No Lines in Barcelona.
Noura Kassir sat with her helmet still in her lap, the visor reflecting the starting grid displayed above. P2. She’d cut through qualifying like a scalpel. Absolutely precision.
Across the room, Zak sat slouched against a flight case, gloves dangling loose, P13 flashing on his own tablet. His jaw was set, but the defeat was visible. He caught Noura glancing at him, then quickly looked away.
Marcus strode in. Shades on, clipboard under one arm & a toothpick dangling from this mouth.
“Thirteen and two. Hmph.” He let it hang, low and dangerous.
Noura shifted. Zak sat up straighter. Marcus took his time, strolling between them, dragging out the silence until it was almost unbearable.
"After Monaco, I'm glad you two are finally on the same page.. Because do you see who’s sittin’ on pole?”
They didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The name was already burned in their minds.
Antonelli. Four straight wins. Four times the anthem belonged to Prema.
Marcus chuckled, dark and knowing. “Boy’s treatin’ F2 like a private recital. He's playing the violin & makin’ everybody dance to his tune. And if we don’t stop him here, in Barcelona, then guess what?” He leaned close, shades reflecting both their faces.
“Season’s already his.”
Zak rubbed his palms together, restless. “So what’s the play then?”
Marcus leaned back, toothpick rolling. “The play is simple. Zak — forget thirteen. You’re thinkin’ about P13 like it’s a curse. It’s a weapon. You in the pack. You cause ripples. You slow the tide. You protect her lead as if it was your very own.”
Zak nodded, faintly, a spark lighting behind his eyes.
“And you,” Marcus turned to Noura, voice sharpening, “P2 ain’t a trophy. P2 is a knife in the sheath. Don’t stare at Antonelli’s exhaust. Make him stare at yours. Lap one, Sector Three, that’s where Barcelona bends. That’s where you cut him.”
Noura’s lips curved, a rare grin, dangerous and electric. “So I make the cut…”
Zak picked it up without missing a beat. “…and I'll keep the wound open.”
Marcus clapped once, loud, final. “Now THAT people is what we call ART!”
For the first time all weekend, Noura turned and locked eyes with her teammate. Zak didn’t flinch. They both nodded, fists rising. The bump landed with a thud that was heavier than skin on skin. It was promise.
Barcelona was here. Will it be the place where ART reaches the podium for the first time this season?
Noura Kassir sat with her helmet still in her lap, the visor reflecting the starting grid displayed above. P2. She’d cut through qualifying like a scalpel. Absolutely precision.
Across the room, Zak sat slouched against a flight case, gloves dangling loose, P13 flashing on his own tablet. His jaw was set, but the defeat was visible. He caught Noura glancing at him, then quickly looked away.
Marcus strode in. Shades on, clipboard under one arm & a toothpick dangling from this mouth.
“Thirteen and two. Hmph.” He let it hang, low and dangerous.
Noura shifted. Zak sat up straighter. Marcus took his time, strolling between them, dragging out the silence until it was almost unbearable.
"After Monaco, I'm glad you two are finally on the same page.. Because do you see who’s sittin’ on pole?”
They didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The name was already burned in their minds.
Antonelli. Four straight wins. Four times the anthem belonged to Prema.
Marcus chuckled, dark and knowing. “Boy’s treatin’ F2 like a private recital. He's playing the violin & makin’ everybody dance to his tune. And if we don’t stop him here, in Barcelona, then guess what?” He leaned close, shades reflecting both their faces.
“Season’s already his.”
Zak rubbed his palms together, restless. “So what’s the play then?”
Marcus leaned back, toothpick rolling. “The play is simple. Zak — forget thirteen. You’re thinkin’ about P13 like it’s a curse. It’s a weapon. You in the pack. You cause ripples. You slow the tide. You protect her lead as if it was your very own.”
Zak nodded, faintly, a spark lighting behind his eyes.
“And you,” Marcus turned to Noura, voice sharpening, “P2 ain’t a trophy. P2 is a knife in the sheath. Don’t stare at Antonelli’s exhaust. Make him stare at yours. Lap one, Sector Three, that’s where Barcelona bends. That’s where you cut him.”
Noura’s lips curved, a rare grin, dangerous and electric. “So I make the cut…”
Zak picked it up without missing a beat. “…and I'll keep the wound open.”
Marcus clapped once, loud, final. “Now THAT people is what we call ART!”
For the first time all weekend, Noura turned and locked eyes with her teammate. Zak didn’t flinch. They both nodded, fists rising. The bump landed with a thud that was heavier than skin on skin. It was promise.
Barcelona was here. Will it be the place where ART reaches the podium for the first time this season?
but I have this one.
