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Midweek Schedule, Apr 15., Trampos Racing headquarters, Germany.
"The team can still survive Bahrain on top. Thirty points is enough to keep our rivals at bay for one race," said Mr. Fisher to Mr. Grant. "But after that, you'll have to put Rennick behind the wheel for the rest of the season."
Mr. Grant nodded in response, his eyes drifting through the glass walls of the managent building. From their vantage point, the headquarters' track ca into view, where the Trampos drivers were locked in a strict training session. Mr. Moritz oversaw the drills below while Mr. Grant engaged in this official conversation with the President.
"I am still very much interested in understanding why Hahn fell short," Mr. Fisher continued, his hands comfortably lodged in his pockets. For a man of his round stature, his height gave him an imposing presence, taller even than Mr. Grant. His belt, strained under the effort of restraining his belly, seed symbolic of the discipline he expected from his team. "We cannot plan to build a top-tier driver when the one we already have closest to that level is showing signs of decline."
Mr. Grant bit his lip. There was no denying the poor display of Ansel's performance in Baku. A re periodic setback or not, it was completely not acceptable in a team where he was considered the crucial driver. "We're still having much analysis as we believe it must've been a nonphysical influence on him. Perhaps, pairing with Haas in a competitive atmosphere like a Featured Race was sothing fresh," Mr. Grant replied, unintentionally defending Ansel. "He would have to adapt to that. Bahrain Grand Prix is like just a week away, and Trampos still owes Haas one more Featured Race," he added to neutralize his stance.
Mr. Fisher chuckled, pulling a hand from his pocket to rub his belly. His secretary entered the room, handing him a docunt to sign. He accepted it with a quick flourish of his pen, then turned his attention back to the track. Three single-seaters zipped by, their engines growling. "I can see he has better chemistry with Rennick," Mr. Fisher remarked. "We'll focus on that in the second half of the season. By mid-season, I'll make it my priority to allocate additional resources to you."
"Resources?"
"Yes, Mr. Grant," Mr. Fisher affird with a slight smile. "Better staff, improved equipnt for the boys. You, Mr. Grant, will have the privilege of selecting these new additions—within the confines of our budget, of course."
"That's wonderful. I appreciate it," Mr. Grant replied.
"It's for the team, Mr. Grant," Mr. Fisher said.
Rembering what Luca's Personal Trainer had ntioned days ago, Mr. Grant suddenly grew worried. The prospect of grooming Luca into a world-class racing force, only for a Formula 1 team to poach him, gnawed at him. Unable to shake the concern, he voiced it to Mr. Fisher.
Mr. Fisher listened thoughtfully, nodding as though considering the possibility for the first ti. But when Mr. Grant finished, he dismissed the concern with a shrug. "We'll turn down their offers," he said simply, almost a mutter. "We still have two and a half years on his contract. I even intend to extend that."
"What if he wants out?" Mr. Grant challenged. "You can't deny the possibility of him aiming higher, can you?"
"We'll turn down all offers," Mr. Fisher repeated, his voice resolute.
"And if that leaves us with an unhappy driver in the team?"
Mr. Fisher's gaze hardened as the drivers began rolling to a stop, the clock ticking close to 2:30 p.m. "If it cos to that, Mr. Grant, then it's inevitable. The cycle of sending top talent to the premier teams will go on." His voice carried a grim finality that echoed the weight of their reality.
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Luca removed his helt as soon as he exited the cockpit. He exhaled deeply, relishing the cool spring air as it filled his lungs, a welco relief from the confines of the helt and cockpit. He glanced over to see Ansel and Haas already starting to undress, Ansel tugging off his gloves with quick movents.
The training session had gone well. Luca felt a sense of accomplishnt, confident in the progress he had made by seamlessly blending the day's programs. "So, heading ho after this?" Luca asked casually, turning toward Ansel.
"Yeah," Ansel replied with a grunt, pulling out his arm from the snug suit. "We'll be back tomorrow, so I need to rest as much as possible."
Luca nodded, stepping aside as the team rolled his car off the track. His gaze briefly flicked toward Mr. Fisher and Mr. Grant, who stood behind the glass walls observing them, but he avoided making full eye contact. "Sounds good. What do you usually do when you're ho?" Luca asked, genuinely curious about what Ansel does whenever he goes ho.
Ansel's brows furrowed, not just from his poor performance earlier but from the realization that his ho life was far from exciting, and there was really nothing he did. "Not much," he admitted with a shrug. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Want to co over? We could finally play that Playstation."
That's exactly what I want, Luca thought, but he kept his excitent contained, allowing only a small grin to break through. "Sure thing, man. I could use a change of scenery, and I'd love to see your place," he replied.
As the cars were cleared from the track, the day's work officially wrapped up. Everyone was free to unwind, though the week ahead promised a grueling schedule for Trampos Racing—and Luca especially—with no respite until the weekend.
After a refreshing shower, Luca dressed in a black hoodie with the word "Veststar" emblazoned in white across the chest, paired with black joggers and white sneakers. He left his hair in its natural tousled state and pocketed his phone before stepping outside.
At the towering gates, Ansel was waiting for him, leaning casually against his KIA sedan. The sight of his teammate, dressed in his usual laid-back attire, made Luca's grin widen as he approached.
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