Japanese Grand Prix

EXCLUSIVE: Feinberg, Reset’s youngest ever driver, on pressures, teammates and more — Interview Transcript

Seapeekay: Feinberg, welcome and congratulations! You're officially a Formula 1 driver for the upcoming season, how does it feel?

Feinberg: It’s amazing, honestly. I've loved racing my whole life and reaching F1 has always been a dream of mine. The fact that I achieved it, this early as well, is insane to me.

Seapeekay: Where were you when you found out? What did you do?

Feinberg: I was at home, it was just after Singapore, and I’d just got back after my flight. I didn’t fully believe it when I heard it. Even now, I don’t think the reality of it has fully sunk in. After I found out, I told my parents, some of my friends. [laughs] My parents were more excited than I was, I think, they screamed loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Seapeekay: Who told you? Did Etho's name pop up on your phone, because personally I reckon that’s slightly terrifying, or was it in person?

Feinberg: Etho told me. I got an invite to a call with him, Oliver, and VintageBeef, and I joined and instantly knew it was going to be something important. [laughs] You don’t get the Team Principal, Head of Race Engineering and the Technical Director in one call if it's not.

Seapeekay: Has it been a struggle to deal with the influx of pressure, especially since you’re replacing Fruitberries, a four-time world champion at only seventeen? You’ve got some high standards to live up to, no?

Feinberg: For sure, I think I'm quite good at dealing with the pressure already, though. I’ve never gotten much performance anxiety, weirdly enough. F1 is another level, though, and I’m willing to work hard to live up to those standards.

Seapeekay: Have you got any thoughts on your new teammate, Couriway?

Feinberg: [frowns] Yeah, we’ve spoken and he’s a nice enough guy. Very welcoming. Though, if he wants to compete with me, he'll have to get a damn lot faster.

Seapeekay: [disbelieving] So, do you think you can beat Couriway? In your rookie season?

Feinberg: Yeah, why not. He’s got a lot more experience than I do, but I think I can match his pace. I’ve gone faster than him in testing, and I don’t see a reason that I shouldn’t be able to recreate that on track.

Seapeekay: Did you know Couriway at all during your karting days?”

Feinberg: Kind of. We were racing around Europe on the same circuits, but I was in the juniors, and he was in the seniors. I didn’t see much of him because of that.

Seapeekay: Will you be able to separate your on-track relationship from your off-track one, or will we see some sparks between you guys?

Feinberg: [smiles] Well, I’ll always be racing as hard as I can against him, and I hope he does the same for me. I’ll treat him with respect as much as I can, and Couriway will return it, hopefully. However, F1 is a competition, and your teammate is your direct rival, the first person you're compared to when you mess up, if that generates some sparks, so be it.

Seapeekay: That makes sense, finally, are you looking forward to driving in FP1 tomorrow? I assume you’re feeling pretty good about it, considering that this time last year, you won the F2 Feature Race here with a dominant performance from start to finish.

Feinberg: [smiles] That race was pretty good. I’m excited to get into an F1 car on an actual Race Weekend. You can never be sure it will go well, I can hope it will, but that doesn’t mean anything. If I keep Couriway’s car out of the barriers, I think I can count that as a success.

Seapeekay: [shakes Feinberg’s hand] Best of luck to you for FP1 and the next season.

Feinberg: Thanks, hopefully I’ll be seeing more of you next year, Seapeekay.

Seapeekay: Yeah! Excited to see what you can do.

Feinberg: I’ll try my best.

[CALL CONNECTS]

Etho, you were actually serious?

Yep. You’ve seen his test work and there’s no way he’s going to lose his Formula 2 season, Couri. I don’t think he’s ever lost a race in his life, judging from his record. You know he's ready.

Yeah, but he's just so young? Surely it would be better for him to have another year in F2 first?

We can manage it. If we wait and let Eye Spy snatch him, we’ll never get him back. Sure it's a risk, but it's one we can afford to take.

What if he doesn't adapt? Are you just going to drop him? We're a front-running team, we can't afford to lose points in the Constructor's fight.

That won't happen. Watch his F2 races Couri, or even his F4 ones if you want to go that far back. This is a worthwhile risk. If he doesn't perform, we can always find someone else. There's no shortage of talent. It won't come to that, though, I have a good feeling about it.

Fine. I trust you, Etho.

And that trust isn't misplaced. See you later, Couri.

See you.

[CALL DISCONNECTS]

Friday

Leaning against a wall in the Reset garage, Feinberg watched the mechanics buzz frantically around the car, prepping it for FP1. He was driving Couriway’s car for the session, and the mechanics needed to make some setup alterations.

FP1, or Free Practice 1, was the first of three Free Practice sessions. FP2 was later today, and FP3 was tomorrow, right before qualifying, which decided the starting positions for the race on Sunday. Every team was obligated to give a rookie a free practice session in each of their cars, therefore every driver would have to miss one practice session, keeping it fair. It was finally his turn.

Fruitberries was on the other side of the garage, chatting with Etho, the Reset Team Principal. Fruit’s hands were waving animatedly, unusually excited about something. Etho was nodding along, occasionally interrupting Fruit to add his own comments.

“Feinberg?” a far off voice called. Feinberg tore his gaze away from Fruit and Etho to seek the source of it. He spotted Couriway walking towards him from his side of the garage, waving enthusiastically at him.

Couriway wasn’t in his fireproofs like Fein and the rest of the drivers were, since he wasn’t driving until the afternoon. Instead, he wore a silver and dark blue Reset T-shirt and a complementary coloured hat.

This was Couri’s fifth season, and next year it would be his sixth.

Feinberg would still beat him.

“How are you?” Couriway asked.

Feinberg furrowed his brow. “I’m good, everyone’s been very welcoming.”

Feinberg glanced at the time on his watch. There was still half an hour until he needed to meet his trainer at the garage.

“Excited to get going?”

“Of course.”

“I couldn’t wait when I got my first F1 outing. You’ll do great, I’m sure,” Couriway reassured.

Feinberg nodded, not really knowing what more to say. Meaningless platitudes meant nothing to him.

“Congrats on getting the seat!”

“Thanks,” Feinberg wrung his hands out, looking Couriway up and down. “You're not worried you'll get beaten by a rookie?”

“I don't plan on going down without a fight.”

“I’d hope not. Got to make it interesting.” Even if Couriway did put up a fight, Feinberg doubted it’d be much of a challenge. There was a reason Feinberg was fast-tracked through the F1 ladder, and it wasn't because his parents were rich.

“Well, just so you know, if I lose to the 17-year-old, I will be very pissed off.” Couriway laughed, but Feinberg could sense the insecurity within him, lingering below the surface for him to prey on. He wasn’t going to hold back just because Couriway was nice to him.

Even if it would be nice to have a friend.

“You better be prepared for disappointment,” Feinberg said. This he could do, enemies were a lot easier than friends in Feinberg’s opinion. All his past teammates ended up disliking him, either for his racing or his personality. It didn't matter, though, not when he only had to deal with them for one year.

It was different now, though. There was no more moving up, he was at the top, where he belonged. All he needed to do now was win a championship, preferably multiple, and cement his name as the greatest driver of all time. To do that, though, he needed to win.

Feinberg was good enough to do it, so he might as well aim high.

“We’ll see,” Couriway said, “I'm looking forward to it.”

Feinberg had been preparing his whole life for this. “So am I.”

“Radio check, radio check.” Nerdi’s voice crunched and crackled over the radio, the words difficult to make out.

“Bit staticky,” Feinberg told him, absent-mindedly tapping his steering wheel. The car was in the garage, waiting for the release signal from the mechanic outside it. The TV screens that had been down were lifted about a minute ago.

“Alright, we’ll take a look. Have fun out there man,” Nerdi, Couriway’s race engineer, said as Fein finally got the release signal. He drove the car down the pit lane, towards the pit exit. He came to a stop behind a Beacon car, but he couldn't tell if it was FBM or Fulham from behind.

“I'll try,” he said honestly. The day that he didn’t put his whole heart into a race was the day he would retire.

“You got this, you’re insanely talented, never seen anything like it. You could win the championship next year, I reckon.”

“Thanks.” Feinberg already knew that. He didn’t need someone to tell him. Though it was nice to hear.

“Don’t tell Couri I said that. I tell him he’s the best all the time.”

Feinberg’s mouth twitched upwards under his helmet. “You do realise we’re on the public team radio.”

“No way he finds out, that guy never touches social media,” Nerdi said dismissively.

“He's listening from the garage,” Feinberg reminded him.

“Ah well. He’ll live. Sorry Couri.”

Feinberg laughed, the sound muffled to his ears by his helmet. It was odd, but nothing Feinberg wasn’t used to. He’d been wearing crash helmets for basically his whole life. “He had to find out eventually.”

“Frick you Nerdi,” said Couriway's voice, presumably using the Team Principal’s connection to communicate.

“Fuck you dude!”

Etho audibly sighed. “No fighting on the team radio. Save it for the briefing later. Have fun out there, Feinberg.”

“Thanks, Etho, I'll try not to bin it on the first lap.”

“Good idea. Knew I hired you for a reason.”

“Ten seconds to green-light,” Nerdi interrupted, and everyone fell silent. The engine vibrated beneath him, an ocean of power waiting to be let loose. Feinberg could only feel excited at the prospect of it. He was finally here, he’d made it, he was in an F1 car on a race weekend. It was almost everything he’d ever dreamed of.

Feinberg pulled down his pink-and-blue coloured visor, his vision darkening. He twisted his gloves, double-checking they were on properly. Feinberg glanced into his right mirror, Doogile’s Into Fire was behind him, Feinberg recognised his monochrome dark teal helmet.

The Beacon in front of him began moving as the light turned green. “Stay in the fast lane,” Nerdi informed him. “Take care not to cross the white line on pit exit. Car in front is Fulham.”

“Yeah, copy,” Feinberg said, driving slowly down the pit exit, creating a larger gap between him and Fulham.

The session went well, all things considered. He set a couple good flying laps, ended up in second, behind only FBM in the Beacon. He could live with that.

Pulling up to the garage, Feinberg switched off the engine as the mechanics wheeled the car inside. He removed the neck brace, placing it haphazardly in front of him, and removed the steering wheel. The engineers moved around him, completely ignoring him.

His moment was gone. It was on to the next thing now. He pulled himself out of the car, sitting on the halo for a moment, taking it all in, before he leapt off it to the ground, almost falling from the sudden rush of dizziness that sent his vision swaying.

Then Couriway was next to him, a strong, steady presence, holding him up. “You alright?” he asked quietly, eyes dark with concern.

“Yeah, all good,” Feinberg brushed off, standing up straight. The black dots that had invaded his vision receded. “Just got out of the car too fast.”

Couriway stepped back, visibly concerned. “You're sure you're fine? Maybe you should go to the medical centre just to be sure?”

“No, no,” Feinberg dismissed, “it's not too bad.”

“You better get training,” Couriway chuckled. “One session and you're already swooning, how will you ever handle a race weekend?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Feinberg said, glaring, “your competition isn’t going to go down that easily.”

Couriway sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Feinberg shrugged. As nice as Couriway was, cultivating a friendship with him would only be counterproductive in the long run. Eventually, Feinberg would knock him out of quali or steal one too many race wins, and the friendship would turn sour. It was just how it went.

Couriway seemed annoyed, but Feinberg ignored it in favour of pulling his helmet off and undoing the Velcro on his fireproofs.

Etho stood with Oliver, both of them talking about something on the computer in front of them. Probably the data from the session, if he had to guess.

Etho caught him looking and gestured for him to join the discussion. Couriway followed behind him, hovering like a protective parent. Feinberg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The faster Couri got the hint, the easier it would be for the both of them.

The unofficial debrief ended up lasting about half an hour. Feinberg’s FP1 session had given the team some useful data regarding the setup.

After the talk, Feinberg retreated to the Reset hospitality, changing out of his fireproofs and into a clean shirt in one of the bathrooms. Couriway had followed him back, presumably to go hide in his driver room and avoid media duties for a bit.

Feinberg didn’t mind doing media duties, honestly. They were boring, or at worse, a pain in the ass, but so far he hadn’t been made to do anything too egregious. All he had to do was a couple of interviews, and then he was done for the day and could stand in the garage and watch FP2.

He headed for the media pen, completed a couple of interviews, giving generic answers to all the questions. Once he finished his media duties, Feinberg meandered back to the garage for FP2, running into Hax – an Eye Spy reserve driver slated for a seat next year – on the way.

Fruit was there, alone in a corner of the garage, staring almost forlornly at the car. Feinberg tentatively walked over to him, waving at him to catch his attention. Fruit waved back, pulling out his AirPods. “Hey man,” Fruit said, “how was your FP1 session?”

“It was fine enough,” Feinberg shrugged, pulling off his visor to clean. “Nothing crazy.”

“Where did you come?” Fruit asked. Placement didn’t matter too much in Free Practice sessions, but it was still a good benchmark for the weekend.

“Second.”

Fruit nodded. “That’s pretty good for your first ever outing.”

“Well, I have to be pretty good if I’m going to be replacing you, Mr Six Time World Champion.”

Fruit had won his string of championships over the last two decades, but most of them hadn’t been consecutive. This was due to Purpled, the lead Eye Spy driver, who also had an equally good car at the time, and had been an equally good driver. The races back then were incredible to watch, but Fruit hadn’t won a championship in three years. He wanted a seventh win to one up Purpled, and he’d concluded that it wasn’t possible at Reset.

Feinberg desperately hoped that Reset fell out of the slump they had been in for the past few years in time for him to join. He wasn’t optimistic, though. The Reset car wasn’t horrible. It could get a podium, possibly win races if lucky, but to do that it would have to beat Ranked’s insane car – a feat that was easier said than done.

Fruit laughed at his words, brushing his hands through his lime green hair, a faint blush on his cheeks. “You make a good point,” Fruit smiled. “Hopefully you can be better on Sundays than Saturdays.”

Fruit had been well known in his earlier years to be an incredible qualifier. His mechanics were so insane that he could bring a Sodium to the front row. This never lasted come Sunday, though, as Fruit would end up at the back of the grid again due to a shitty strategy or wearing down his tyres.

“If I’m putting up Sundays as good as yours, I think I’ve succeeded, no?”

Fruit chuckled. “It's always good to aim high.”

“True,” Feinberg agreed, “I’m planning on beating you next year. And Couriway.”

Fruit raised his eyebrows. “Do you think you can do it? Against drivers with years more experience than you?”

“Yeah, I can do it,” Feinberg said. “I’m a good driver.”

“But are you the best?” Fruit asked him, eyeing him with interest.

Feinberg didn’t falter under the scrutiny. He hadn’t faltered for a long time.

“Yes.”

“If you say so!” Fruitberries laughed. “But we all think that, so, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’ll be seeing the back of my car a lot next year if I have anything to say about it.”

“Not if the Eye Spy mechanics have anything to say about it.”

“You think they’ll be faster next year?” Feinberg asked, genuinely curious. “They don’t seem like they’re going anywhere this year.”

“I’ve seen their development plans for next year, and they seem optimistic. And honestly, I’ve been with this team for years. We won six championships together, but it’s been three years since we were last able to fight for one. I hope that the Reset is fast next year. I would love that for the guys here, they deserve it, especially with all the work they’ve been putting in, but I don’t see it happening.”

“That makes sense,” Feinberg said. “But I'd be pissed that it took me leaving for them to get their shit together.”

Fruit laughed. “Yeah, that's understandable.”

“If the Reset car ends up being good next year I won't complain though,” Feinberg said.

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Fruit!” Someone called from the other side of the garage.

Fruit clearly recognised them and waved, turning to Feinberg. “I’ve got to head out.”

“Good luck today, try not to put it in the barriers.”

“Fuck off,” Fruit said, but there was no heat to his words.

“See you.”

That had gone well.

The day Feinberg got his first kart was a rainy one.

It was his fourth birthday. He’d woken up full of excitement; the night before he couldn’t sleep, the pure anticipation for the upcoming day preventing him from relaxing.

At some point in the day, he’d been brought out of the house. On the driveway, a peculiarly-shaped package sat, larger than any of his other gifts, and wrapped in bright, colourful wrapping paper. Little did Feinberg know, that package would change his whole life.

He flew towards it, tearing off the paper so fast he could have broken a world record. The paper gave way in his hands easily, revealing his very first go-kart.

Feinberg never got off that kart. The rain didn’t bother him, even though he’d slide across the road like he was ice skating (he’d never learnt) and would crash the kart into trees and bushes, ending his days with more scrapes than he started. He never stopped getting faster. Nothing seemed to faze him.

When he turned nine, he signed up for his first championship, and from there on, it only spiralled.

Feinberg won race after race, crushing anyone who dared to contest him. He just understood what he had to do to win, he’d push the accelerator down harder and longer than anyone else, brake later on turns, go for the dive bombs that no one else would dare to, and he would always pull it off. It didn’t matter if they had been racing for years longer than him and had infinitely more experience.

It felt like he had some sort of unfair advantage, but it just made sense to him. He’d see the overtake opportunities from miles away, realize where to save lap time immediately, work out where there was good grip on the track. Fein would instantly understand when it was correct to veer away from the racing line and how to throw up a defence.

He started watching old F1 races, dissecting the lines the racers would take (even if they were different from the karting lines). He’d watch on as they would push beyond the limits. Feinberg poured hours of his time into understanding it all – the strategy, the racing, the teams, the cars – he needed to know everything . Every little detail needed to be unpicked and examined.

At sixteen, he got his first test drive in Formula Renault and went faster than all the regulars. Three months later, he skipped F3, and got a Formula 2 seat. He won seven races in a row, and won the championship in his rookie season. In the same year, he was signed to Reset for the upcoming season.

Feinberg was the youngest-ever F1 driver. He would be the youngest world champion.

Feinberg knew it.

Half a Year Later, Pre-Season Testing, Bahrain

mel @fbwdc • February 9th

does anyone else think feinberg could win the wdc next year? his junior record is fucking insane i don’t think he’s ever lost???

101 replies | 789 retweets | 4.1k likes

snips 💙 @beaconator • February 9th

@fbwdc no chance if anyone from that team’s winning its couri

20 replies | 142 retweets | 1.2k likes

jack is IN SOCHI @silverrhearts • February 9th

@fbwdc I don’t see it happening, as cool as it would be. junior records don’t mean much when u get to f1

2 replies | 4 retweets | 978 likes

max REK PODIUM @bacisback • February 9th

@fbwdc he needs to get lucky

6 replies | 17 retweets | 569 likes

Testing went better than expected. Reset matched the Ranked cars in qualifying simulations, beating them in race trim. Surprisingly, the Eye Spys were faster in both. Obviously, everyone, including Reset, were sandbagging, and the other teams could be hiding some potential, but Fein was confident that their car was strong.

Feinberg had brought the Reset into the top 3 for three days straight, outperforming Couriway. While those times didn’t mean much, it did feel good.

It was the Monday before the first Grand Prix, and all Feinberg could feel was anticipation.

He wanted to get into that car, he desperately wanted Friday to come around faster, just so he could drive again. He was an addict to it, the adrenaline that coursed through his veins when speeding down a straight, or taking a tight corner, was something he couldn’t find elsewhere. It was thrilling.

Feinberg wanted to get a good result on his first race, for the stats if nothing else. The fantasy of an eighteen-year-old rookie winning his first race, winning the Drivers’ Championship, was something that Feinberg had been dreaming of since he’d gotten the seat.

He could do it. He knew he could.

Australian Grand Prix

Saturday

“First quali Feinberg, excited?” Couriway said, his eyes bright and eager, nudging Feinberg with his shoulder.

He pulled a face, leaning away from Couriway. “I was more excited for FP1. I've done a couple of hours now, that's all the experience I need.”

Couriway rolled his eyes, and Feinberg held back his laugh. “Okay, dude. If you say so. Good luck in quali. You gotta back up your talk.”

Feinberg shoved his hands into the pockets of his race suit. “When have I not?”

Couriway moved closer to him again, their shoulders practically touching. Feinberg didn’t move away this time. “Never,” he said encouragingly, “and you’ve already got the confidence. You’re already halfway there.”

“Yeah. I’m fucking halfway there,” Feinberg repeated, scanning his car, along with the rest of the garage. Some of his mechanics were adjusting the front wing. “Those dumbasses have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“If any of them had watched a single of your races before, they wouldn’t be saying shit. I’ve been looking forward to witnessing a Feinberg debut race first-hand for months.”

That caught Feinberg’s attention and he squinted at Couri. “You’ve watched my races?”

Couriway shrugged nonchalantly.“Yeah, I mean I’m in the garage anyway for the F2 races and a lot of people were talking about you last year, the guy that skipped F3 and was looking to get an F1 seat for the year after. I was interested. Plus, you were part of the Reset junior program, so it made sense for me to pay some attention.”

“Hopefully I live up to the expectations.”

Couriway must have presumed his hesitance was due to nerves, because he kindly added, “Even if you don’t, you shouldn’t worry about it. F1 is a whole different experience, the added pressure is a lot to handle.”

Feinberg had to resist rolling his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I can manage.” He was no stranger to pressure.

“Well, I’m always here to talk to, and so is the rest of the team. We all have your back, you’re one of us now,” Couriway said earnestly.

Feinberg wanted Couri to leave him the fuck alone, to scream at him that this alliance would never hold up, that everything was temporary in this world.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t destroy me too badly, please, I have to keep my reputation somewhat in check.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Feinberg dismissed. “I just remember I promised Danny I'd meet him before quali.”

“Oh, alright. See you!”

Feinberg ignored the call, walking in the opposite direction they'd been heading, back towards the exit. He’d go hide in his driver room until quali began. He didn't actually have to meet Danny, he was just tired of Couriway's non-stop chatting about nothing in particular. It was so tiring. None of his previous teammates had been like him, they’d all just done the racing and the media bullshit and then left him alone outside of it.

Couriway needed to take a fucking hint.

“And that is P3,” his race engineer, Oliver, told him.

“Who’s P1?” Feinberg asked. He tried not to let his anger seep into his voice. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault, it was his own, and it was his burden alone to shoulder.

“Fruit, gap was two tenths. Couriway was a tenth away in second,” Oliver informed him.

“Shit,” Feinberg swore. He could have been faster, and he wasn’t . “Shit. I thought Couriway was P5?”

“He improved on his second lap. You can be proud of that P3, for your first ever quali that is an insane performance.”

“Yeah well. I should have done better.” Oliver didn’t respond after that, seemingly not knowing what to say.

Feinberg pulled into parc fermé – the area that cars are placed so the teams can’t make any large set up adjustments between qualifying and the race – parking his car in front of the P3 banner. Couriway was already jumping out the car in front of him. The acidic taste of jealousy burned in his throat. Why was it not him?

He removed the steering wheel, hoisting himself out of the car. Couriway came up to him as he was unfastening his helmet, offering him a fist bump, which Feinberg returned.

“Congrats on P2,” Feinberg offered, pulling off his helmet and placing his mismatched gloves inside.

Couriway’s eyes lit up. He seemed more excited about Feinberg’s praise than his lap, weirdly. If didn’t want the position, Feinberg would happily take it.

“Thanks! P3 is incredible for your first quali too.”

“Yeah I suppose. I should have been faster. I lost a tenth in Sector 2.”

“You'll get there,” Couriway said, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. Feinberg tensed up at the contact, taking a small step back, dislodging it. “Competition’s a lot stronger in F1.”

“Yeah. I guess. Next time I’ll win,” Feinberg decided. He would win and show the whole world that he wasn’t just another rookie. “That’s a promise.”

“Still the race tomorrow as well. Not that you’ll get me then.”

“Sure I won’t,” Feinberg said. “I’m getting you right off the start, just you wait. You’re gonna have to watch your mirrors carefully.”

“I doubt it. I’m going to get the greatest start of all time and no one will have a chance of catching me.”

“You better fucking not,” Fruit interjected, walking up to them after his interview. “I’m winning tomorrow.”

“Sorry, I’ve already claimed P1, you can have P2 if you want?” Feinberg offered, as Couriway walked over to do his interview. The army of reporters had been trying to catch either one of their eyes for the last minute.

“I’m fine with my pole, actually,” Fruitberries said, amusement coating his voice.

“Well, if you ever aren’t…”

“No.”

Feinberg pulled a face. These people needed to calm down sometimes. “You don’t mean that.”

“I definitely do.”

“Fine fine, I’ll only take P2, you can have P1,” Feinberg compromised.

Fruitberries squinted at him. “You don’t mean that. What happened to ‘I'll beat you and Couriway next year’ and all that shit?”

“New year, new me,” Feinberg grinned. Fruit flipped him off as Feinberg headed over to do his interview. It was nothing eventful, the same repetitive questions that Feinberg knew he would get very used to answering.

He drove back to his hotel with Danny, retreating to his room to watch the onboards and to look at some of the data for the next day.

He would need to be prepared to beat Couriway.

Sunday

The car roared beneath him, the thrumming of an engine was a ubiquitous sound in his life, more familiar than any other noise. Feinberg could win from P3. His first race. It was possible. Feinberg could be the first driver to ever win their first F1 race. He could already see it. He would overtake Couriway and Fruit on the first corner, build a huge gap between them, pit with enough time to come out in first, and lead until the chequered flag. A picturesque finish.

The mechanics around the car flowed away, taking with them the tyre blankets and cooling fans. Feinberg flicked his multicoloured helmet visor down. Time for his first formation lap.

He knew that he wouldn't fuck this up. Almost no drivers crashed during the formation lap, especially during a dry race. Feinberg wasn’t an exception to this rule, the formation lap flew by. Before he knew it, he was in his grid box, waiting for the lights.

He didn't have to wait long. They blinked on, one after another, until all five were lit. Feinberg didn't dare to blink, his gaze unflinching. Time seemed to freeze in place. Then they went dark.

Feinberg slammed the throttle down. Ahead of him, Couriway and Fruit did the same, both of them racing down to the first turn. He had the outside line. Doogile, who had started P4, was about half a car length behind him on his right.

The first lap was clean. No safety cars or red flags. Doogile lost the position to Silverr, who had gotten second in the Drivers’ Championship last year. He’d nearly won it, leading the standings for almost the whole season, until the final race in Abu Dhabi, where he crashed out, buckling under the pressure. Purpled won the race and stole the championship. Silverr was still hungry for it. He’d put on a good showing this week, despite his car not seeming the fastest.

Feinberg was confident he could keep Silverr behind. Couriway remained ahead of him, just barely out of DRS range.

The race flew by. He undercut Couriway on the first pit stop – which he can’t imagine his side of the garage was happy about – and built a five-second gap to him. Couriway was instructed to do some LiCo – to lift-and-coast – to save fuel. Fruit completely disappeared into the distance. Feinberg would not be shocked if he saw blue flags waving, signalling that he was being lapped and needed to move out the way.

The second pit stop went off without a hitch. He temporarily lost position, but swiftly gained it back when the drivers ahead pitted, putting him back in P2.

Fruit came back into sight around lap 50. Oliver told him that he’d gone off track Turns 3 and 4 and lost a lot of time, and that he should be careful there. The turquoise and black livery of the Eye Spy car almost blended in with the track. Feinberg pushed his car to its limits, doing everything in his power to reel him in.

He crossed the finish line in a comfortable second. But annoyingly, Fruit ended up only 3.5 seconds ahead of him. Couriway finished third with 6.2 seconds behind him.

Feinberg didn’t raise his fist in celebration, instead, he drove his cooldown lap with an air of misery, like he was on his way to a funeral. The weight in his chest that had made its home earlier in the weekend reacquainted itself with him, a keen disappointment in himself. It was a familiar sentiment to him. Feinberg was never happy with second.

The stands cheered for him, and he half-heartedly returned their waves. They loved him. Another challenger capable of defeating the likes of Fruit and Purpled. 2nd in his first race. The reality of it had yet to sink in.

It wasn't perfect, though. There had been a few avoidable mistakes made during the race. He could have qualified better. If he got pole and kept the lead off the start, he could have won. He had the pace.

The champagne popped, and Feinberg attacked Couriway with the drink, drenching both of them in it. Drops of champagne glistened on Couriway's glasses, refracting the sunlight. Fruit laughed euphorically alongside them, similarly soaked, yet at ease, like this was where he was meant to be.

They posed for the photo, and Feinberg smiled with all his teeth, hands clenched behind Fruit’s back. Next time, he would be first.

Post-Race Press Conference

Q: Do you think you could have won today, Feinberg?

Feinberg: Definitely. We had the pace for it, a couple more laps and I catch Fruit and have a proper go at him. Maybe if I had more clean air at the start of my second stint, I could have made up the time, but who knows. Congrats to Fruit, he deserved the win.

Q: Do you think you can win in Bahrain?

Feinberg: Yes. I will win.

Q: Couriway, you started P2 and dropped back to P3 after your team gave Feinberg a preferential strategy, and pitted you into traffic, you must be annoyed you finished behind your rookie teammate.

Couriway: I think that the team did what they could, and I ended up losing out today. That’s racing, though, and we’ll discuss it in debrief. Feinberg had good pace today, and I lost a lot of time when I pitted into traffic. I spent a lot of time behind Silverr, his defence was incredible today, and then didn’t really have the time to catch up with Feinberg and contest him for second.

Q: I asked Feinberg this question, and I’ll ask it to you too. Do you think you can win in Bahrain?

Couriway: Yeah, a hundred percent. If it all goes well, and I don’t get pitted into traffic, we can undoubtedly get closer to Fruit and contest him for the win. Feinberg proved that today.

ella @feinbergsucks • March 17th

Anyone else wondering why fein’s been acting so weird lately or is that just me?

28 replies | 901 retweets | 2.4k likes

max @bacisback • March 17th

@feinbergsucks I’ve noticed it too. Even last year when he was doing his interviews after being signed he seemed on edge

3 replies | 2 retweets | 892 likes

mel @fbwdc • March 17th

he’s too polite this year… what did they do to him in there…

7 replies | 6 retweets | 419 likes

💫 @fbsquared • March 17th

@fbwdc pr training…

2 replies | 9 retweets | 287 likes

Bahrain Grand Prix

Thursday Press Conference — Part One

DRIVERS — Feinberg (RESET), Fruitberries (EYE SPY RACING), Hackingnoisess (INTO FIRE)

Q: Let's start with Fruit, congratulations on your win last weekend, how were the celebrations? Heard they went on for a while.

Fruitberries: Yeah, they sure did, the first win of the season always feels good. The team put in a lot of hard work over the break, so they definitely deserved to party for a night after seeing it pay off. Winning on my debut in Eye Spy undoubtedly brings me the confidence that I could win my seventh championship this year.

Q: In the wake of Purpled's performance last year, and Silverr’s surprise WDC, do you think Purpled is still a championship threat?

Fruitberries: I don’t think you can ever count him out, Purpled’s achieved some amazing stuff over the years and this early into the season nothing is definite. At the moment, though, I’m feeling like I made a better decision than he did. Hopefully this is the year.

Q: Hopefully. Final question. Nice and simple. Do you think you can win here in Bahrain?

Fruitberries: I’m feeling pretty confident in the car, so yeah, I’d say so. I wouldn’t count out the rest though, there’s still Doogile, of course, the Reset cars have been looking pretty strong as well, same with Ranked and Beacon. Honestly, any of them could win it, it’s all up for grabs.

Q: Thank you Fruit, and moving to you Feinberg, that was an incredible debut race, do you think you could have won it?

Feinberg: Yeah, I think if it were any other day and luck was on my side, yeah I would have won it. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t meant to be and virtually everything that could go wrong, went wrong. The pit stop mess up, then I got held up by Silverr on my out lap and got undercut. The car definitely had the pact last weekend, just unfortunate.

Q: Are you still confident in your ability to outperform Couriway this season?

Feinberg: Well, I think I proved that I can do it last week. We'll have to see what happens, but I'm feeling pretty confident.

Q: Okay good to hear, finally before we move to Hax, do you think your lack of experience in F1 is a heavy disadvantage? Or does it not impact you too much?

Feinberg: Well, I think yes, there are disadvantages, but if I put the work in and prepare enough I can gain enough experience to perform to a high standard. Yes, it's nerve wracking to race in F1, but if I focus and put that to the side then I don't think Fruit, for example, has any advantage over me, even though he’s been racing for sixteen years?

Fruitberries: Yep, sixteen, same as Purpled.

Feinberg: Yeah, basically, I don't think it's a heavy disadvantage if you have good nerve management, not with the technology we have these days.

Q: Thank you, Feinberg, and finally Hax. As another rookie, would you agree with Feinberg that a lack of experience is not that great of a disadvantage?

Hackingnoisess: I think it depends on the person, like personally I would say I don't have the greatest nerve management, not on the same level as Feinberg. I have choked races before because of nerves. However, if I was able to come into F1, no nerves, and just perform, then yeah I would agree, there is not much difference. I think the disadvantage that rookies have is the mentality more than the ability, and that's what separates me from Feinberg at the moment. I don't doubt that I can get to his level though, and possibly even surpass him, but not this year I don't think, and definitely not in an Into Fire.

Q: How are you expecting this race to go? Are you confident in your ability to score points for your team?

Hackingnoisess: I wouldn't say I'm confident, but the team's been working hard and even the level of competition in the midfield, I think we have a good chance of snatching points this race. Obviously, with there being such a division between the front-running teams and the midfield this year, it is a lot harder for us to break into the top 8. But you never know, they could all crash out, and it could be an Into Fire 1-2.

Q: That could happen, however unlikely. Final question: We all know how competitive the environment is in Into Fire, considering your team's track record of making driver swaps halfway through a season and dropping drivers after only one year. How is the environment, and would you say it impacts your racing or relationship with your teammate at all?

Hackingnoisess: The environment? Well, obviously there is the constant pressure to perform, but I’m sure that pressure exists in other teams. Obviously, I will always try my best, and my end goal with Into Fire is to someday be promoted into Eye Spy. I think, if anything, the competitive environment pushes me both as a person and a driver. As for my teammate, I think I will always want to beat Mongey, and he will always want to beat me, but we’ve been friends for a long time. I would hope that we will always talk things out and not let it impact our racing.

Q: That’s good to hear Hax. Thank you all for your time, and that concludes our session.

Sunday

“So, we're planning on starting on the softs, that sound good?” VintageBeef, the Senior Race Strategist at Reset, said, his voice resonating through Feinberg’s headphones.

Soft tyres were the fastest as they provided the most grip, but the rubber on them wore down the fastest. Hard tyres were the opposite, the most durable, but least grippy. Medium tyres offered a balance between them, but they didn’t excel at either grip or durability.

They had a pre-race briefing every race to discuss tyre selection, strategy, issues with the car, or whatever else they needed to talk about.

In F3, Feinberg had dominated these types of talks, dragging the meetings on for minutes longer than they needed to be, to the disdain of his teammate and the other members. Here, Feinberg was much the same, except he’d toned it down a little. The team was more competent at this level. There wasn’t as much he needed to say.

“Yes, that sounds fine. I assume we're going for a two-stop race?” Feinberg said before Couriway could say anything.

Couriway shot an annoyed glance at him that Fein pretended to ignore. He didn’t know how this little competition had started, but he knew he had to win it.

Beef nodded, glancing at his notes. “Yep, that's the plan. First stop is likely to be around Lap 12, second stop around Lap 30. Depends on tyre degradation.”

“Are we expecting a safety car?” Couriway asked, quicker this time. Feinberg watched him out of the corner of his eye, his golden glasses revealing the reflection of his computer. It was nothing incriminating, only data.

“We reckon there's a low chance, so we aren't going to plan around it. No chance of rain, as I'm sure you're aware as well.”

Couriway nodded, scribbling something on his notepad.

Feinberg hadn't taken a single note the entire meeting. It wouldn’t matter, though. He had a good memory.

“We think Eye Spy will go for a soft-soft-medium strategy as opposed to a soft-medium-medium, since they have an extra set of softs saved. We'll have to see of course, but with the low degradation on the softs I don't see why they wouldn't.”

Feinberg twirled his pen around his fingers, the movement quick and fluid. Hopefully his driving will be the same this weekend. He needed to win, just to prove that he could, that he was good enough. Feinberg wanted reassurance, the placement. It didn’t matter how good he was if he didn’t score points. No one remembered second best. There was a reason Fruit and Purpled were still fighting for their seventh championship.

After the meeting, Feinberg headed back to his driver room. His pre-race routine consisted of hiding there, away from the vultures that were the media, and scrolling through his phone until he had to go and do his warm-up with Danny – his personal trainer.

Feinberg was fine with talking. He was not one to overthink his words, churn them around in his brain over and over until each individual letter was torn to pieces like a newspaper ran over in the rain. He just needed to think by himself sometimes, to reflect, to try to determine why he lost, what he could do better, how he could win.

Feinberg had fucked it up in Australia, but he’d get first today.

Feinberg smoothly took the turn, twisting the steering wheel to the far right. He took a late apex, following the racing line, to get maximum speed on the straight that lay beyond the corner. The car followed his commands without issue, and no one was nearby to contest him.

“What’s the gap to behind?” Feinberg asked, bolting down the straight.

“8.7 to Couri,” Oliver said, his reply almost instantaneous. “25 laps to go.”

Feinberg focused on the race, the car nimble and sharp beneath his fingers. It wasn't perfect, an F1 car would never be easy to drive, but it was good enough for Feinberg. It could carry him to a race win, and that was all that mattered.

“Box, pit confirm,” Oliver said. “Going to try the undercut.”

An undercut is when a driver pits before the cars in front to attempt to gain a position by lapping faster than them using their fresher tyres to an advantage. It's a far more common strategy than the overcut, when a driver stays out longer to try to gain a position.

“Yep.” Feinberg hit the ‘OK’ button on his wheel, confirming he’d received the message and would pull into the pits at the next opportunity.

At the end of the lap, he peeled off into the pit lane and let off the accelerator, enough to slow the car down to the speed limit. The pit stop took barely any time at all, the swift tyre switch so well practised by the team that it was a seamless routine for them, and it went off without a hitch.

Feinberg came out behind Silverr and Couriway, the first to pit out of the top three. He started pushing, driving closer to the limit and wearing down his new, grippy tyres in order to get a fast out-lap and close the gap to Doogile, who was about twenty seconds ahead, approximately the time it takes to do a pit stop.

Doogile pitted, coming out behind him, leaving Feinberg in a net first. Everything was set for him to win. His second F1 race. That would be a damn good record.

Until–

“No power.” Feinberg wanted to scream at the unfairness of it.

“We'll take a look.”

All he could do is pray that it wasn't mechanical, and they could get it sorted. Doogile was rapidly growing in size in his wing mirrors, and he could at least make an attempt to keep him, and everyone else, behind.

Feinberg managed to shove away his churning anger and focus on lapping as fast as he could with minimal engine power. Doogile kept getting closer, but it took him longer than Oliver had predicted.

Lap 38, Doogile dived on the inside and – despite Feinberg’s attempt at a defensive manoeuvre – made it cleanly past him without trouble, blasting off into the distance the second he got clean air.

Fruit was the next challenger, having overtaken Couriway, and he was on his tail faster than Doogile. “Fruit is burning through his tyres,” was the comm from Oliver.

He couldn't do much to take advantage of it, not with his slow speed on the straights, and he was overtaken almost immediately on the start of the next lap. “Gap to Fulham 2.9,” Oliver said.

“What happened to Couriway?” Feinberg asked. He hadn't seen any debris on the track, or any yellow flags.

“Beacon undercut him with Fulham.” Feinberg internally winced. Couriway wouldn’t be happy about that. “Fulham projected to catch you in 5 laps.”

Feinberg tried his hardest to urge his failing car on, but with another 19 laps in the race, he couldn’t see a world where he held onto the final podium place. 4 laps later, Fulham was right on his tail, and managed to pass at the same point on the track as Doogile did only 6 laps before.

Feinberg really wanted to be done with this race, and as he crossed the line in fourth, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Fuck me, that was a shit race.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Oliver responded.

Feinberg pulled in parc fermé, an ache in his chest that he tried his hardest to ignore in favour of his rational thoughts. He knew that there was nothing that could have been done, but he was still pissed.

“Would you have won this week if you had Couriway's car?” A reporter asked her question like a snare hidden beneath the undergrowth, waiting to catch him out.

Feinberg didn't even hesitate before answering: “Yes.”

The reporter seemed torn between joy at the headline she was about to get and annoyance. “Could you expand on that?”

“If I didn't have the engine issue, I could have won.”

“I was under the impression that you had a different aero setup to Couriway and that was what was delivering you that extra pace?”

Feinberg nodded. “Yeah, I was running a higher downforce setup, and it ended up giving us an advantage this weekend, up until the engine shit itself of course.”

“Right. Thank you, Feinberg.”

Next weekend will be different.

Chinese Grand Prix

Saturday

“So Feinberg, congrats on your first ever pole, it's only your third race, which is just unbelievable, how does it feel?” It was Xisuma doing the post-race interviews, a former Into Fire Team Principal. Feinberg had spoken with him a bit last year while his contract negotiations were going on.

“It feels pretty great,” Feinberg said, and for once he wasn’t lying. “This is only the first step though, of course, I still gotta get the win tomorrow.”

“And how optimistic are you that you’ll be able to keep your position on Sunday?”

“Obviously I’ve still got to talk with the team about strategy and everything, but the car felt good, and the upgrades are clearly working, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t be able to keep position,” Feinberg replied.

Xisuma nodded from behind the cameras. “And finally, overall, how would you say your session went?”

“It was pretty good, most of my laps were clean, and I finally managed to get an almost perfect lap in Q3. The car itself was driving well, not too much understeer today, the team’s been working hard back at the factory to bring some upgrades and clearly, they’ve paid off this week.”

Sunday

Fulham dived for the inside from a mile back, going for the apex that was definitely Feinberg’s. He made evasive manoeuvres to avoid a puncture, and proceeded to get forced off the track, and nearly ran into.

“What the fuck is he doing? He overtook off the fucking track,” Feinberg slammed the brake down as hard as he could at the end of the straight, trying to gain back time. He wasn’t close enough to make a move, and the Beacon remained annoyingly ahead. “Why the fuck did he do that shit? If I don’t turn in, we crash and he forces me off? What kind of fucking racing is that? He needs to give the place back.”

“Yeah, that he did not go about that the right way. We'll submit a report to the stewards,” Oliver said.

“Keep me updated.”

“Fulham has a ten-second penalty. Gap is 11.4, you’re lapping faster than him.”

“I’m safe to push?” Feinberg asked. He didn’t want to wear the tyres down completely before the end of the race and become vulnerable to cars behind.

“Yes, affirm. Car behind is Doogile. 13.8 back.” The same information appeared on his pit board on the next lap in neon yellow lettering.

Feinberg glanced in his rear mirrors. They were empty.

Feinberg pushed the car as hard as he could, forcing his screaming tyres around the circuit in an attempt to close down the gap.

“Gap is 10.2 to Fulham,” Oliver told him on the last lap. “Make this one count.”

Feinberg tore through the circuit, the lap coming together perfectly. His tyres had enough grip left in them for him to push. He needed this. He could finally get a win. Maybe it wasn’t in the way he wanted to get it, but he would take it.

He pushed the tyres as hard as he could, the grip levels were close to none, but he could manage it. He hadn't gained a reputation in karting for nothing. Feinberg was a good fucking race driver, and he would be the greatest there ever was. He would win his third race. It wasn’t his first, but it was close enough. It wouldn’t matter anyway. No one would care after he reached a hundred wins.

He was flying through the lap. Feinberg knew he was setting purple sectors, the adrenaline pumping through his body as he pushed this car as hard as it could go. He could already taste the victory champagne.

Then he ran wide at turn 14.

“Fuck,” Feinberg swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. How much time did I lose there?”

“Two tenths.”

“Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?” Feinberg flew across the finish line, his heart thumping in his ears, but it didn’t matter.

“That is P2. Missed it by one tenth,” Oliver told him.

Feinberg slammed a fist into his steering wheel, not hard enough to break it, but with enough force that some of his anger was let out. “Again,” Feinberg said angrily. “God, I’m so sick of this stupid sport.”

“Yeah, we were unlucky today. Switch took fastest lap.”

The urge to slam his head into his steering wheel was steadily increasing.

“I was so close,” Feinberg cursed. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

Oliver didn’t respond, but Feinberg knew he agreed. He lost an easy win. All he had to do was not go wide, and he won. He doesn’t lose time, and he wins. One tenth is nothing, he could have saved that a million times throughout the race. Feinberg desperately wanted to go lie down and not think about anything, especially not F1 races.

If he didn’t win soon, Feinberg reckoned he might go insane.

Second tasted sour. It was so close, yet so far, a tease at what could be. It was still a failure. Second best.

In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t matter, Feinberg tried to tell himself. It was only the fourth race, there were still plenty of points to grab, he could still secure the championship. The season had barely started, it was still doable, he was second in the championship, he was still in the fight. He wouldn’t be out of it until the last race if he had anything to say about it.

It was only the third race.

But that didn’t matter, not to Feinberg. It didn’t matter that the race didn’t mean much, that he’d out scored Fruit, the driver ahead of him in the championship. He needed a win like a fish needs water.

He needed to prove he could do it.

“Fulham!” Feinberg shouted across parc fermé.

Fulham turned and sighed, heading towards Feinberg. All the cameras were locked on them. Feinberg shouldn’t be doing this now, he knew rationally, he should deal with this in private, but he couldn’t bring himself to let Fulham get away with it without repercussions.

“Yes, Feinberg?” Fulham asked.

“Are you fucking stupid? How could you ever think you would make that apex?”

Fulham shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it. I got a penalty and you still lost.”

“If I didn’t move, we both would have got punctures,” Feinberg said angrily.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fulham brushed off. “But we didn’t, there’s an ‘if’ in that statement, and it didn’t happen, because you made evasive actions.”

“But I shouldn’t have to. That’s shitty racing.”

“Whatever, Fein. I don’t care. I don’t want to be your enemy.”

Feinberg glowered at the ground, and didn’t bother to offer Fulham a response. The driver sighed, again, and left to do his post-race interview.

He wouldn’t care if he’d won, Feinberg thought, he would have been too distracted with the celebrations. It was his fault he’d lost, not Fulham’s, he was just doing his job.

Feinberg would win the next one.

Azerbaijian Grand Prix

Sunday

“This car has no fucking grip,” Feinberg complained. It was only Lap 7; pitting now would be disastrous.

There was a pause for a moment, then a response: “Copy. Keep managing your tyres. Gap to Doogile 2.6.”

Feinberg didn’t bother replying, instead focusing on keeping his car out of the barriers. He hurtled down the start straight, catching a glimpse of Doogile’s car before it turned left around the corner. He downshifted, letting off the throttle, and braking, cleanly making the ninety-degree corner. Feinberg pushed the throttle pedal back down for the short straight after the turn. Then acceleration dropped off, the car slowing.

“Fuck! The fucking engine’s failed,” Feinberg exclaimed angrily down the radio, stopping the car in the run-off area.

“Switch the car off, Fein,” Oliver reminded.

“I know,” Feinberg indignantly responded, doing just that. “Why do these things have to happen to me?”

“We’ll have a look at it,” Oliver said with an air of finality to his voice. “We’ll discuss it in debrief.”

Feinberg got himself out of the car, hitching a ride with a marshal back to the pit lane. He got changed in his driver room. He then dragged himself to the media pen to complete his interview, before hiding away in his driver room to watch the rest of the race.

With around ten laps to go, Feinberg pulled himself off the sofa in his room, making his way to the Reset garage. He stood on his side, eyes locked on the screen, where Couriway was desperately battling with Doogile for first and second. Feinberg watched anxiously as they exchanged positions every lap, neither one of them able to escape the other. Couriway stuck an overtake down the main straight on the last lap, and Feinberg watched with bated breath

“Couriway has won the Azerbaijan Grand Prix!” the commentator announced, fireworks going off as Couri drove his car across the finish line, swerving towards the waving Reset team members.

The grandstands cheered their approval. The whole garage cheered. It was like Feinberg was the only one in the world not cheering.

Couriway's radio was playing, his reaction to his first win on blast for the world to hear. “Dude, yes! Thank you! That strategy was incredible!” Couri exclaimed, the pure joy in his voice evident to every listener.

“You deserve this win, that was a brilliant drive,” Etho told him, cheers loud in the background. “We’re only going to get more from here.”

“For sure,” Couriway said resolutely, slowly making his way to parc fermé, fireworks going off behind him. The radio broadcast cut out after that. The commentators resumed their conversation, but Feinberg couldn’t hear any of it, the rushing water in his ears flooding his senses. He should be happy. For the team. For Couriway.

Feinberg forced a smile. He’d had plenty of practice lately, faking his emotions, not being a sore loser, even though P2 made him want to slam his head into a wall. He could do this for Couriway. Around him, the garage celebrated the win; cheers and hugs were exchanged between the team. Another job well done, a mostly successful day for the team. If only they hadn’t fucked up his car.

It should have been him. It would be him next time, it had to be.

Couri was still driving his cooldown lap. Feinberg had time to get to parc fermé and celebrate. He made his decision, pulling off his headphones and discarding them on the table. He stood up, flying out of the garage.

Feinberg raced towards the growing crowd, the multitudes of garages blurring on his left and the track on his right. Feinberg was soaring, his chest felt the lightest it had been all day; it finally felt like he was doing something right.

He shoved through the sea of dark blue and silver uniforms until he reached the front of the barriers. He could see Couriway getting out of the car, pumping a fist into the air triumphantly. The crowd screamed their approval. Couriway looked radiant, the focal point of the world’s attention. He leapt off the car and threw himself at the Reset team members, who were flocking to him like a magpie to glitter, eager to praise him on his incredible drive.

Feinberg watched on as Couriway celebrated, at some point he tore off his helmet, his happiness clear on his face. It was beautiful to watch. Guilt bubbled in his chest. Why hadn’t he cheered, why was he so jealous of Couriway’s success? Because his success is your failure , a voice whispered spitefully .

He discarded the thought. Couriway drew closer, and he waved, receiving a series of dirty looks in the process after almost running into everyone around him. “Couri!”

Couri finally saw him, and Feinberg didn’t even know that it was possible for Couriway to look even happier.

“Fein!” Couriway flew over to him, throwing his arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry about what happened to-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Feinberg laughed, and for once, he wasn’t lying. “You won, that’s what matters.”

“Yeah I did, it still doesn’t feel real, honestly.”

“That was an incredible drive, that last pass you did on Doogile was insane. Doing it from that far back? I don’t even think I could pull that move off.”

Couriway chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Fein, of course you could. You’re next, okay, next race, it’s yours. You’ve been so close all season. We’re going to get it right next time.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Sure I can,” Couriway said easily. “I just won.”

“That you did, and I think they want you over there,” Feinberg gestured to where the interviewer, InsaneOrbitzz, was waiting patiently. At least three cameras had been on them for their conversation, but thankfully, he didn’t think there were any microphones around. Probably. He wouldn’t put it past Netflix to have somehow affixed one to a shoe or something.

Couriway pressed his lips together, and took the proffered microphone, taking his place on the dot in front of the cameras. “Couriway, congratulations on your first win!” Orbitzz said, and the crowd screamed with him. Couriway smiled widely.

“Thank you. It feels so good to finally have done it, after all these years, I’m finally the one on top, I finally delivered for the team and after all these years of hard work I’ve finally given back to them. It’s been a long day, but this is definitely a good way to end it. I don’t think I can properly express how incredibly happy I am to have finally achieved this.”

“It wasn’t the easiest race for you,” Orbitzz said. “You started back in 5th after a three place grid penalty, managed to undercut Silverrruns, Purpled and Fruitberries, and then had to pass Doogile on track.”

“Yeah, it was a struggle, but the strategists nailed it today, and I have sources that say my pass on Doog was pretty good, so I think I can be proud of that.”

“Yeah, for sure, those sources definitely know what they're talking about.”

Couriway laughed, “I’d hope so.” The camera pointed at Feinberg blinked on. He allowed the edge of his mouth to twitch upwards ever so slightly.

“One last question, how does it feel to win with Reset and do you have anyone you'd like to thank?”

“Huge thank you to everyone at Reset, thank you for everything you've done for me, even when I was barely performing last year, you all kept putting the effort in. It feels so good to finally make all your efforts worth it and to give the result that we've been looking for.”

“Thank you Couriway and congratulations again!”

Couriway looked radiant on the podium, soaked in champagne and confetti while holding his trophy aloft. It was incredible.

Feinberg wanted to be alongside him.

Spanish Grand Prix

Thursday

“Feinberg!”

He spun at the call, scanning the paddock to identify the source of the shout. He caught sight of Couriway racing through the paddock, past all the teams unpacking, almost running over a Ranked team member in the process.

Feinberg slowed his pace and allowed Couriway to catch up with him. “Hi Couri?”

Couriway beamed, “Glad I caught you, I haven't seen you since Baku, dude!”

“Yeah– I’ve been a bit busy.” He’d been dragged to the Reset factory to film some sponsor shit. Some of them were fun, but some were plain stupid. What the fuck were a widepeepo or a Blaze Bed?

Sometimes he wondered where Reset found these sponsors.

They talked amicably until they arrived at Reset's hospitality. Couriway was easy to talk to, Feinberg discovered. They had a lot in common; both were American; they both went to boarding school in the UK; both raced. There was an instant connection between them. It annoyed Feinberg.

They each went their separate ways once they reached the garage – Feinberg had some media duties and Couriway had to go talk with Etho. Feinberg watched Couriway walk away, his brow furrowed in thought.

This felt new.

Thursday Press Conference Transcript

DRIVERS — Feinberg (Reset), Wallibear (Sodium), Doogile (Eye Spy Racing), 7rowl (Pace), Silverrruns (Ranked), Switch (MC)

Q: Feinberg, let’s start with you. It’s your first race in Spain. After last week’s crash, are you still confident that you could get a win here?

Feinberg: Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be? Last week’s scenario was the result of an engine failure, and the team’s identified the issue, and we’ve replaced the engine for this week. The team’s brought upgrades this week, which Couri’s running. I’ll be receiving them in Monaco. Even without the upgrades, I think I can still win it, but obviously it will be tough.

Q: Alright. Can we talk about Couriway’s win? You were seen at the parc fermé barriers, presumably congratulating him. Were you upset after your DNF? Do you have anything you’d like to say about it?

Feinberg: Yeah, I was congratulating him. I was upset about the DNF, sure, but Couriway deserved it. I watched most of the drive from the garage, and I thought it was pretty fucking incredible, and I stand by that. So I went and congratulated him. I don’t think it was that unusual. The whole team goes and celebrates podiums, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.

Q: Alright, and finally, do you think the Reset will be faster than the Eye Spy this week?

Feinberg: Depends on if we get the setup right or not. I think this track suits our car quite well, high downforce and long straights are quite good for us, but yeah, it’ll depend on if we can get the setup right. The Eye Spy is quite a good all round car I think, so they’ll definitely be competitive, and it depends on their setup as well I suppose.

Q: Okay, and moving on to Wallibear…

mel @fbwdc • May 10th

feinberg is so insanely overconfident even tho he’s only done four races its honestly insane to watch. like mf you’ve been here literally two seconds ur basically a newborn calm down dude

24 replies | 987 retweets | 8.7k likes

ella @7einberg • May 10th

@fbwdc hes so funny i love him

4 replies | 78 retweets | 3.1k likes

Lux @curryweigh • May 10th

@fbwdc I hate him so much he’s done nothing to back it up

19 replies | 32 retweets | 1.4k likes

FRUITBERRIES @cherrybomb • May 10th

@curryweigh the best rookie season of all time means nothing then?

6 replies | 17 retweets | 1.8k likes

Lux @curryweigh • May 10th

@cherrybomb It's the car, obviously. We’re four races in and he’s not even won anything and I doubt he will anytime soon. He doesn’t have the right mentality for it

8 replies | 4 retweets | 619 likes

Sunday

Feinberg crossed the line in first for the first time. His chest felt light, the tension that had been stored within him released, like a bow firing an arrow. He’d done it.

“Thank you, thank you, this is amazing!” Feinberg punched a fist towards the skies.

“Feinberg, you are a grand prix winner! Congrats!” Oliver said, his voice clear and resolute, cutting through his elation.

“Thank you Oliver.” He waved to a group of fans holding up a sign with his face on. He’d never done that before. They cheered and waved back. Feinberg couldn’t hold back his smile.

He had done it.

The taste of champagne was so much better when he was on the top step. Silverr and Reign drowned him in bubbles, and Couri beamed up at him from the crowds, perhaps in pride, perhaps in envy. Feinberg wished he could frame this moment forever, immortalize it for all eternity, and stay here until his death.

He hefted the trophy high above his head, raising it to the clouds as the teal-clad Beacon fans beneath him cheered and booed — he didn’t notice at the time. Nothing could possibly ruin this day, could take the bubbling taste of joy that had sat in his mouth since he crossed the line and saw the chequered flag first.

Victory was sweet. Feinberg wanted more.

Feinberg entered Reset’s motorhome, still in his race suit and stinking of champagne, and walked straight for the stairs. The team cheered when he walked in, and Feinberg felt his face flush at the attention, unused to it.

Couriway approached him, that same beam still on his face, and embraced him, even though he was soaked in champagne. “I told you,” he said, arms still around him. “I fucking told you this was your race.”

Feinberg returned the embrace gladly, guiltlessly, resting his head on Couri’s shoulder. “Yeah, you fucking did.”

Couriway was the first to pull away, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. “Want to go out and celebrate tonight?”

“Celebrate?”

“Like in a club, you deserve it, I reckon.”

Feinberg bit his lip, hesitant. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it.”

“Don’t worry,” Couriway grinned, clearly amused. “I’ll look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Feinberg bristled, taking a step in the direction of the stairs. ‘If you’re going to be a dick about it, I won’t go.”

“Sorry, sorry. I can keep an eye on you. That better?” Couriway raised his eyebrows, challenging.

“Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll go?”

“What else would I be saying okay for?” Feinberg rolled his eyes.

“I’ll send you the address,” Couriway beamed.

“Dude, you are such a lightweight,” Couriway told him. The surrounding lights seemed to sway in a hypnotizing pattern, and he almost fell on his face when the two of them began their slow trek towards the exit.

“Did you have fun at least?” Couriway asked as he held open the door, the cool outside air leaking into the warmth of the club.

“Sure, it was fun,” Feinberg mumbled. “Don’t think I like parties very much. Or alcohol.”

Couriway laughed, and Feinberg frowned, kicking at the ground. “Did you have fun?” Feinberg asked, turning towards Couriway.

“Yeah, it was fine,” Couriway said.

“That’s good,” Feinberg said. “That’s good.”

Monaco Grand Prix

Sunday

“Two in a row, Fein! Two in a fucking row!” Oliver shouted, and Feinberg laughed disbelievingly. He was floating, on top of the world. It couldn’t get better from here. He could already taste the champagne on his tongue and the bubbles soaking his fireproofs. The thrill of standing on the podium, the trophy in his hands, and the crowd screaming for him.

“Yes!” Feinberg screamed, unable to hold back his whoop of joy. “Holy fucking shit. We won Monaco.” The 78 laps of the race had been nerve racking, he’d almost expected himself to fuck it up, to crash into a wall last lap like Purpled had done a couple of years ago. He didn’t though, he didn’t, and now under the Monégasque sun he tasted victory, and it was as sweet as ever.

The cooldown lap passed by in a flash, and he stood triumphantly above his car, throwing his arms into the air and his voice hoarse from screaming with the crowd. All their eyes were on him. He was the winner, first place, the driver that arose from the rest to win fucking Monaco. The pinnacle of all Formula 1 races.

The podium was a blur of handshakes and trophies and champagne, and then an endless stream of people were dragging him towards Reset's motorhome, the trophy gripped in his hands.

Feinberg went along with it, a smile permanently affixed on his face as the group of them spilled out onto the roof. At some point, Couriway had appeared, a scheming look in his eye as he grabbed Feinberg's wrist and brought him to the tranquil, rippling edge of the pool.

It seemed like all of Reset was there, all of them drunk off of victory and high on endorphins. Etho was on the opposite edge of the pool, standing next to Beef. His eyes were squinted in lieu of a smile and his silver hair flying freely in the wind, headband lost. The relief on his face was clear to anyone, even from this far away.

A force from behind had him stumbling forwards, his feet slipping out from underneath him. Feinberg hit the water with a splash, the chlorine stinging his eyes. “Couri!” He wiped his hair from his face. His race suit buoyed him down in water.

Couriway laughed so hard he doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Feinberg couldn't help but laugh along with him. A Reset mechanic, one of his, Feinberg recognised him, shoved Couriway into the pool alongside Feinberg and all hell broke loose.

Everyone in the team ended up soaked. Feinberg was thrown back into the pool more times than he could count. Couriway did a fucking front flip. Etho, Bdubs – head of Reset’s creative team – and Beef got in at some point, all three of them laughing like Feinberg had never seen.

The two trophies inconspicuously sat on the pool edge. Feinberg grabbed his first place trophy and threw it up towards the skies, towards the darkening clouds that promised thunder.

Couriway, amused, picked up his third place trophy. His expression turned melancholic as he turned it over in his hands, before he tossed it to the last of the sun rays that slipped through the clouds, streaming across his face and lighting up his face in an ethereal glow. His eyes swirled golden, as if they were made of pure ichor.

Feinberg had everything.

Couriway fished him out of the pool, and laughed, brushing away a strand of hair from his face. The two of them were crushed against the wall, the sea on one side, an endless source of press and Reset members on the other.

“Well, how are we getting out of here?” Feinberg asked. Someone tried to shove a microphone in his hands, but he shoved it away.

Couriway laughed again, the sound vibrant and alive . “We could jump.”

Couriway didn't wait for an answer, jumping over the flimsy barrier. The crowd screamed their approval, and Feinberg followed, half-caught in a daze, over the boundary.

The water below him seemed so far, so unobtainable. Feinberg glanced at Couriway nervously, meeting the gaze that had already turned towards him, shining with pure joy and adoration. Feinberg’s heart beat drummed in his chest, louder than it had ever been before.

“Shall we?” Couriway offered out his hand.

Feinberg didn’t hesitate to let go of the barrier and grasp Couri’s hand. His eyes locked on Couri’s gleaming ones, all envy forgotten. “We shall.” Feinberg’s hand tingled with warmth where Couriway held it.

“On three, okay?” Couriway said, stepping right up to the edge. The crowd of people on the motorhome were all watching them. He couldn't back down now, especially if he wanted to avoid Etho yelling at him in front of a live broadcast.

Feinberg couldn’t hold back his nervous laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

Couriway gave his hand a squeeze, and Feinberg’s uncertainty vanished, replaced with a wild sort of excitement, one he hadn't felt anywhere but in a car. “One, Two.” Feinberg braced himself.

“Three.”

They fell through the air, the crowd behind them deafeningly loud. Couriway’s hand was still firmly in his, even if that couldn’t be safe. Feinberg screamed in both fear and joy, and Couriway laughed, bright and elated, as they hit the ocean, sending up a fountain of water.

Feinberg's nose filled with water. His arm ached from where it was held out as he hit the water, but it didn’t matter. Couriway’s hand was still firmly in his.

Tears fell down Feinberg’s face, the moisture concealed by the ocean spray, the waves picking up due to the wind from the oncoming storm. His chest felt lighter than it had all year.

They swam back to a ladder, pulling themselves, still in their race suit, up. They still hadn’t let go of each other, and Feinberg wasn’t going to be the first to do so. He wasn't going to break this already tenuous bond between them.

Instead, he smiled wider, and pulled Couriway in for a hug.

“Thank you,” he breathed, lighter than a butterfly.

Couriway took a step back. Feinberg didn't understand.

“I didn't do it for you.”

Feinberg frowned. “Then who for?”

Couriway's eyes darted away from him. “Myself.”

“I don't understand,” Feinberg told him honestly. That was his first mistake.

“You should,” Couriway let go of his hand. Feinberg hadn't even noticed they were still connected. “You have to know we can't do this.”

“Oh. I see.”

Couriway bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“You aren't really sorry.”

“No,” Couriway said wryly.

They were both dripping water onto the dock. Perhaps it would be more appropriate for it to be blood.

“Good race,” Feinberg said. He meant it, unfortunately.

Couriway tilted his head in acquiescence. “Good race.”

Canadian Grand Prix

Thursday Press Conference — Part Two

DRIVERS — PresidentPoundcake (STRONGHOLD), Feinberg (RESET), Couriway (RESET)

…Q: So, Feinberg, we saw your team celebrations last week with Couriway, could you give us a few details?

Feinberg: Uh, well, I’d just won and Couriway had got third, so we were pretty happy about that, so we celebrated. I don’t- I don’t really know what else to say?

Q: Are you and Couriway friends outside of racing?

Feinberg: I guess so… I’d like to be?

Couriway: I won't stop you.

Feinberg: Well, there you go.

PresidentPoundcake: Why do you sound so unsure about that?

Feinberg: I’m just not sure.

PresidentPoundcake: Is it because you guys fucked?

Couriway: What? No?

PresidentPoundcake: That’s the face of a man who’s stuck in a complex homoerotic relationship. I don’t make the rules.

Q: Okay, right, moving on…

Sunday

“Hey, Feinberg.”

“Couriway,” Feinberg said, setting his phone down on the table in front of him. The two of them were in the main seating area of Reset’s hospitality. “How are you?”

Couriway shrugged, sitting down on the chair opposite him. “I'm alright. Could be better, could be worse.”

“Yeah. What do you want, Couri?” Feinberg asked directly. He was tired of the constant talking in circles.

“What do you mean?” Couriway asked, confused. Feinberg rolled his eyes at the acting.

“Friends or not friends, Couri? I don’t understand you. Maybe that's the point.” Feinberg rested his chin on his hands. “Is it?”

“I don't understand you . You're all ‘I don't want to be friends’, but you don't act like it. You go party with me and smile at me and jump off motorhomes and congratulate me on my win, and I just need you to make it clear,” Couriway said.

“What are you confused about? You think I don't want to be friends with you,” Feinberg demanded. “That I'm all ‘this is a competition, and you're my number one opponent’? What indication have I given towards that?”

Couriway sighed. “I don't know.”

“Why do you suddenly want to be friends? What happened to all the mind games shit? Get bored after one race?” Feinberg demanded. “Am I not interesting enough for you? Because I can make it more interesting.”

“What are you going to do to make it ‘more interesting’? Say we're enemies to the press or some shit? I don't care, Fein.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t! Because you're clearly not paying any single drop of attention to me. Fuck you, honestly. Don't know why I even tried.”

Feinberg began to walk away, but Couriway grabbed his shoulder before he could. “Look, I'm sorry about the mind games, but I'm not going to stop. I want to win, and I'll do anything to achieve that.”

Feinberg shook the hand off, not turning around. “Yeah, I got that. You better not get pissed when I do shit back,” he told Couriway, not turning to look at him.

“I wouldn't dare.”

“Who ended up winning between the Eye Spys?” Feinberg asked as he drove his cooldown lap.

“Doogile,” Oliver said.

“Seriously? Doogile beat him?” Feinberg said incredulously. “How did that happen?”

“Doogile held Fruit off, it was impressive driving. You’ve lost your Championship lead by one point.”

“I'll have to watch it back.”

The podium ceremony was uneventful, other than the Eye Spy drivers ganging up on him to get him as drenched in champagne as possible. They posed for a photo, and Feinberg desperately tried to look like he wasn’t borderline depressive at his third place finish. He should be happy. He beat Couriway.

Feinberg let his gaze stray to the crowd, and he spotted Couriway. He was radiant in the sunlight, and his brown hair seemed to have turned golden. It was beautiful. Couriway raised a distant hand and waved.

Feinberg returned it.

French Grand Prix

Saturday, Qualifying

“Shit,” Feinberg cursed, the double yellow flags waving ahead clearly visible. “Oh my fucking god.”

“Double yellows ahead, slow down, Hax in the wall,” Oliver said. He reluctantly lifted off the throttle, slowing the car. Feinberg caught a glimpse of the Into Fire buried in the tyres of the barriers out of the corner of his eye, fragments of its chassis scattered around it.

“Is he okay?” Feinberg asked, looking at the remains of the car in his rear mirrors. He genuinely liked Hax, he was one of the few on the grid that wasn’t a prick to him. “Looks like he went in pretty hard.”

“Yes, the driver is okay. We’ve received radio confirmation.”

“Right, good. Where are we?” Feinberg could already guess.

“P16,” Oliver said, dismay clouding his voice. “That lap was good enough to be provisional pole by half a tenth. Just unlucky timing.”

“Yeah, unlucky.” Feinberg peeled off into the pit lane, the urge to punch something growing. Out in Q1 in a fucking Reset. Even a Sodium beat him.

He pulled himself out of the car as soon as he was wheeled into the garage, keeping his helmet on as he marched towards the exit of the garage. Etho intercepted his warpath right before he escaped, “Fein, there wasn't anything you could have done.”

“I could have set a faster first lap. Could have not lost the car at the last corner.”

“Yep, it was unlucky, and next time you can do better, yeah?”

“But it wasn't only unlucky, I didn't perform today,” Feinberg said firmly. “I didn't optimise everything, and I was punished because of it.”

Etho tilted his head in acquiescence. “Alright. Just don’t put too much pressure on yourself, it's still your first year. You're expected to make mistakes.”

Feinberg shook his head. “I fucked up and that’s all it was. Next time I'll do better.”

“I’m sure you will,” Etho said warmly. “I'll let you go now. Have fun doing interviews.”

“Oh fuck off,” Feinberg said, walking and unfastening his helmet. “They are not going to shut up about this, are they?”

Etho's eyes tilted upwards knowingly - Feinberg was willing to bet he was smiling under that mask. “Doubt they will. Hope you're prepared.”

“I am,” Feinberg said over his shoulder.

Feinberg went back to the Reset hospitality, slamming the door on his driver room and collapsing on the small sofa. The qualifying stream was playing on the screen, the commentators loud and blaring. He covered his face with a pillow.

Feinberg desperately wanted to escape out the back. He could do it, no one would notice until he was back in his hotel room, far away from any media duties or stupid interview questions. He shouldn’t though, Bdubs would murder him and Etho would phone him and be all disappointed. Feinberg really did not think he could deal with that on top of everything else today.

Steeling himself, he sat up, watching the TV for a short moment. They were about to start Q2 – Hax’s crash must have caused a delay. He should go before Q2 finishes and another wave of knock-outs comes in.

Feinberg quickly changed out of his fireproofs and headed for the media pen, a Reset team member came up to him and gave him a hat to wear. The urge to tell them to fuck off had been strong, the anger coursing through him had only multiplied as he thought about the situation more. There’s no world where he should have been first out, except he was apparently in one, and it pissed him off.

“Feinberg!” Wolfeei waved him over-enthusiastically, and Feinberg reluctantly obliged. Wolfeei was a fairly nice, usually well-informed reporter who had gained a reputation for his unconventional questions.

“Hi, Wolfeei, nice to see you,” Feinberg wrested a smile onto his face, too aware of the cameras watching him from every angle.

“That qualifying session definitely wasn't your greatest,” Wolfeei said, handing him a red microphone branded with the letters WE – Wolfeei Extras.

“You could say that.”

Wolfeei chuckled. “Do you think you can recover tomorrow?”.

“A normal question, Wolfeei,” Feinberg held back a laugh. “I'm impressed.”

“Yeah, yeah, just answer the damn question.”

“Barring a disaster, yes. Hopefully, I can catch Doog and close down the championship gap, but that might be a bit optimistic. The car is quick around here, but the Eye Spys are also fast. I don't know what you expected me to say?”

“Do you think you could catch your teammate, Couriway?”

“Yes – I have better race pace than him.”

Wolfeei grinned. “Thanks for the clickbait headline, Fein.”

“Oh fuck off.” Yet, Feinberg couldn't stop himself from grinning back. He couldn't bring himself to dislike Wolfeei, he was too nice for that. His honesty was refreshing in the world of F1.

“Okay, final question: who on the grid would you bring to do an escape room?”

Feinberg laughed. “Couriway. He'd be pretty good, I think.”

“Are you any good at escape rooms?”

“I've done one ever, and I finished like half an hour before the hour time limit. So I'd say I'm pretty good. I think if I did a lot more I'd get better, cause my main issue was recognizing what the puzzles were, since I hadn't seen anything like them.”

“So if you practice, you reckon you can get good?”

“For sure. It wouldn't even take me too long, I don’t think. How about you Wolfeei, any good at escape rooms?”

“I'm alright,” Wolfeei said, “could be worse, could be better.”

“We should go do one. Me, you, Couri. That would be a banger video, no?”

“If you're down, I'm down, man.”

“Email my team about it. We can make this happen.”

Wolfeei nodded. “I will. Okay, final final question. If you lose the championship, what are you going to do?”

Feinberg frowned. “I haven't thought much about it.”

“Think about it now, then,” Wolfeei urged.

Feinberg hadn't even considered that he could lose this championship, that once he'd gained the lead he could lose it again. Obviously, he wasn't in first at the moment, but he wasn't far enough behind that he couldn't make up the gap.

In his head, he still wasn't performing to his skill ceiling, and that was his excuse for not being first. Feinberg knew that he was sort of lying to himself. He wasn't at his skill ceiling yet, he improved every week, but he was very close to the peak of his abilities.

If Feinberg lost something even though he was performing at his peak, he wasn't sure he could handle it, the loss. He’d never had to before.

“Win the next one?” Feinberg offered.

“Anything else?” Wolfeei asked, leaning slightly closer as if he could steal the words straight out of Feinberg’s mouth.

“I’ll be pissed off, I guess. It depends on why I lost, if it was my fault I'd be very pissed, if it was someone else’s fault I'd be pissed at myself, and also at them.”

“You’d be able to come back stronger after that?”

“I’d have to,” Feinberg shrugged. “If I don’t perform, I’m out, and I can’t imagine that I’d throw everything away because of a lost championship.”

Wolfeei leaned back and nodded. “Good luck in Austria.”

“Thanks. Good luck writing your article on escape rooms and championship fights.”

“Appreciate it, dude.”

Feinberg handed his microphone off to a PR manager and exited the media pen. The paddock was bustling with people, and multiple of them attempted to pin him down and start another conversation. Feinberg brushed all of them off and continued back to the Reset motorhome to collect his stuff.

Couriway stood outside their driver rooms – the doors separating them were mere inches apart, making it almost impossible for them to avoid each other. He was staring at a photo, Feinberg noticed, of his win in Baku.

“Hi Couri,” Feinberg said, forcing a facade of normalcy.

Couriway started, clearly having not heard Feinberg’s approach. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” Feinberg said, confused.

Couriway seemed visibly relieved. “Sorry about your qualifying.”

“Not your fault, is it? I should have done a faster first lap, or gone earlier, or something. I don’t fucking know. It was unlucky.” He should have been better, if only he could repeat the day again.

“Yeah. It was. You can recover, though, it's not the end of the world.”

“Hopefully the strategists pull through tomorrow.”

“Reset 1-2?”

“Yeah,” Feinberg agreed, the anxieties that had been plaguing him since he stepped out that car easing off a little.

Couriway smiled, and Feinberg wanted to hate the softness in it, the weakness. Instead, he returned the smile, laying a hand on Couriway's shoulder as he walked past towards his driver room.

At the doorway, he looked back at Couriway. “Congrats on pole, by the way.”

Couriway's smile dimmed a little. Feinberg clenched his fists. Somehow, he'd messed up. “Thank you,” Couriway mumbled. “It was a pretty shit lap, though.”

You would have beaten it were the words left unsaid.

Feinberg shook his head in disagreement. “It was a good lap. You beat everyone else, it doesn't matter if you lost time, you were still fastest. That's what's important.”

Couriway nodded reluctantly, and Feinberg held back a sigh of relief. It wouldn't be good if he had an unconfident teammate, they needed to work together to beat the Eye Spys.

At least that was what Feinberg told himself.

“Yeah, I suppose that's true,” Couriway said hesitantly, taking a step back, as if he were a caged bird, unable to fly.

“It's a hundred percent true.” Feinberg pushed as much confidence as he could into his voice.

Couriway pressed his lips together in a semblance of a smile. “I'll take your word for it.”

Feinberg knew that he wasn't going to get anything better than that. “I’m gonna head back to the hotel, do you want to come with me? I’ve got a car.” Making the offer was the polite thing to do, he told himself.

Couriway stared at him in open shock.

Feinberg shifted uncomfortably, backing into his room. “If you don't want to, that's fine,” he said hurriedly. “If you have another–”

“Yeah, I’ll come. Give me a few minutes to collect my stuff. I’ll meet you out here.”

Feinberg nodded mutely and Couriway disappeared into his room. He stood there, staring blankly at the doorway, the seconds ticking by.

Couriway reappeared after about two minutes, and together they headed down to the car park, stopping to talk to a group of fans on the way. After he’d signed what felt like the hundredth pink and blue hat, the two of them made their escape.

“Fucking hell,” Feinberg muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Couriway laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I doubt it,” Feinberg replied, turning the key in the ignition.

“Maybe you should stop being so rude to them, it might help your popularity.”

Feinberg shook his head. “Nah. I’d rather be myself than act like I tolerate them. Maybe they’ll leave me alone.”

“I doubt that .”

The drive took them ten minutes. Feinberg parked the car as Couriway thanked him for the lift.

“It was no problem, really,” Feinberg said.

“You didn't have to offer, but you did, and I appreciate it.”

Their rooms were next to each other. They said their farewells at the doorway, and Feinberg headed into his room to instantly collapse on the bed.

Just two races ago, Couriway had been messing with his head. Now Feinberg was offering him lifts to their hotel and having pleasant conversations.

These pleasantries could all be a game to Couri. It could be a trick to lull him into a false sense of security, then stab him in the back when he was at his most vulnerable. Couriway was known for that. He'd tried it with Fruit, and now he was trying it with Fein.

Until he could be sure, he couldn't risk letting his guard down.

Feinberg hated this sport sometimes.

Sunday

“How was your race?”

Feinberg shrugged, “16th to 5th is not bad at all for a recovery drive. I don’t think there was anything more I could have done. We got the strategy right and the car was fast enough to overtake Ranked, so all in all, not a terrible day.”

“If your qualifying hadn’t been messed up by Hax’s crash, would you have won?”

“It’s hard to say with these things, but I definitely would have had a greater chance. If Couriway didn’t manage it, though, I don’t know if I could have.”

“Thank you, Feinberg.”

Austrian Grand Prix

Saturday

“Did you see that we hate each other? At least, according to the press.” Couriway had a look in his eyes, one Feinberg couldn't put a finger on.

Feinberg laughed lightly, ignoring the pool of fear that had sat within him since Monaco. “That doesn't surprise me, considering some of the stupid shit I've been going around saying.”

“Stupid shit is one way to describe it,” Couriway said.

“In my defence, it's impossible to not say stupid shit. Like, what the fuck do they expect me to say in response to do you think your teammate is your competition in the Drivers’ Championship battle? Yes? What did they expect me to say? No? Like, holy fuck, use some common sense for once. Look at the numbers? Use a few brain cells?”

“They have to get their clickbait articles somehow, dude,” Couriway said, annoyingly reasonable. “I've also been saying some shit, it's hard to not when it's all I’ve been asked about the whole weekend.”

“You probably have me to thank for those questions.”

“I know. My PR team gave me a whole talk on it.”

Feinberg laughed. “My team was just incredibly disappointed. They should be used to it by now, honestly.”

“I feel bad.”

“I’m not that bad. I do listen to what they say.”

“Do you apply what they say?” Couriway asked.

“If it’s not stupid, yeah.”

Couriway just shook his head, his smile betraying his true opinion on the topic. “Etho’s not going to be happy about that one.”

“I don’t think he’ll care all that much. As long as we keep winning races.”

Couriway gave him a look, but didn’t push the topic further. “Think we’ll win this weekend?”

“I wouldn’t mind another trophy for the display.”

The conversation continued until Couriway had to go meet up with his trainer for lunch. They parted ways outside the Reset motorhome. Feinberg’s gaze didn't stray from Couriway until he vanished from view, into the depths of the twisting maze that is the Reset motorhome.

It took him a few moments to shake himself from his trance. A couple of onlookers were watching him curiously, snapping photos of him. Feinberg ignored them and followed Couriway back to the garage. He had two hours until he needed to meet with Danny, he had time to sit in his driver’s room and scroll YouTube shorts for a bit and avoid all media personnel that were stalking the paddock.

Sunday

Couriway drowned him in champagne, and Feinberg grinned at him through squinted eyes. Almost everything was perfect. Feinberg just needed that first in the Championship, and it would all be right.

One point could make all the difference.

British Grand Prix

Sunday

“I can’t see anything out here.” The rain was hammering down, drops slamming into his clear visor. The spray kicked up by the car ahead of him didn't help matters.

“Copy Fein. Only another few minutes until this eases off.”

“Right.” He needed to manage, there was no other option. “Should have been a safety car.”

“Agreed, but nothing can be done about it now.” Nothing now, trapped in this carbon fibre construct, but there was nothing stopping Feinberg from unleashing his wrath on the stewards after the race.

He pulled a move around the outside of a Pace car, easily slipping past them and out of the spray. He would have gotten the move done earlier if not for the lack of visibility.

“Car ahead is Hax,” Oliver said. “You're lapping a second faster.”

“I can do better than that,” Feinberg said. It was almost fun to start this far back. Not that he would do it every week. Dominating was always preferable. But still fun.

Hax was reeled in and overtaken in a few laps. Feinberg's minimal F1 wet race experience wasn't holding him back. Rain is the greatest equalizer, they say, time to show how true that really was.

A pit stop dropped him back a couple of positions, but he recovered them easily enough. He was holding P2 now, Couriway up in P1.

Feinberg wasn’t going to stop at the last corner.

“Ten laps to go,” Oliver told him. “Gap to Couri 2.5 seconds. Don't go for any risky overtakes that could lose us the 1-2.”

The track had mostly dried up at this point, the sun had miraculously made an appearance from behind the clouds. The gap dwindled down as he pushed his tyres, desperately trying to close the gap.

Couriway was ahead of him, his car weaving its way through the track, the corners flowing together one after another. It was like a dance, and they were in near-perfect sync, except Feinberg was gaining ever so slightly closer with every sector.

“Two laps left.” Feinberg barely heard the words. He was within DRS range of Couri. This was his chance.

The first DRS zone, he wasn't close enough. On the Hanger Straight though, he could taste Couri's car, it was so close to him. He dived on the inside, shoving the car directly in Couriway's path in a desperate move. In his mirrors, Couriway faltered, his car flying out to the side to avoid T-boning Fein's car.

Feinberg smiled.

He was ahead.

“We might get a penalty for that,” Oliver told him.

“We won't,” Feinberg said. His mind was the clearest it had been in weeks.

“Try your best to build a gap anyway.”

The final two laps flew by, and as the chequered flag waved, Feinberg raised a fist to the sky in celebration.

In parc fermé, he jumped out the car, the cheers of the crowds louder than he'd ever heard them. He raced to his team, and they welcomed him with open arms.

Then Feinberg saw him: Couriway, still next to his car, his purple and gold helmet still on, head bowed as if in mourning. He looked tired, as if the world had laid all their worries upon his shoulders for only him to bear. A twinge of anger sparked within Feinberg. Couriway was allowed to be upset, but Feinberg didn't need to watch it. It was always the same shit with him, the same fucking story.

If Couriway couldn't deal with losing, he needed to get better at winning.

Couriway finally pulled off his helmet, his gaze stricken as he met Feinberg's. Feinberg pressed his lips together. He didn't regret it – overtaking Couriway. He was faster. He won.

Couriway seemed almost ill as he completed his post-race interview. Sweat poured down his red, flushed face, which could have all been attributed to purely post-race exertion if not for the look in his eyes. Feinberg hated himself for picking up on it, the deep-rooted pain that lurked beneath Couriway's outer layer. The part of himself that he didn't want anyone to see. It was closer to the surface, bubbling, like a kettle moments away from screaming.

Feinberg didn't even know what he said in his post-race interview. He knew that Wolfeei must have done it, but what was asked he didn't know.

In the cooldown room, Couriway lay on the ground, an arm tossed over his eyes as if it would shield him from the world. Feinberg glared at him. It wasn't like Couri could see him anyway.

Feinberg threw himself into a chair, his eyes firmly locked on the replays. He watched as the two Reset cars nearly collided together, nearly had a horrific accident, except they didn’t.

“I get you’re upset, but I really don’t think this is that big of a deal,” Feinberg said, breaking the silence. Doogile, who had got third, visibly winced next to him. Feinberg ignored him.

“Really, Feinberg, not that big of a deal?”

Feinberg shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, we nearly crashed, but we didn’t, so what’s the big deal? It was a possibility, but now it's not.”

“If you want to play around with our lives, fine, but I don’t want any part of it.” Couriway pushed himself off the floor, leaving the room. Feinberg frowned.

“That wasn’t right,” Doogile said quietly. “You shouldn’t have put him in that position, it's not clean racing.”

“And you know all about that, don’t you,” Feinberg said angrily.

Doogile shrugged. “I’m just saying what I think.”

Feinberg slumped down into his chair and ran his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

“What the fuck, Feinberg!” Couriway angrily shoved Feinberg, who stumbled back, hitting the wall of the Beacon hospitality with a loud clang. Couriway suppressed a flinch at the loud noise. He couldn't back down now. “Are you insane?”

“I wanted to win,” Feinberg replied simply, the lack of regret clear in his eyes. It was a familiar sight. Couriway scowled.

“You could have killed me! Or any of the other eighteen drivers. There was no reason to pull a move like that, you could have waited for a better opportunity, but no, instead you decided to risk both our races and risk destroying both our cars! The only fucking reason we both aren't in the wall right now is because I fucking backed off.”

“And that's the difference between us, Couriway,” Feinberg shrugged, his voice cold and uncaring to Couriway’s ears. “I take the risk, you play it safe. The move was perfectly legal, and I was well within my right to attempt it.”

“You know why I play it safe, safer than I should be getting away with sometimes,” Couriway snapped, dragging his hands through his sweat-caked hair. “I get that you want to win, god, I just– Fuck I don't know, I can't stop thinking about the possibilities sometimes, and I don’t want to lose you as well Fein.”

Feinberg's expression softened, but that same icy competitiveness still lingered. Fein’s capacity to do what was required, no matter what, was something Couriway had never been able to match. He was too emotionally driven. Rationally, he knew that the cars were safer now, he knew the same sort of accident wouldn’t happen, but there was always the chance.

Everyone had been sure the cars were safe then. That no one else would die. But they were wrong, and they could be wrong again.

He knew how short life could be, and Couriway refused to do anything that could result in a driver not making it to see another day. Sure, that meant that the fans would complain, tell him that he didn’t deserve his seat, that he only had it because his parents had the money to support him and his dream, and sure, that was a part of it, but Couri knew that he had worked hard to make it to F1. There was a reason he’d made it this far. He was good enough, whether he went for the risky overtakes or not.

Couriway wouldn’t change, not because he was scared, but because he knew the consequences, he’d experienced the aftermath. Feinberg had never lost a teammate, a best friend, someone who was by his side every day until suddenly they weren’t, and Couriway hoped that he never had to.

Feinberg burnt. He started fights and saw them through till the end. He would never be the one to blink, to throw the sword down, to raise the white flag. He and Feinberg were different in that regard, they always would be. No matter what Couriway did, he wouldn’t be able to change that fact. It was an intrinsic trait of Feinberg’s, that competitiveness, that fire.

And Couriway loved it. People seemed to orbit Feinberg, he pulled them in like the Sun and its planets. They just had to watch, witness the spectacle that is Feinberg. Couriway was no exception, and as much as it pissed him off, he could see the potential Feinberg had. He could see that Feinberg could be World Champion, that even in his first year he was close to a complete driver, and he would only become more complete as time went on.

“I know,” Feinberg told him. “But I will always fight to win every race. What kind of racer would I be if I didn't go for every gap?”

That fucking quote again. God. Couri let out a sigh, breathing in deeply for four seconds, exhaling for another four, and ceded, nodding in agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right.” He was always the one backing down from the fight.

“So we’re good?” Feinberg questioned. He looked almost nervous to Couriway, like he needed the confirmation, the promise that they would still be friends.

“Course we’re good.” Couriway smiled reassuringly, “We’ll always be good.”

Feinberg smiled back, looking more sure of himself. He brushed himself off, and walked off without a second glance.

Couriway leant his forehead against the surface of the motorhome, taking a moment to himself, before he inevitably had to return and do his media duties.

This season would be the death of him.

German Grand Prix

Sunday

Feinberg watched Couriway slink out a back door. A flicker of annoyance sparked within him. Couriway was meant to be celebrating, he got a podium, and while it wasn’t a win, it was still worth celebrating. He shouldn’t be sulking.

Shoving his way through the crowds, Feinberg finally made his way to the back door, pushing it open and letting the cool night air into the warm, charged air of the club. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. Feinberg frantically looked around for Couriway, taking off his sunset coloured shades in an attempt to see better. It didn’t work very well. His eyesight was worse without them.

Feinberg was about to turn around and head back in when he heard a voice call out to him from the other end of the alley.

“What are you doing out here during your own celebration party?”

“Finding out why you’re out here moping,” Feinberg said, walking towards the silhouette. “You’re bringing the vibe down.”

“How am I bringing the vibe down if I’m not there?”

Feinberg struggled to collect his thoughts. “By not being there. You should be celebrating,” he said decisively, shoving his glasses onto his head.

Couriway shook his head. “I’m tired of it, I didn’t win, it’s not my party, you should go back and enjoy yourself.”

“Not unless you come back too,” Feinberg said stubbornly. “We should celebrate together.”

“I’m going to head home, don’t worry about me,” Couriway said, most likely trying to get him to leave.

Feinberg had a revelation. “Is it because you're jealous?”

“No, no,” Couriway denied.

Feinberg couldn’t let go of the idea, like a dog with a bone. “No it definitely is,” he said smugly. “You wish you won!”

“Maybe,” Couriway said vaguely. Feinberg didn’t have the energy to think about what it meant. “Would I be a driver if I didn’t want to win?”

Feinberg giggled. “You know I’m better than you, right.”

Couriway’s expression shut down, a steely sort of anger lurking beneath his countenance. Feinberg’s vision twirled like he was doing doughnuts in his car. “You aren’t, not yet.”

“I am! I’m first in the Drivers’ Championship, y’know! I’m better than Fruit even, and he has six world championships! Bet you hate being down in third. You’re getting beaten by me and Doog, does it get any worse than that,” Feinberg broke down into giggles again, slapping his hand against his leg. The pain didn’t bring him any clarity.

“The Eye Spy is faster than us,” Couriway said after a long moment.

“Isn’t stopping the rookie,” Feinberg couldn’t stop himself from laughing at that, the giggles turning into little hiccups of uncontrollable laughter. There was something so funny about Couriway’s expression.

“I’m going to go before I do something I’ll regret,” Couriway turned around and walked towards the glowing street lights of the main road.

“Bye Couriway!” There was no response.

Feinberg scowled, heading back into the club. Really, what was that guy’s problem?

Singapore Grand Prix

Thursday

“Have you heard that Beacon might drop Purpled and Fulham?” Couriway told Feinberg across lunch.

“What?” Feinberg couldn't wrap his head around that. “Why the fuck would they even consider dropping Purpled? Fulham I can understand, but Purpled , seriously?”

“It's what I heard,” Couriway shrugged, shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth. “Apparently he’s not performing at the level they expected. Some contract clause?”

Feinberg had so many questions that he definitely couldn't have answers to, not if they wanted to avoid spying accusations again. “It's not his fault Beacon can't make a good car to save their lives.”

“I reckon Eye Spy should take him back. Put him and Fruit on a team and let them battle it out for the championship.”

“Surely that would end well.”

“If they don’t murder each other by the end of the season, I’d count that as a success,” Couriway grinned. “They’d hate it so much.”

Feinberg laughed. The lack of job security was a terrifying threat looming over them. If they didn’t have that extra something – usually in the form of profit – they would be unceremoniously dropped the moment they start underperforming. Eye Spy had dropped three drivers in the span of a season a couple of years back, and while Reset wasn’t as prone to immediately tossing out their drivers, the prospect of it was still there.

Not that he would ever perform horribly enough for them to want to drop him.

“They’d hate it, but it would be funny as fuck to watch.”

Sunday

“P2, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Fuck. I was so close, one more lap and I get him.”

“Yep, that was very close,” Oliver said. “Doogile P1 and Fruit P3, you’re breaking up an Eye Spy sandwich.”

“Another fucking second. God, I hate this sometimes.”

“There's always the next race.” But Feinberg didn't want to win the next race. He wanted them all. Every victory needed to be his.

“Yeah,” Feinberg sighed. Every race was the same. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be content.

Italian Grand Prix

Thursday

“Hey, Fein,” Fruit said. “How’s it been going with you?”

“Good,” Fein said automatically, not slowing his pace. Fruit hurried to catch up with him. He didn’t have time for this. Not if he wanted to win.

“That’s great to hear. You hear about the Purpled rumours?”

“Yeah. I did — last race. You worried the same might happen to you?” Fein said. There could be useful information here.

“Nah,” Fruit dismissed. He didn’t seem to doubt his words. “I’m not exactly underperforming, am I?”

“I’d say you're underperforming. You’re six time world champion being beat by your teammate, how is that not a failure?” Feinberg asked. Losing was a failure, it never wouldn’t be.

Feinberg couldn’t wait for this season to be over, so he could have the longest, most restful sleep of his life. Once he secured a championship, he could relax, take a bit of a step back next season, stop trying so hard. He just needed that championship. The world owed it to him. Feinberg was born to win and he knew it.

“It’s not by too much, I’ll be fine.”

Feinberg didn’t try to understand it.

“I wonder if Beacon will show up this weekend, it is Monza, after all.” New subject.

“They’ve been nowhere all season, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Maybe they’ll lock in for the home crowd, they’ve done it before,” Fruit nodded.

“True, maybe Purpled can finally grab a win.” If Purpled didn’t win a race this year, it would the first season in twelve years that he hadn’t won one.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Friday

“The car feels really shit,” Feinberg said over the radio, and Oliver sighed.

“You need to be more specific than that, Fein.”

“Everything is a problem!” Feinberg yelled. “God, you guys are fucking useless. Can't even build a drivable car.”

Oliver didn't respond. Feinberg bit his lip.

“I'm getting a lot of wheel spin into turn 4.”

“We'll take a look.”

ella @7einberg • August 29th

Feinberg: “The car feels really shit”

[Video of Feinberg complaining over radio]

23 replies | 1.8k retweets | 10.3k likes

mel @fbwdc • August 29th

@7einberg the reset mechanics better lock the fuck in tonight

2 replies | 31 retweets | 1.3k likes

Sunday

“The forecast currently says it's going to be raining for the whole race. We're starting on the intermediate tyre, everyone happy with that?” Beef said, scrubbing a hand over his cheek.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Feinberg mumbled into his mic.

Feinberg caught Couriway exchanging glances with Etho, and resisted calling them out on it. Half the team already didn’t like him, no need to make it worse.

“Sounds great!” Couriway said enthusiastically.

Feinberg really wanted this weekend to be over.

As everyone made to pack up, Etho called him over.

“You do realise we haven’t lost the race yet, right?”

“We’re going to lose,” Feinberg said.

“Why?” Etho asked, raising an eyebrow. “Anything could happen.”

“We’ve got no pace, the car is shit,” Feinberg said adamantly. “There’s no world we win.”

“Did you listen at all to the meeting? It’s going to be a wet race, it’ll be fine, the car’s pace won’t matter much. The championship will be fine.”

Feinberg sighed. “Yeah.”

“Yep. Go find Danny. He’ll be somewhere around the garage,” Etho said. “Stop being so depressing. You’re bringing the mood of the whole team down.”

Feinberg rolled his eyes, but he knew that Etho was right. Instead of going to find Danny, he headed back to his driver room and shoved on a pair of headphones. He turned the music to max volume and shut his eyes, a feeble attempt at avoiding his problems.

Feinberg hadn't known how much time had passed when Danny found him lying on the floor. Feinberg felt a light kick on his legs, drawing him out of the meditation-like trance he was in. He cracked his eyes open at the contact, squinting at the white light.

Danny stared down at him, disappointed. “You were meant to come find me.”

Feinberg closed his eyes. “I didn't feel like it.”

Danny sighed. He clearly wanted to push it, but he didn't. “We've got to do our warm-ups.”

“Do we have to?” It sounded childish, even to his own ears.

Danny frowned disapprovingly. “You know the answer to that.”

Feinberg didn't say anything.

“Come on.” Danny offered out a hand. “We've only got an hour until the race starts. You're gonna get a win today.”

Feinberg exhaled slowly, accepting the offering. Danny pulled him to his feet. He stumbled, vision spotting out for a moment at the sudden movement.

Danny moved to the door. Feinberg followed him, albeit reluctantly. They walked down the corridor in silence, the only sound their footsteps and the distant chatter of the cafeteria.

“Why are you so sure you won't win today?” Danny asked, breaking the silence.

Feinberg shrugged. “Doesn't feel like a winning type of day,” he said.

Danny shook his head. “There's more to it than that. I've never seen you this unmotivated. What's actually going on?”

“Nothing,” Feinberg insisted. “Have you heard Beacon might drop Purpled?”

Danny furrowed his brows. “Yes? I think the whole paddock's heard by now. Why?”

“Do you think it's the right move?” Feinberg asked.

Danny thought for a moment. “He's a six time world champion. He might be underperforming this year, but he still has that ability to perform. I'd keep him for another year.”

“Does he deserve a second chance over a rookie though?” The pair of them slipped through the bustling Reset cafeteria and out through the glass doors into the paddock.

“I think he's worth the investment.”

Feinberg frowned. “Okay.”

“P11,” Oliver said, dismay evident in his voice.

Feinberg bit his lip. He should have done more. He could have worked harder in the practice sessions, gotten better data for the setup.

Feinberg sighed. Or it could have done nothing and he still would have lost out. It wasn't only his fault, he told himself. The strategy wasn't optimal – Couriway had been favoured over him – and the car was clearly not in a good window this weekend.

Next weekend, Feinberg thought, next weekend will be better.

Japanese Grand Prix

Thursday

Feinberg glanced at Couriway, trying to catch his eye across the trailer. They hadn't talked since Italy. Couriway had disappeared the next day, presumably to Japan.

Couriway vehemently refused to meet his eyes, not acknowledging Fein at all. Feinberg couldn't work out why – they'd seemed okay in Singapore. Everything should be fine, but it wasn’t.

It never was anymore.

Feinberg knew that it was his fault, mostly, but it still hurt.

Saturday

“Will there be team discussions regarding the incident in qualifying? You sounded very passionate on the radio.” The reporter who asked was someone Feinberg didn’t recognise. She was clearly eager, likely new to the job, and excited to get going. That wouldn’t last long.

“Yes, we will debrief.”

“Will this impact your friendship with your teammate?”

“What friendship?” Feinberg said. “We aren’t friends, never have been, never will be.”

The reporter gasped, her eyes widening. Maybe she was a fan. It didn’t matter. He just wanted to say his piece. “He’s just so impossible to work with, you have no idea. He’s constantly fucking jealous of me, like piss off, it's not my fucking fault he just isn’t good enough. He’s had so many damn chances to win, and he’s fucked all of them up, and now he’s getting pissed because I’m taking these opportunities and not missing every one of them. How does that make sense?”

The reporter winced, pulling back her mic. “Okay, good luck tomorrow.”

“I’ll need it,” Feinberg said darkly, storming away to hide in his driver room.

Couriway was stood outside, eyes focussed on a photo of his Baku win. Of course, he was. Just Feinberg’s luck.

“What are you doing? Staring at your win because you know it's the only one you're going to get?”

Couriway glared at him, the anger visible in his gaze. It pleased Feinberg, that amicable demeanour that he’d put on the whole season finally washed away to reveal a fiery interior.

This Feinberg could handle.

“It won’t be,” Couriway said, clearly restraining himself.

“You know it will be. I’m still going to beat you even though I’m starting P10.”

Feinberg clicked on the link.

“Feinberg has accused you of crashing on purpose to prevent him from getting pole, what do you say to these allegations?”

Couriway appeared visibly upset on the screen, a scowl affixed on his face. “That’s bullshit. I didn’t even know he was on a fast lap.”

“But you knew he was behind you, yes?”

“Yes, my engineer told me the gap, but I don’t see why I’d crash to secure pole, it doesn’t make sense. He’s just saying shit,” Couriway said angrily. “It’s not my fault he didn’t get pole. He doesn’t have a right to it any more than anyone else on the grid. He got unlucky, and that was all there was to it. It could have happened to anyone.”

“Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Couriway threw out as he stormed away.

Feinberg smiled.

Sunday

The lights went out and Feinberg slammed down the throttle. It was a good start, better than average, and he was able to toss it down the inside and make up three positions. Ahead of him, a Beacon and a BAC were wheel-to-wheel. The Beacon was spun off in front of him, narrowly avoiding a collision, and Feinberg made up yet another position.

“You’re in P6, keep it up, gap to Rek point nine.”

“And that’s P5,” Oliver said.

Feinberg sighed.

“P5,” he echoed, the number whirring around his brain. He was meant to win the race.

“Couriway got P1 with fastest lap, Doogile got P6” He would drop to P3, Feinberg realised.

The championship was slipping through his fingers like sand.

United States Grand Prix

Sunday

“Safety car, safety car,” Oliver told him. “Rowl is in the gravel turn 19.”

A couple laps went by behind the safety car as the race marshals cleared away the car and debris.

“Alright, next lap the safety car’s in.” Feinberg watched Doogile’s car swerve in his mirrors. He did the same, trying his best to keep the heat in his tyres.

“Yep. What tyres are Doog on?” he asked.

“Medium. Same as you and same as Fruit in third.”

“Alright.” Feinberg narrowed his eyes. He needed to win this race. So he would.

“And that is P1. Good work today – great damage limitation for the team.”

“Yeah, thank you all so much for everything you’ve done this weekend. Happy I could make the work everyone’s been doing back at the factory worthwhile,” Feinberg said, his voice scratchy and worn out.

The podium flashed by like a sped up stop-motion picture. He sprayed Doogile with champagne, got drenched in return, and didn’t think about Couriway. He didn’t think about how his crash benefited him. How he’d been silently hoping for a race like this, in the deepest depths of his mind, ever since Baku.

Feinberg didn’t go out and celebrate his win, his newly acquired championship lead. Instead, he went back to the hotel room, where, lying in bed, he pulled up the championship standings on his phone. His name was first. Couriway’s name was second. He had got it back.

Feinberg wished, desperately, that he could simply be happy about it. Except, it was never that easy. Nothing was easy any more. He was drowning in champagne. It filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth and all that remained was its sweet, succulent, sharpness that overwhelmed his senses and was so addicting. He needed all of it.

Feinberg didn’t regret winning. He didn’t regret the weight that fell off his shoulders when he watched Couriway hit the barriers. Victory was a knife, and if Feinberg wished to wield it, he couldn’t hesitate before the kill. He was going to win the Championship and nothing would stand in his way from his top step.

Especially not his teammate.

Feinberg switched off his phone. Three races to go. Three races until he became the only driver to win the championship on debut. The youngest to ever win a championship. It would be so perfect, the ultimate victory.

He could already taste the champagne.

Brazilian Grand Prix

Saturday

“It's getting dark out here,” Feinberg commented. “It's like it's night.”

“Rain is expected in four minutes,” Oliver said. Feinberg stole a glance at the circling, grey clouds that tumbled through the skies, blocking the usual blues from view.

A crash of thunder rang out, somehow audible over the engine.

“We sure this is safe? I just heard thunder.”

“Doesn’t seem like they’re red flagging it.”

“Alright…” Feinberg said. “Let’s get another pole then.”

“I've got money on you getting pole, you better lock in,” Oliver crackled over the radio.

Feinberg laughed as he warmed up his tyres for his push lap. “I'll try.”

Feinberg easily got through Q1, and the rain held off until the start of Q2. He went out on the slick tyres anyway, to try and get a lap in before the track became too wet.

He managed to get a decent banker lap in without spinning off, by some miracle. He went wide on his cooldown lap, but by then it didn't matter. He was through to Q3.

Q3 was a completely different beast. It was inter weather, but gambling on the wets could pay off if the weather got worse, allowing cars that selected them early to have warmer, gripper tyres throughout the whole session.

Reset opted to put their cars on the inters, or intermediate tyres. They had shallower grooves than the full wets, meaning that less water was displaced off the track. Feinberg slammed the throttle down on the pit lane straight, breaking way earlier than he usually would to account for the reduced grip.

He flew through the S's of sector 1, the rain hammering hard into his clear visor and leaving him almost blind. The car ahead of him was a couple of seconds off, so there wasn't any spray in his face, but visibility was still close to non-existent.

“First sector was purple,” Oliver said. Fastest of the session. This was a good lap.

The next sector was wetter than the first, the rain even heavier in that part of the circuit. The car oversteered into turn 9 and nearly sent him into the wall. He caught it though, and swept into sector 3.

Sector 3 was a straight run to the finish line. Feinberg didn't let off the power for even a second, hurtling around the final corner, brushing the edge of the pit lane entrance. He crossed the line, and immediately he knew it had been a good lap.

“You're on provisional pole by half a second,” Oliver said. “Thank you very much for the money.”

“You're welcome.” Feinberg slowed the car down to a much more controllable pace. “I'm expecting a cut though.”

“Absolutely not, you're the millionaire.”

Sunday

Couriway entered the cooldown room, a navy blue Reset hat in his hands and anger swirling around him like a cyclone.

“You’ve reached your skill ceiling,” Feinberg spat. “You act like you're holding back, that at any point you could unleash your full potential, but really, you're just a shitty second driver who’s never going to win a championship.”

“You say that, Feinberg, but I’m going to beat you this year, and you’ll be the one who has to live with losing to a shitty, washed up driver who’s too fucking scared to dive on the inside.”

“I’ve been holding back you know, I could make your life hell. I’ve already got my lead, doesn’t matter what I do from here.”

Couriway stared at him disbelievingly. “I can’t believe I ever tried to be your friend. You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“I never wanted to be your friend,” Feinberg said angrily. “You forced me.”

“Oh, so I forced you to hug me and basically sign your love confession in Monaco? Quit lying to yourself. You aren’t special because you think you don’t need friends.”

“I’m special because I’ll win this championship. Because I’ll beat a driver with years worth more experience in equal machinery.”

“Sure you will, but what will it cost?”

Feinberg laughed, wild and unafraid. “Everything.”

‘You’ve reached your skill ceiling’ – Feinberg sparks fallout with teammate Couriway

Feinberg won’t win the Driver’s Championship – here’s why:

Feinberg vs Couriway – what’s going on

Feinberg willing to do ‘everything’ to win the WDC

‘You’re such a f***ing a**hole’ Couriway makes it clear there’s no love lost between the two Reset teammates

Mexican Grand Prix

Saturday

“And that is P1,” Oliver said over the radio. “Incredible lap.”

“I know.”

Sunday

The formation lap went by in a flash, and before he knew it he was in front of the lights. Feinberg had almost been hoping there would be a reason for an extra formation lap — preferably one of the Eye Spy cars losing power, that would be nice and convenient.

A mixture of nerves and excitement bubbled within him, like someone had taken a cocktail of emotions and decided to shake them all inside him. It was his first race all over again, except everything had changed.

Feinberg exhaled slowly.

He was on pole. It was his race to lose.

The crimson lights lit up gradually, every new one a step towards a precipice, a place of no return. A palpable anticipation buzzed through him – every second was a day in front of the lights. Then the row of red blinked out.

Feinberg slammed down his throttle, sending the car hurtling down the straight towards the first corner. He glanced in his rearview mirrors; Couriway was close behind him, using his car for a slipstream. Doogile was almost side by side with Couri.

Feinberg turned to the right, the car gliding under his control, until it wasn’t. A car, Couriway’s his brain recognised, dived in front of his, sending his spinning into the barriers. His vision blacked out, a sharp pain in his head making itself known. Feinberg cursed.

“Feinberg, are you alright?” Oliver’s voice sounded far off. Feinberg's vision flickered back into existence, blurred. It was like he was underwater, his ears rang with the sound of the impact and the screams of the crowd. Feinberg tried to take a breath, but his lungs were not cooperating. His heart thumped in his chest as he sat there, fast and panicked, his car buried partially in the barrier.

“Fuck–” Feinberg wheezed. His head throbbed.

“Fein, are you okay?”

Feinberg pushed the radio button down, his finger shaking. “Yes,” he forced out, attempting to control his breathing.

“A medical car will get to you soon, just sit tight, Fein. You exceeded the G-force limits. Don’t try to get out of the car until they get there.”

Feinberg’s vision wavered. It was like someone was taking a sledgehammer to his brain and tearing up the insides. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, swallowing to avoid being sick in the car. He still hadn’t stopped shaking.

His thoughts made no sense, yet all he was focused on was the championship. It was over. He had lost.

His breath sped up again, and he felt light-headed. Everything he'd done this year would have been for nothing. All those sacrifices for nothing . His head hurt. He was going to pass out if he kept going like this.

A figure appeared above him, leaning into the cockpit. Feinberg was sure they were saying something, but for the life of him he couldn’t string the words together. His hands were still shaking.

A warm, steady hand came to rest on his shoulder. Feinberg’s vision sharpened slightly, enough to recognize that the figure in front of him was a doctor.

“Feinberg?” a voice trickled in. “Are you okay?”

Feinberg coughed. His tongue tasted metallic. He must have bit it on the impact. He couldn’t remember.

“Feinberg?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Someone had removed his steering wheel and undone his straps for him. He hadn’t seen that happen. A sharp pang shot through the back of his head.

“Do you think you can get out of the car?” the doctor asked him.

Feinberg nodded unsteadily. His foot was wedged in the crumpled carbon fibre, he had to tug it free. His vision nearly went black with just that, and Feinberg took a moment to breathe. He braced himself, grabbing onto the sides of the halo to lever himself up. His arms shook with the strain. A flurry of hands seemed to come out of nowhere to support him. He paused for a moment, crouched on his seat, hands pressed into his eyes in an attempt to dull the hammering that seemed to have begun behind them.

After a moment’s respite, he escaped the confines of the halo, sitting on the edge of the car as the doctor asked him questions. Feinberg was pretty sure he failed, judging by the concerned looks being thrown around, but, honestly, Feinberg couldn’t bring himself to care. At some point, the doctor said they would get a stretcher, and Feinberg frantically rejected that idea. He could stand, he told them. The doctor looked doubtful, but accepted his words, presumably not wanting him to get too worked up over it.

He was walked over to the medical car, somehow managing to stay upright on the way over. There weren’t any cars on the track, presumably the race had been red flagged. Judging from the amount of debris on track and the wreckage of Couriway’s car spun the wrong way around in the centre of the track, it was for a reason.

Feinberg slipped into the car, desperately unbuckling his helmet and tugging off his balaclava. It was stained with red. Feinberg wiped at his nose desperately, attempting to stem the bleeding, eventually just giving up and shoving his balaclava to stop it.

“Did I lose the championship?” Feinberg mumbled out through the blood seeping out of his nose. There was a concerning amount. The doctor – he still didn’t know his name – looked uncertain.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “The race isn’t over, but Doogile will start on pole. Couriway also crashed out, he’ll be at the medical centre when we get there.”

Feinberg closed his eyes.

The car ride seemed to blink past, his thoughts melting away into a stream of nothing that was incomprehensible. A tap on his arm signalled that he was required to jump out, and his vision blinked back into awareness.

Feinberg walked into the medical centre like a man walking to his death. He was directed into a side room with a bed. Danny was there waiting for him, eyes bright with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked. Feinberg let his eyes drift over to him. Danny was wringing out his hands obsessively. He was worried.

“My head hurts, but other than that I’m fine.” The words didn’t seem to do anything to soothe Danny’s concerns.

“I’m going to find a doctor,” Danny made to stand up, but as he did, a new doctor walked in.

She seemed nice enough. She asked him a couple questions that he couldn’t answer, and then a couple that he could. She gave him an ice pack and told him to hold it firmly where it hurt. He did that, and he was handed a couple pills that he dutifully swallowed.

She talked to Danny for a bit, and Feinberg couldn’t bring himself to listen to the words that he knew were about him, that he could have been listening to. It should have worried him, but it didn’t, instead he just felt angry.

It was over. Everything he’d worked for this season. He’d poured every drop of himself into this championship battle, into getting this trophy, this victory, and now that was all gone. Everything was gone. Doogile would win the race, and secure the championship alongside it. Feinberg would be forgotten as the rookie that nearly won a championship. The history books wouldn’t mention his name, they won’t care how close someone was, or how good their season was. They would only remember the victors.

Feinberg stood up. His vision was swaying less, and while his head still hurt, he felt more coherent. “Where’s Couriway?” he asked, and Danny looked over at him, alarmed.

“Sit down, Fein, you’re going to fall over,” he said.

Feinberg shook his head, ignoring the pain the motion caused. “No, where’s Couri? He’s around here, isn’t he?”

Feinberg stumbled towards the door. His legs were still unsteady and his ears rang a little, but it didn’t matter. He pushed the door open, bursting into a deserted corridor.

Most of the rooms were empty, the doors open and obviously unoccupied, but one. Feinberg shoved it open. Couriway was sat inside, a lost look on his face. Feinberg scowled.

“Why did you do that?” Feinberg demanded.

Couriway looked up, startled. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“No. We’re talking. Why did you do that?” Couriway shrugged, and Feinberg saw red.

“You ruined everything! What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you suddenly forget how to drive?”

Couriway stared at him in poorly concealed shock. “Have you watched the replay?” he asked. “It wasn’t only my fault, you didn’t leave me any space. You must have seen me in the mirrors.”

Feinberg did remember that. He had seen Couriway coming up the inside. He remembered his active decision to leave him no room, to make it impossible for his teammate to overtake. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You shouldn’t have done that, you never would have made it.”

“It would have worked against any other driver, but you, you never leave me space, you drive against me like I’m not your teammate, like if you lose to me the world will end or something.”

The pressure behind Feinberg’s eyes only built. “Maybe it will!”

Couriway just shook his head. “I don’t want to talk today. Get out. Go back to the hotel and do your complaining there. I don’t want any part of it.”

Feinberg laughed, and horrifyingly, tears sprung up in his eyes. Couriway watched him dispassionately. Feinberg hated him. He hated the stupid scoring system that stole his chance at a championship.

He turned and walked out the room. Danny was stood outside, still concerned. Feinberg hated it.

He hated a lot right now.

Etho called him when he got back to the hotel. Feinberg was surprised he hadn’t sooner, honestly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Feinberg had watched the moment, over and over, trying to think of what he could have done differently. He knew what he should have done, but he needed there to be another option.

“I don’t know,” Feinberg said. It was true. He was angry, originally, but that anger had burnt out into a small, smouldering flame that could be stomped out with one step.

“It was ruled as a racing incident.” Etho told him. Feinberg knew that already. He hated it. Both drivers were equal parts at fault, the stewards were saying. It was a consequence of racing. It was unlucky .

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“They aren’t wrong. It was both of your faults,” Etho told him.

“Sure,” Feinberg said, if only to shut down the conversation.

Etho sighed. “Feinberg, there’s always next year.”

“I know that.”

“You’ll have another opportunity next year, and the year after. You’re going to have a long career ahead of you if you stay this fast.”

“ I know !” Feinberg burst out. “I’m still pissed at Couriway. He fucked everything up–”

“Not everything,” Etho cut off. “You have to take responsibility for the incident as well, Feinberg, you should have left more space.”

“Can’t do anything about it now, can I?” Feinberg shot back. “Doesn’t matter what I should have done anymore, it's in the past.”

“Yes, but similar situations can happen in the future.”

“So the other driver needs to learn when to back off,” Feinberg said.

Etho sighed again. Feinberg wanted to throttle him. “Let’s talk about this another time, you’ve got an early flight to catch don’t you?”

“Yeah. See you.” Feinberg hung up before Etho had the chance to reply.

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix

Sunday

“Last race, Feinberg, how are you feeling?” Couriway asked him, sitting down alongside him. They were both in the Reset dining room, both in their fireproofs. The room was packed with Reset mechanics on their lunch break, the cacophony they were all creating loud enough to mask their conversation.

Feinberg stared at the smooth white surface of the table, refusing to make eye contact. “I don't know.” He’d lost the Championship by one point. A singular point. A single fastest lap, or position in any race.

“Well…” Couriway hesitated. “How about I tell you how I'm feeling?”

“Sure, do whatever you want,” Feinberg agreed, feigning disinterest. Couriway definitely saw through it. There was never a moment when Feinberg wasn't interested in Couriway.

“I learnt a lot this season–” Couriway started.

“Like how not to crash into your teammate?” Feinberg said, clenching his fists, his fingernails digging crescents in his skin.

Couriway sighed, clearly exasperated by his response. Feinberg smiled.

“Sure, like that,” Couriway said passively, likely trying to avoid a fight. Couriway wasn't the only one who could read a person.

Feinberg was tired of passiveness, of their avoidance of issues. They’d spent the whole fucking season dancing around everything , and Feinberg was goddamn tired. “Because of you, the chances of either of us winning the championship are gone! We were so close Couri, I was so close, I could have won it on my debut season! It would have been so perfect.”

“It wasn’t just me involved in that crash, you know,” Couriway shot back. “You could have backed off, but no, it always has to be me backing off, I always have to make sure we don’t crash. I did it all fucking season, Feinberg! I played along with your stupid dive bombs and shitty overtakes, and maybe I just had enough of giving in, I wanted to see if you’d do it for me. If you’d back off, and you didn’t.”

“Yeah? Why should I back off? We were racing.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so selfish, you’d see why,” Couriway said.

Feinberg burst from his chair, throwing it to the ground, the fire that had been smoldering within him for the whole season finally unleashing itself. “Selfish? I’ve been there for every one of your wins.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Couriway told him. “I genuinely don’t know why I signed for another year of this bullshit.”

Feinberg scoffed. “You signed because Reset’s the only team that’ll take you.”

Couriway finally stood up, jabbing his hand towards Feinberg's chest. “You know that isn’t true.”

He knew it wasn’t. Couriway had offers from Beacon and Stronghold – the Stronghold offer especially could have been good, considering they were coming into new management next year with a whole lot of extra funding. Feinberg had considered going to Stronghold over Reset, purely for the plans provided. It could have been a new start, removed from the toxicity of this partnership.

“Why didn’t you leave then? You should have, you’ll have to deal with another year of playing second best.”

“I love this team,” Couriway said, bright with honesty. Feinberg held back his eye roll. “And I do actually enjoy being your teammate, most of the time.”

“How the fuck do you enjoy having me as a teammate?” After everything that had happened that year, all the mind games that they’d been playing, Feinberg couldn’t believe it.

We’ve had good moments,” Couriway smiled. Feinberg furrowed his brow. “And you’re way easier to talk to than Fruit - don’t tell him I said that. Also, you’re fast , the challenge is fun.”

“So you like the challenge now? I never know what I’m getting with you.”

Couriway winced. “Maybe I’ve been sending some mixed signals this year.”

“Some?” Feinberg questioned.

“A lot.”

“Yeah. Especially when I was winning more than you.”

Couriway’s eye twitched, but his expression remained neutral. “We both fucked up a bit this year as teammates, can we agree on that?”

“I suppose.” Couriway had fucked up more than him, he’d done nothing but race and win. Not his fault his teammate couldn’t seem to deal with it in a sensible manner.

“Can we give each other space today, race like we’re racing teammates and not opposing constructors?”

“I give you enough space,” Feinberg argued. Couriway rolled his eyes, and Feinberg winced. That wasn't exactly truthful.

“No, you don't.”

Feinberg bit his lip. “Maybe sometimes I could have given you a bit more space.”

“Sometimes?”

“Almost all the time,” Feinberg accepted. “Now you apologize for Mexico.”

“You haven’t even apologised for not giving me enough space at any point of this season. How the fuck does Etho deal with you?” Couriway said incredulously.

“Sorry, I’ll give you more space.”

“And, I’m not apologising for Mexico. I’m not the only one responsible for that,” Couriway insisted. “The stewards ruled it as a racing incident, we were both at fault.”

“You should have backed off,” Feinberg repeated stubbornly. He was at risk of sounding like a broken record, but Couri needed to understand, to see. “You would usually back off.”

“I’m tired of it, Fein, of playing the second driver even though I’m good enough to be the first, of backing off from fights because I’m scared of crashing.”

“What are you going to do next year then? Fight me at every turn? Are we going to have a full-blown battle every time we get near each other?”

“No. We’ll listen to the team orders that exist for a good reason because we’ll be back on an even playing field, and it can go back to normal.”

“You really think we’re going to be on an equal playing field next year?” Feinberg laughed. “I’m only going to get better. This was my rookie season, Couri. I’m not going to stagnate at this level. We aren’t going to be equals. I’m going to be better.”

“I’ll have to be better too then. I’m not going to just give up.”

“You always say that you know,” Feinberg said, slightly crazed. “You always say that you’ll fight me, that you’ll be the one to not leave the space, but you never are Couriway. You can’t bring yourself to take a risk. You don’t gamble, so you don’t win big.”

“I don’t lose either,” Couriway countered. “I’ve got one of the lowest crash rates of anyone, besides mechanical failures.”

“Except against me.” Feinberg said. His heart felt like it would fall out of his chest.

Couriway shrugged. “You’re a flaw in the system.”

A smile tugged at Feinberg’s face. “Of course. What else would I be?”

Couriway shook his head, exasperated. “You could never just let things happen, could you?”

“If I did that, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“I don’t think we’re ever going to be normal,” Couriway said, smiling. Feinberg grinned back.

“Who needs normal? I don’t forgive you for Mexico.”

“I don’t forgive you either,” Couriway shot back. “But I can get over it. Might take most of winter break to do it, but I could. Question is whether you will.”

“I doubt it,” Feinberg said honestly. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about it.”

“You don’t have to stop thinking about it, you just have to not let it get in the way,” Couriway said to him. “You’ll be fine after a bit of time.”

“A bit of time?” Feinberg was unconvinced. “It was a championship, Couri, a world championship in my rookie season.”

“Fair.”

“I’ll forget about it next year, when I beat you to the next one,” Feinberg said. He would win next year. He knew it with the same certainty that time would keep ticking on and the Earth circles around the Sun. Now he knew where he went wrong.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Couriway said, as if he could read Feinberg’s mind. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Couriway had been able to do so the whole season.

Feinberg stood up and held out a hand. “Good luck today,” he offered. It sounded insane to him. Maybe he was insane.

“Thank you.” Couriway took the hand.

The race went as normal as it possibly could have. It was undoubtedly a boring watch. Feinberg won from pole, leading the race from start to finish. Couriway got second. Doogile got third. The win didn’t matter, not when the championship was already handed off to the one person no-one predicted to win the season. The teammate of the six time world champion.

Doogile looked the happiest he had all season, the weight of the championship battle, the tension that they’d all carried for the last few months, finally gone.

Feinberg was the same. He had wanted that win so bad that he’d let it consume him. It had completely overtaken his life. Next season, it needed to be different.

“Congrats Doogile, you deserved it.” They were stood, sipping on the sparkling water that Feinberg hated, waiting for their post-race interview. Doogile grinned at him and nodded. He didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t need to, Feinberg knew he understood.

A dim flicker of jealousy burned within him. If it didn’t, Feinberg would have been concerned. Couriway gestured at him. It was his turn for an interview.

Next year, it would be as a F1 World Champion.