Chapter Text
Formation Lap: The lap before the start of the race when the cars are driven round from the grid to form up on the grid again for the start of the race. Sometimes referred to as the warm-up lap or parade lap.
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May 2017
The Algarvian sun is particularly strong today and he adjusts his cap again, taking another sip of ice cold water while looking at the empty stands. Portimão’s autodrome is second nature to him after racing here all his life, yet the track seems brand new now that he’s wearing the colours of a Formula 1 team.
“Didn’t you win here?” His teammate sounds slightly winded, courtesy of having chased a stray cat around the tyre stacks for the past ten minutes.
“Hmhm.”
“Good memories, right?”
“Mostly.”
João’s recollections of his Formula 2 victory last November are largely a blur of colours and flags and overwhelming noise, interspersed with a few key details that have remained clear as day in his mind: the smell of burning rubber on the track as he pushed to the finish line; the metallic coldness of the trophy held in his hands above his head; auburn hair swirling like a tornado over olive-green eyes; the scuffed cement when walking back to the Haas F1 Team representatives to sign a contract; his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder guiding him there; the painful lump in his throat knowing a three-year friendship had ended just like that.
Six months on, things aren’t so different. The rubber still smells the same, the trophies are still cold (not that he’s managed to get his hands on any of those yet), the cement is still scuffed, and his father still offers him comfort at the end of a rough day, the Atlantic Ocean between them notwithstanding.
(As for the lump in his throat, he forced it down the day he moved to the USA to start his F1 career, and it hasn’t bothered him since.)
"Pspspsps!” Sadik’s voice breaks the silence once again as he tries to bribe the cat under the car by waving a piece of lokum - one of the dozen varieties of treats that he stashes in his clothes somehow - while they wait for the engineers to call them back into the garage for another test.
It’s a surreal moment. Just a year ago Sadik was someone João had only ever seen from the other side of the barriers, a two-time world champion whose autograph he’d once elbowed someone in the face for when he was barely fifteen. Now he’s on this side of the wall, twenty years old and wearing the same team overalls as his idol who is gradually disappearing under a chassis trying to catch the nonchalant stray.
João knows how lucky he is to be partnered up with someone like Sadik in his rookie year. The Turkish man is exceedingly sociable and welcoming, more than happy to take him under his wing and guide him around the ins and outs of the sport, teaching him how to get the most out of the car, who to listen to and who to tune out, how to handle a stressed Team Principal and get away with little infractions. It’s the kind of induction that any new driver would kill for, and he is determined not to waste it.
The only downside is that the former champion is also exceedingly nosy. He asks him about his karting days, his F2 races, the drivers he screwed over to get here (“We’ve all done it, kid.”), the friends he still keeps from those days. João does not name any friends and steers clear from any thoughts of auburn hair and olive-green eyes, but then Sadik casually mentions Nuno, a promising talent who’d come uncomfortably close to João in the standings and who’d suddenly dropped out of the competition and gone into rallying instead.
João frowns, observing as the cat slips out from behind one of the wheels and stretches languidly before it climbs atop a pile of tyres. He has the chance to catch it, he’s sure Sadik would thank him for it, but instead he lets it go. The sun is stronger now and he’s starting to sweat. He hopes the mechanics call them back into the garage soon.
“Cat got your tongue, kid?”
His hair sticks to the back of his neck uncomfortably, so he unties his ponytail before looping the elastic around tighter and higher than before. There’s no point in admitting that yes, he’d gotten into Nuno’s head; that no, he isn’t proud of it; and no, he doesn’t regret it either. He’s sure Sadik can tell anyway, especially when the latter gets out from under the car and gives him a self-satisfied look.
The engineers finally call their names and Sadik gives up on the stray, instead offering the piece of candy to his teammate. João takes it.
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August 2018
“If he’s faster than me then he can overtake.”
The Team Principal groans and drags both hands down his face again in frustration, tired of going round in circles for the past hour. It’s João’s second year with them and there is a noticeable difference in his behaviour; where before he would yield easily to the team’s demands, he now ignores what is agreed behind closed doors, knowing full well that the engineers will not call him out on the radio during races lest the press have a field day with Haas’ inability to manage their drivers.
“You need to think of the team, Jo.”
“I’m giving the team some actual points!” Not enough to win them a Constructor’s Championship, sure, or even a Driver’s Championship for himself, but it’s something. It’s a start.
“This sport is not just about points.” João’s heard this enough times now that he knows exactly what the words mean. This sport is about money and a former champion brings in more capital than you. “Think of the team.” Think of my job, I’ll get fired if we lose the sponsors. “We have to be realistic.”
João agrees; they have to be realistic. And realistically speaking he is not a team player. Haas know this, Sadik knows this.
McLaren don’t.
All they know is that he’s somehow dragging a shitty car into the points, so when his agent gives them a call the next day they’re more than happy to snap him up.
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December 2018
Woking isn’t as sunny as North Carolina, but it’s closer to home and that makes up for it.
The first person to greet him past security is his new teammate. Arthur is two years younger than him, but just as experienced on the track. They shake hands and introduce themselves, faces serious and solemn.
“I’m Arthur Kirkland.”
“João Gonçalves.”
“Gon-ssalves. So that’s how you say it.”
João can’t help it, he breaks character and laughs. It’s a callback to their first conversation, back in 2017 when all the drivers had lined up for that season’s group picture. He and Arthur had debuted in the same year, which already created some sort of bond as they were the only rookies on the grid, and to break the ice the blond had completely butchered his name from the get-go. On purpose, of course. “Bants, innit?”, or something weird like that had been his explanation. Despite living in different continents they saw each other often enough during race weekends that they’d built an easy rapport over the past two years.
The Englishman smiles and pulls him in for a friendly hug. “It’s good to have you here.”
“It’s good to be here.” He means that.
And he means it even more as the day goes on and he’s taken around the premises and shown the facilities. McLaren have a lot more resources than his old team, they’re less dependent on sponsors (not completely independent, but enough that they won’t sink the moment some shady company pulls out) and this allows them to focus more on winning championships.
The CEO is a hands-on guy, not just a voice on the other end of the phone yelling at the Team Principal, and he makes a point of introducing him to the development team. João memorises their names and roles, shaking their hands firmly. He’s determined to make this work.
Someone comes in then, laptop in hand and gesturing for the people in the room to be quiet. “Red Bull are announcing their lineup for next year!”
Everyone huddles around, curious to see who they’ll be up against. The screen shows a familiar face, silver hair and pale skin standing out against dark blue overalls. Gilbert Beilschmidt has been with Red Bull for three seasons now and his role as the team’s #1 driver is all but guaranteed. He gives his normal spiel to the press, a triumphant edge to his voice as usual.
The camera then pans left to reveal his new teammate, a rookie according to the rolling text at the bottom of the screen. He looks confidently at the camera as he introduces himself, auburn hair swirling like a tornado over olive-green eyes. “My name is Antonio Fernández Carriedo. I’ll be driving for Red Bull Racing next year.”
João swallows and feels a familiar lump in his throat.