Leo could see the numbers flashing in the eyes of the sponsors. Every handshake came with a calculation: How many jerseys could we sell with his name? How many clicks would his story bring?
Daniel Cruz walked through the crowd like a king, draped in sponsor logos, flashing his perfect smile. People swarmed him, cameras flashing. Leo watched as Cruz shook hands with the CEO of their primary sponsor, laughing like they were old friends. Then Cruz glanced sideways, eyes locking on Leo across the room, and smirked.
Later, Adrian pulled him into a quiet corner. "You're tasting it now," he said. "The circus behind the race. This is where careers are made or broken, Leo. Sponsors don't care who's fastest. They care who makes them money. Cruz knows that. He's not just racing you on track. He's racing you here."
"I just want to drive," Leo muttered.
Adrian's expression was almost pitying. "And that's exactly what makes you vulnerable."
The next week was restless. Leo trained until his muscles screamed, but unease lingered in his chest. At night, in his hotel, he replayed Cruz's whisper on the podium. Enjoy third place. It's the highest you'll ever climb.
On Wednesday, his phone rang. It was his mother.
"I saw the race," she said softly. "Your sister streamed the podium on her phone. You looked… happy."
Leo smiled faintly. "I was."
Her tone shifted. "But you also looked tired. Worn."
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
Silence stretched. He didn't know how to tell her about the pressure, about the sponsors circling like vultures, about Cruz waiting at every corner to tear him down. He didn't know how to explain that every day in this world felt like standing on a wire, and one wrong move would send him crashing into nothing.
"I'm fine," he repeated. But when he hung up, he wasn't sure if it was a lie.
By Friday, the circus had moved to Austria, the Red Valley Circuit, a ribbon of asphalt winding through green mountains. The paddock was buzzing. Everyone smelled blood in the air.
Whispers followed Leo everywhere. Some said the team would start favoring him over Cruz. Others said Cruz had locked down the sponsor's loyalty, and Leo would be cast aside the moment his results slipped. Everywhere he turned, the pressure tightened.
On track, practice was chaos. Cruz's car always seemed to appear in his mirrors, hounding him, flashing past with inches to spare. Once, Cruz chopped across his nose so sharply that Leo had to brake or crash. The radio exploded with Javier's fury. "He can't do that! He's trying to kill you!"
Leo's pulse thundered in his ears. Cruz's voice cut across the open channel, cool and mocking. "Careful, rookie. You're out of your depth here."
Leo bit his tongue, but rage boiled inside him.
Qualifying was even worse. On his final lap, with the track clear and his tires warm, Leo was flying. The car felt perfect, alive in his hands. He was on course for the lap of his life—until the final sector, when Cruz emerged from the pits, crawling on the racing line.
Leo swerved, lost time, and finished eighth. Cruz qualified second.
The garage was livid. Javier shouted until his voice cracked, demanding penalties, but the stewards ruled it a "miscommunication." No punishment.
Leo sat in the back of the garage, helmet on his knees, shaking with fury. Adrian approached slowly, like one would with a wounded animal.
"You wanted him punished," Adrian said. "But this is his game. You can't expect fairness from snakes."
"What am I supposed to do?" Leo asked bitterly.
Adrian crouched beside him. "Beat him. Not with anger. Not with whining. Beat him where it matters. On the track."
Leo lifted his eyes. "And if he crashes me again?"
Adrian's stare was ice. "Then get back up. And keep coming. That's the only language men like him understand."
Race day.
The mountains echoed with engines as the grid lined up. Leo sat in eighth, Cruz in second, Bianchi on pole again. The lights went out, and the chaos began.
Leo fought like a man possessed, slicing through traffic, the car alive beneath him. By Lap 20 he was in fifth. By Lap 40 he was hunting Cruz again, the orange car flashing in the distance like a target.
The gap shrank. Lap by lap, corner by corner, until he was in the slipstream down the back straight. He pulled out, heart hammering. Side by side into the hairpin—
Cruz swerved.
Leo's tires locked. The car skidded sideways, smoke billowing, missing Cruz's rear wing by inches. He wrestled the wheel, saved the spin, but lost two places. The crowd gasped, the commentators shouting over each other.
On the radio, Javier screamed with outrage. "He cut you off! He nearly killed you!"
Leo's voice was ragged. "Is it under investigation?"
"Nothing yet."
Of course not.
He clawed his way back to sixth by the flag, his arms leaden, his body drained. Cruz finished second.
When Leo climbed out of the car, the cameras were waiting. Reporters shoved microphones in his face. "Leo, was that a dirty move from Cruz? Should he be penalized?"
He wanted to scream yes. To shout the truth to the world. But Adrian's warning echoed in his head: Don't whine. Beat him.
Leo forced a smile, though his jaw trembled. "It was hard racing. That's all. Next time, I'll beat him."
The reporters scribbled furiously. The cameras drank it in. Cruz, watching from across the paddock, smirked like a man who had just won more than a trophy.
That night, Leo lay awake in his hotel, staring at the ceiling. His body hurt, his mind hurt more. The podium in Barcelona already felt like a lifetime ago. He could still hear Cruz's whisper, see the smug smile, feel the injustice.
But beneath all of it, something harder had begun to take shape. Cruz could play his games, the sponsors could whisper, the paddock could doubt. Leo knew now what Adrian had meant.
If he wanted to survive in this world, it wasn't enough to drive fast. He had to fight in every way—on the track, in the paddock, in his own heart.
And he would.
Because one day, he would stand on the top step of the podium, and Cruz would have no choice but to look up at him.