Drive me Wild, Rival(BL)

Alaric

Saturday in Bahrain felt like judgment day. It was qualifying day.

The desert heat pressed down on everything, turning the air thick enough to chew. By the time the session drew near, the track temperature had climbed so high that the asphalt shimmered like a mirage under the brutal sun.

I sat strapped into the cockpit of my Ferrari, the carbon-fiber frame hugging me tightly. My gloves were already damp with sweat, my helmet secured, but my heart hammered so hard I could feel it pulsing in my throat.

This was my first official qualifying in two years. In Formula racing, these few laps decided the entire grid—and for me, they would decide whether I still belonged here at all.

"Listen, Alaric, you’ve got this," Dorothy whispered, leaning over the side of the cockpit. "I am so glad you are back on track. Stay confident and trust your instincts. Don’t overthink the corners."

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I shared her confidence. Inside the gloves, my hands were shaking. This wasn’t even the race yet, but the pressure of the knockout format was already closing in around me.

"You’ve got this, mon cher," Dami’s voice crackled through the radio. "Don’t let anything stop you today. Even if you don’t get the position you want, I am sure you will do well."

"Thank you, Dami," I replied, trying to force a smile that refused to come.

I wanted Harold.

He was the only one who truly understood the storm inside me. He was my best friend, the one person who could quiet the noise when everything felt too loud. But he had been silent for days. Ever since the private testing session with Nico, I hadn’t heard from him.

Between the endless media debriefs and simulator sessions, I simply hadn’t been able to make it to his house.

Was it because of Nico? Did he think I had found a new friend to lean on and decided to stop bothering with me?

The ache of missing him was sharp. I missed his teasing voice and the way he always knew exactly what to say to break my tension. I even missed that ridiculous bright-red tuxedo that somehow made the stress of the paddock feel less impossible.

Without him, I felt exposed. He had been my emotional support ever since the accident—the steady hand that helped me rebuild. I just wanted him standing there in the garage, giving me that familiar look that told me everything was going to be fine.

I heaved a deep sigh as the session was about to begin.

Q1

The lights went green and I rolled out with the rest of the field. The first sector felt alright—I braked late into Turn 1, carried good speed through the apex, and nailed the exit.

The Ferrari responded well, but my hands were slick inside the gloves, so every small correction felt heavier than it should. I pushed through the middle sector, hitting the kerbs aggressively on the exit of Turn 4, but I could already tell I was half a tenth off my best simulator times.

I was doing poorly.

I heaved another deep sigh. Then I heard a familiar voice come softly in my head:

Just drive, Alaric. It’s just a race.

I nodded as if he were right there beside me and managed to cross the line in P8. I was safe.

Now it was Q2.

By then the pressure had ramped up. Fewer cars remained. Dami had also made it through in P10. Nico was leading, followed by Kelvin.

I was jealous of how fast they were. So when I went out for Q2, I was determined to climb the ranks.

Nico’s Red Bull was basically flying through the high-speed Turns 5-6-7. Kelvin stayed right behind him, aggressive on the kerbs and carrying insane speed into Turn 8.

I tried to match them. I attacked Turn 1, but the rear slid a fraction on exit. I saved it, yet I lost time. The long back straight felt good, and the Ferrari pulled strongly, but when I reached the final sector my braking into Turn 12 was too late.

The car understeered wide and I lost another two tenths. I crossed the line in P6 and scraped through to Q3.

Nico was still leading. Kelvin sat second, Ethan from Red Bull third, and two other drivers were right in front of me.

We were down to the final ten. This was the real pressure. Pole position would determine how we lined up for the race on Sunday, and I had to finish well.

I lined up, breathing fast. I looked sideways, then closed my eyes for a moment. The final run began.

My lap started well. I nailed Turn 1 and carried excellent speed through the flowing middle sector. For a moment it felt like the old days, when I used to fight for poles. But in the final sector I pushed too hard. Into Turn 10 I braked a fraction late.

The rear stepped out on the exit of Turn 11. I caught it, but the correction cost me momentum. Then on Turn 12 my hands started shaking as memories of the crash flooded my head. I remembered how my father and brother had screamed and for a moment, I lost my vision.

By the time I regained my rhythm and crossed the line, I was late on the sectors.

P6.

I ended in Sixth place.

Nico had taken pole with a stunning lap. Kelvin locked in P2, just two tenths behind him. I was nearly four tenths off pole, stuck behind two drivers who had simply been sharper and faster today. Dami finished in P8.

My mistakes in the final sector had cost me a potential front-row shot. But it wasn’t just my errors—the memories of that night two years ago had played a major role in the loss.

I climbed out of the car in the pit lane, removed my helmet, and walked toward Dami. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into a half-hug.

"You did well," he muttered.

"Thank you," I whispered to him, but deep down I knew I had not done well.

That was exactly why I needed Harold. If he were here, I was sure he would have given me words of encouragement—or even teased me the way he usually did.

As Dami and I headed toward the Ferrari motorhome, a mocking voice sounded suddenly behind us.

"I thought you were the king of the grid back then. What happened now? You didn’t even reach the top three," Kelvin sneered.