It's more risky then going for the straight, but if we succeed then we have a small chance of spending the straight to at least try and move up another rank.
Question, how many laps deep are we so far? According to wikipedia there where like 57 laps in the 2017 Australian Grand Prix, right?
This is lap 57. I decided to mostly skim over Australia so we could get into establishing characters and relationships quite quickly. The other races will be taken more fully, as I'll be able to draw on more intimate knowledge of the drivers and teams etc.
The back of Matteo's car was suddenly captivating. Daithi had spent lap after lap seeing it come closer and closer as he posted lap times that were a few tenths faster than his teammate and now, at last, he was staring at it up close. The fat rear tyres, the wide wing, the complex diffuser, it all merged into a taunting view that said to him that he could never possibly have the skill or speed to make a pass on the Italian.
He knew he could. He was outpacing the older man by lengths. Whether it was in the final corners, or when the rear wing dropped for the final DRS zone, Daithi had everything needed to swing past the other Sauber and bring home 11th place. Hardly a record for a rookie, but a competent showing for a new driver in a car that wasn't expected to do much beyond fill out the back field. And beating his teammate on his first outing, an experienced driver with plenty of excellent drives to his record? That would be enough to cement him as a serious contender this season.
But… he couldn't do it, he realised. Matteo wasn't the sort of man he wanted to be on the wrong side of. There were enough recordings of the Italian's now legendary tirades against his team, the FIA, the car and other drivers. He could only imagine the intensity of such an argument if the one who got on his wrong side was his teammate and a rookie teammate at that.
No, it was better to let Matteo take the lead on this one. There would be plenty of opportunities to outpace the old man in the races to come. Better he feel confident than angry. Daithi let the accelerator slip slightly as they passed through the technical third sector, slipping back a tenth of a second or more as they swung through the right-right-left of Ascari, Stewart and Prost. By the time they reached the final straight, the Italian was ahead by enough that he would surely have no doubts that the Daithi's Sauber would be chasing his tail all the way to the line.
The young Irishman couldn't let it go that easily, though. As they thundered up towards the line, he pushed the DRS button as soon as it was lit. So close to the other car the slipstream was finally of some use, and he closed the gap to a matter of feet, rather than metres. In the last tens of metres of the race, the crowd cheering so loud around them that he could hear it over his own roaring engine, he swung the car out wide and put it alongside Matteo's.
It was the closest thing to a photo finish anyone could have asked for.
The Sauber drivers finish in formation at Australia
He ached. Every muscle, every joint, every single part of him. After an hour and a half in the cramped cockpit of a car, keeping intense focus through every corner, adrenaline pumping every time he touched the brake, passed another driver, ran a straight… he ached.
Daithi weathered the congratulations of his pit team with a tired smile. He was legitimately overjoyed to have managed what he did out on the track, even if it wasn't quite what he could have managed. But they had not just sweated and pushed and driven their way through three hundred kilometres of Australian heat. He owed them a perfect car and an excellent stop, but the drive had been his.
"Good Drive, Daithi!" A voice called.
He had found a quiet corner to breathe for a few moments, but it seemed someone else wanted his energy. When he opened his eyes, he was met with the welcome sight of Lotta Meisner, his race engineer and the woman who ran his race.
"Lotta!" he called back, reaching out to clutch her hand, "Only as good as you made it."
"Pssh. I wasn't in the seat."
"Yeah, well…" He didn't really know what else to say. There was only so many times a person could deny their own importance in driving the actual car out on the actual track.
"Well nothing. But what happened? You had Matteo on the pace. I think we'd have all preferred to see you bring home eleventh."
"I lost it in the last corners." Daithi lied through his teeth, trying to stay light hearted.
"Sure," she said, and in a single word made it effortlessly clear that she didn't believe him. "Don't let him put pressure on you. He might be senior, and heaven knows he might be the angriest man ever put on this earth, but you're only ever going to be racing for yourself and the team. Let him run his own race."
"I will. He just had the better of me, Lotta, that's all."
She gave him a hard look, a look which faded slowly.
"I've got to get on. Don't forget you do too."
He breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to go. Even if she hadn't believed him, at least she maybe understood. Other wouldn't be so understanding, and he still had to face a press conference, the team bosses, and, he realised as the Italian rounded a corner and caught sight of the younger driver, the man himself.
He motioned for Daithi to join him and led him away from the pits. A side corridor and through a set of doors led them to the bottom of an apparently underused stairwell which was missing the cameras and crowds that, since the race had ended, apparently infested every other part of the track.
"Good work out there today," Matteo said, turning to face the young Irishman.
Daithi couldn't tell if it was the close quarters of the stairwell or the Italian's posture, but he suddenly felt like they were being pressed together.
"Thanks? I doubt anyone on the team could complain."
"No, it was a good race," he nodded. He was barely taller than Daithi, maybe a little broader. It wasn't enough to make him intimidating just in his stature, but the fact that he imperceptibly looked down on the younger man left Daithi feeling… lacking? "You could have made that pass. Why didn't you?"
"I lost it in the last corners," Daithi repeated the lie of only a few minutes ago, "Went wide through Stewart-"
"No!" His interruption was sudden, shocking, matched by him throwing his hands in the air. "Don't bullshit me. Have a little honour, and be honest with me."
"I… I didn't see the need. I might have had the pace, but you had position and we weren't going to push any further up the grid."
"Better," his mercurial tempers were apparently back under control, "I think there's some truth to that. I also think you wanted to be in my good books."
"Well…" The atmosphere had changed in a matter of moments, going from tense to almost jovial. Daithi grinned at his fellow driver, "Maybe a little."
"It's a good place to be." Matteo reached out, holding the younger man's chin between his thumb and fingers. There were inches between them. "There are benefits to being on my side, I can promise you that. If you make sure that everything you do on the track helps me, I'll make sure you see them. How does that sound?"
How does that sound?
[ ] If my race helps yours, that's luck. It's my race to run.
[ ] I, um, I… (blush, stammer)
[ ] It sounds good. I'm driving for you.
[ ] write in
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[ ] The team have given me a great car and a great opportunity.
[ ] I finally have the opportunity to show my skills. You'll see what I can do.
[ ] I'm worried about the Renault drivers. Do they know they're competing?
[ ] write in.
How does that sound?
[X] write in - "Don't expect me to give it up to you that easily next time. Or give it up to you that often. You better earn it hard, or you'll find me right behind you more than you think."
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[X] The team have given me a great car and a great opportunity.
The blushing and stammering is as good as a love confession. Let's not fall for the obvious tsundere!
Unfortunately I dunno what to say to him. I'd like to see some benefits before we make any further commitments, and Lotta at least obviously disapproves...
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[X] I'm worried about the Renault drivers. Do they know they're competing?
How does that sound?
[X] write in - "Don't expect me to give it up to you that easily next time. Or give it up to you that often. You better earn it hard, or you'll find me right behind you more than you think."
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[X] The team have given me a great car and a great opportunity.
[X] write in - "Don't expect me to give it up to you that easily next time. Or give it up to you that often. You better earn it hard, or you'll find me right behind you more than you think."
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[X] The team have given me a great car and a great opportunity.
I have no desire to hook up with this guy, I find him super skeevy. Like, I don't even want to be his friend, and I want to be most people's friend.
[X] write in - "Don't expect me to give it up to you that easily next time. Or give it up to you that often. You better earn it hard, or you'll find me right behind you more than you think."
There's a press conference coming up. What's your line?
[X] The team have given me a great car and a great opportunity.
How did it sound? It sounded ridiculous. To race for the benefit of another was not the way he'd learned to drive or the way he'd learned to race. They were teammates, to be sure, and that meant he would do everything he could for the sake of Sauber. But to risk his own position for the good of one man, on the promise of some ill-described benefits that may or may not have included sexual favours? That was anathema to all that he raced for.
"Don't expect me to give it up that easily, Matteo." Daithi said, straightening to look the taller man in the eye. The fingers dropped off his chin as he gave the older man a cold smile, "or often, for that matter. Either you earn it, hard, or you'll be behind me more often than you'd like."
"I'm already your teammate." The other man might have been the team's first driver, but that meant so much less than it used too. Daithi was entirely uninterested in whatever he was suggesting. "How much more can you offer me?"
Matteo looked Daithi dead in the eye, a vicious glint speaking volumes without him opening his mouth. The thought suddenly struck that the older man could be a dangerous one to make an enemy of. Passionate, emotional, strong-willed - to have that set against a new driver could be disastrous to an ongoing career.
But then giving up his racing line would be just the same as giving up on his career. Wouldn't it?
"No, of course." Matteo waved the idea off like it was just a bad smell. "You are so new, Daithi, so fresh to this. It's almost sweet."
And that, he realised, that was why he'd rejected the man. That was just creepy.
"We have a press conference. Can you move?" Daithi gestured at the door. After another moment of uncomfortable tensions, the other driver stepped aside and allowed the young Irishman out of the dim stairwell.
------
Today was certainly a day of firsts for Daithi. Sitting in front of the cameras with five other drivers was hardly as intimidating as it had been sitting in that cockpit a matter of hours ago. Nonetheless, he was tense enough to make his stomach hurt. A collection of earnest looking men and women were staring them down and all he could do was smile.
He looked down at the back of Matteo's head, sitting in front of him on the lower platform. On his left were the two Williams drivers, the two from Renault in yellow on his right. Ratsen from Renault and Rothbauer from Williams had both retired from the race, and they wore an almost identical expression of discomfort and irritation. Statistically, it was almost certain that Daithi would retire from a race at some point, a fact that he absolutely was not looking forward too.
Finally, someone gestured for the questions to start.
"Mathew!" Mathew Harendez, the other Williams driver, "Williams took Fifth in constructors last year. Do you think you'll be able to improve with your new line-up?"
Rothbauer twitched. He was new to the team, though not to Formula 1, and a pointless finish would already be putting Williams at a disadvantage in the championship.
"Absolutely. The first race is always a difficult one for the cars, but Otto is a strong driver and the car is good this year."
"For the Renault drivers, are you foreseeing problems with the cars this year?"
"The team has given us a good car." Ratsen's Dutch accent was strong, filling the room. "It's up to us to push them to their limits, even if that sometimes means we have issues."
"Which is not to say we should be destroying engines," Beamish added quietly. The dig would hardly go unnoticed; his team-mate had retired because of engine failure. If he was convinced that Ratsen had been pushing too hard it wouldn't be too long before that tension was noticeable to the other drivers - and the media.
"Daithi Delaney!" His ears pricked up and he blinked. He'd been somewhat zoned out, listening to the other drivers speaking. He should have been ready to be called on. He nodded at the journalist, smiling broadly. "You're the rookie to watch this season, but you've spent years driving tests. Do you think you can compete with the eighteen-year-olds coming out of Formula Two?"
Ouch, he thought, that was a barbed question. Sure, he wasn't the youngest rookie ever, but he was hardly the oldest to get a full drive. And he was fast as well, something he'd proved again and again on the circuits, even if not during a full race. Well, not until today at least.
"Sauber has handed me a great opportunity here and I'm going to be making the most of it. The car is fantastic, all the changes made for this season have really made a difference in pace."
"Well you certainly made the finish look stylish."
Daithi narrowed his eyes, looking for the speaker. When he found him he wasn't entirely surprised. Alexi Maratchni was a racing journalist, infamous for writing stories that were as much a criticism of everything a driver stood for as it was a complementary piece on his driving ability. He was always sharply dressed and well trimmed. It was more than a little intimidating to have him here, asking such pointed questions.
"If we can give the fans a pretty race I see no reason why we shouldn't, so long as we're fast as well."
The reporter tugged at his goatee, smiling.
Questions put to the other drivers prevented Maratchni from making further comments. The rest of the conference passed with only a few, minor questions to Daithi. It was a turn of events that he was entirely happy with, even though he knew it wouldn't last.
------
It barely lasted an hour. As soon as the conference was over he and Matteo were bundled off to their hotel to wash, groom and prepare for one of the innumerable parties he'd be expected to attend as his career progressed. Tonight was little more than a function where wealthy locals, politicians and other so-called important people could come and rub shoulders with the stars of the racing scene. It was a red carpet for those who couldn't afford to go to Hollywood.
Daithi wouldn't usually have been the sort to turn his nose up at the opportunity to party, but now he had to put up with the team's conditions. He wasn't to drink too much, he wasn't to eat too much, he wasn't to ignore this person or that. It was likely to prove more frustrating than anything and turn any attempt at a party into a game of watching other people drink.
The ballroom was warmly lit and warm enough to make him sweat under the collar. What he wouldn't give to be back in sticky nomex instead of the stark black and white of a tux. At least in the former, he knew what he was doing. Formal receptions were not exactly his forte. He plucked a flute of champagne from one tray as it whizzed past and some delicate pastry from another and launched himself into the mix.
But who to join?
[ ] The Ferrari-Haas huddle. The race leaders and their junior team are deep in discussion.
[ ] The Mid-pack group. A collection of drivers from various teams are chatting with dignitaries.
[ ] The rookies. You might be the only brand new driver, but there's a group of youngsters clinging to the fringes.
[ ] Write in.
The confrontation, such as it was, with Matteo has left a sour taste in our mouth and an unpleasant twisting in our gut, and the clearly slanted barbs behind Maratchni's questions have done nothing to settle it. We don't have enough confidence yet to go over to the Ferrari-Haas group, not when they're huddled up the way they are. Your team is nicely ranked with the Mid-pack, and the conversations flowing among that group and the various dignitaries seem easy-going from this distance, maybe even friendly. Still, we're new enough to the competition that it's hard to work up the nerve to just go over there. Meanwhile, the rookie group is looking just as discomfited as we feel, though we hope we've got a better hold over actually showing it. Might as well see if we can bond with the other rookies a little over the discomfort from all this pomp and pageantry, maybe even try to boost the confidence of that one really nervous kid who looks like he's questioning his life choices, but we should probably keep an ear out on the Mid-pack group just in case there's an opening to slip in. The last thing we need to do here is end up standing in a corner downing champagne like it's water until we don't remember anything....
All the drivers were gathered in packs in a way that reminded Daithi of awful high school movies in the worst possible way. While the honoured guests, dignitaries, and other non-racing celebrities were circulating exactly how anyone who was anyone might expect a person at a party to act, those who were the reason for being there were not.
He passed Breda and Hoch of Ferrari, talking animatedly with Misra and Vollan of Haas. The latter was an unofficial junior team to the prancing horses. Matteo patted the younger Sauber driver on the shoulder and set off in their direction, earning himself a smile from the four and a cagey look for Daithi. He felt, suddenly and intensely, simply from their looks, that he wouldn't be welcome in their deep conversation no matter whether his teammate was.
Gerbst, Perrault and Rothbauer, all good drivers in decent mid-pack teams, were playing performer to a group of older Australian functionaries. Broad smiles and vigorous hand gestures were the constants across all three of them. It looked deathly dull to the point that Daithi would have sooner drunk himself into a coma than join them. He assumed they were all pleasant enough people, he hadn't spent a whole lot of time with them, but perhaps he could get to know them in a slightly more private setting.
When he laid eyes on the loose cabal of youngsters hanging around the fringes of the party-crowd, he knew he'd found his place. He made his way over slowly, a smile here and a handshake there as he passed people, trying to make it seem like he was just happening to find his way over to them. If his public relations handlers got wind that he was trying his best to avoid all the earnest socialising that was going on he'd be in for one hell of an argument.
He found a spare patch of wall and leaned against, hoping he looked as casually disinterested in the whole affair as they all seemed. The trio were all younger than him, and yet they'd all been racing in Formula One for longer. Even the youngest, Ryou Saito, had been brought in for the last few races of the 2016 season. Daithi had four years on the man, and yet he was the rookie.
"Nice race, old man." Johannes Pekanenen lifted his glass in greetings. He raced the dayglo-pink Force India alongside Gerbst, and his comment stung.
"Hardly a sixth though, was it?" He raised his already half-empty champagne glass in response.
"Well, what can I say." The Finn shrugged, smiling coyly.
"You can say you were as lucky as any finisher just to get through the race." Saito's English had barely a trace of an accent. "I tell you, these new specifications have gone too far."
The young Japanese man, who was only a matter of months into his eighteenth year, was the driver of one of the two orange and black Mclaren-Honda's which had both failed to finish earlier in the day.
"Or maybe the problem is just the way you Mclaren boys drive. I didn't see Roberto crossing the finish line either." Markus Strand, the junior driver at Red Bull and notorious Formula One pretty boy, was a surprisingly broad shouldered Norwegian with a mop of blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Dupont at Mercedes, Breda from Ferrari and he had become the faces of the modern sport, media darlings all three. Daithi was more than a little surprised to have found him here, avoiding the spotlight.
"See, I thought only one Red Bull crossed the line, but the way you're going on I'd have assumed there were two." Daithi teased, smiling.
"It happens." Strand shrugged, returning the smile, "China will be different."
Daithi didn't doubt it. There was an oddly intense look in the Norwegians eye, a look that spoke of that lust for glory that had infected so many who had taken to the circuits. He wondered if the other top racers had noticed how much of a threat the twenty-one-year-old was planning to be.
"How are you finding it all?" Pekanenen asked, gesturing to the party around them with a now empty glass, "The bread and circuses. Panem et circenses." He chuckled darkly, almost to himself. "Is it everything you hoped it would be?"
"If this is what I have to bear to get to do what I did today? Then it's everything I hoped and more." Daithi replied.
"That's the spirit." Strand laughed, somehow managing to slap the Irishman on the back jovially and pluck a fresh glass from the grim-faced Finn's hand before he could take another gulp both at the same time. "After a few races, it'll be like you've always been here."
Daithi smiled at the taller man, suddenly aware of the strong hand gripping his shoulder. It sent a bolt of something through the centre of his stomach, a twisting flutter of a sensation. He kept his face straight and his eyes on the wall behind Saito and hoped nobody noticed.
He breathed a great whoosh of a sigh as the crowd erupted in a sudden cheer, a cheer that broke whatever moment had come over him.
"And the Golden Boy arrives…" Pekkanenen grumbled quietly.
"Golden boy?" Daithi asked, turning to look for the source of the noise.
"Dupont."
And there he was, the man whose every word the racing world hung on. A small, dark-haired man who was passionate about racing to the point of obsession. Daithi was fascinated by the way every movement the man made, both on the track and off, was controlled and efficient. Even in the way he gave interviews, there was that terse efficiency, not wasting a single word.
Daithi's breath caught in his throat as he managed to spot the high cheekbones, the strong brow, the fierce expression. He looked uncomfortable in a suit but there was still that unmistakable electricity to the way he moved. Everything of the other drivers was already forgotten, his whole attention focused on the man who had brought the Mercedes silver arrow to victory again and again and again - and never even seeming to have to try.
He thought he was lucky enough to have got to race the same circuits as Dupont, but now he was in the same room as him.
Daithi had passed the Frenchman in the corridors of the Melbourne track buildings several times but he'd never managed to do any more than stare at his feet, heart in his throat with his cheeks burning. He was sure he wouldn't manage to do any more, even if he could get through the crowd that was already mobbing the Frenchman.
What to do then?
[ ] Slope off into the night without another word. It's back to testing tomorrow.
[ ] Fight through the crowd - and your fears - to wish the champion your best.
[ ] Get another drink and drown your sorrows. Someone surely has gossip.
[ ] Write in.
Who was he kidding? He was never going to get through the press of that crowd, even if he could make his feet uproot themselves from the floor enough to walk towards Dupont. Even knowing that, knowing his chances of getting through were less than nil, Daithi still found himself as unable to look away as he was unable to move his feet.
He was just lifting his champagne flute to his lips in a futile attempt to wet his suddenly dry mouth with the unsatisfyingly dry liquid when it happened. The crowd shifted, parted for just a few seconds, and in that moment Dupont's scanned over the patch of wall where Daithi was standing with the other rookie drivers. Daithi's hand lifted almost of its own accord, raising the flute that much higher than his mouth line just as that sharp gaze slide across him, and for just a moment he and the legendary driver met eyes.
The crowd shifted again, cutting him off from view and the spell was broken. Daithi closed his eyes and gulped down the remaining champagne in his flute as he struggled to get his heart rate back under control. Get a grip, Daithi, he thought to himself angrily. One moment of accidental eye contact across a crowded ballroom means nothing! You'd as soon as have angels fly out of your arse as get next to a legend the likes of Dupont!
Wait... what? Daithi shook his head, trying to clear the strange thoughts from his mind, and looked consideringly at his now empty flute. It was tempting, so very tempting, to just find another out of the way corner and keep drinking, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know what sort of ideas the champagne might put into his head then.
"Delaney? You okay?" Saito was asking, and Daithi managed to look up and around to meet the other driver's concerned expression. "You're looking a little flushed."
"I... yeah," Daithi muttered, mustering up a weak smile. "Whoever thought mixing alcohol with an adrenaline crash must've been off their rocker. I'm just gonna..." he trailed off, gesturing towards the glass doors off to the side that looked like they might lead to a balcony or something where he could step out to get a grip on himself before he embarrassed himself and his team.
"Don't stay out too long," Strand advised him with a brief squeeze to Daithi's shoulder that made his stomach flip. Definitely time to get out of there and clear his head. With a mumble of something resembling agreement, Daithi slipped away from the other rookies and headed as casually as he could for the door.
