Things are looking good for Windsor this weekend. Their domination of the practice sessions and qualifying have them in a front row lockout, with Idris taking another pole position—which I'm assuming is what they say for someone starting in first place—while Brendon takes a second-place starting position.

Since this is Brendon's home race, there's a lot of pressure for him to perform well. While waiting for someone to take us outside for our rounds, we read over the numbers from the weekend and learn Brendon isn't far behind Idris Johnson. Ultimately, commentators are speculating he has a chance to take home the trophy, which would be the first for an Aussie driver at their home race.

        After twenty minutes, they bring us onto the track. My heart races at the anticipation of the crowds, and I count down in my head to calm the nerves. Using Jun's arm as leverage, I steady myself under the glaring Australian sun.

        My mind goes into overdrive as the smell of gasoline and rubber floods my senses. It's a cacophony of colors with members of all of the different teams rushing back and forth, trying to get ready for the race.

        The Windsor employee escorting us leans in close. "Since you're here as official guests of Windsor, we ask that you please don't pose for photos with other teams in their garages, though you are free to introduce yourselves if you wish. We hope you understand."

        Rami agrees to the terms before Seira can make a snide comment. Avoiding photo-ops should be easy. The press is limited with where they can go and keeping away from other teams will be fine.

        We pass a few garages but don't stop since we're on a route to Windsor. I recognize one of the other drivers from Brendon's recent Instagram post.

        I spot him off in the distance and lift my arm in anticipation of waving him over when a figure steps between us. In what is a cinematic moment too perfect for life, the sun casts an outline around the godlike figure in front of me, and when he steps aside to allow for introductions, I get a better view.

        Idris Johnson's is a face I've seen many times before. Before Brendon, he's the only driver I remember hearing about. I knew his name before I figured out what he was known for. He's that much bigger than the craft he masters like no other, proven in the record-breaking titles he holds.

        "Welcome to Windsor," he says with a blinding smile and a voice as smooth as a glass of whiskey by the fire. "It's nice to meet you. I'm a huge fan."

        "I'd say the same but I don't know shit about F1 so—" I shake my head. "Sorry, I mean it's nice to meet you, too. But yeah, I'm a newbie."

        His laugh is as equally soothing as his voice. "No worry. Bash said you're good friends but not to expect you to know anything."

        "The first part is an exaggeration but that about sums me up."

        "Maybe after today you'll be a fan."

        Out of the corner of my eye, I see another driver with an all-red suit walk past; tall and slim with a dark crown of sleek black hair. He turns before he walks past us, his eyes equally as bewitching as his figure, and shoots me an imperceptible grin of mischief.

        "Yeah." I turn back to Idris. "Maybe."

        "Geoff told us not to say anything but—" Idris leans in, shielding our exchange from any bystanders. "I heard this is because you're getting a show."

        "You mean they don't just want us here for our good looks?"

        Idris flashes me a blinding smile that puts the sun above us to shame. "Windsor does like having pretty people stand next to their cars."

        "To answer your question," I reply, "it's on the table. Nothing official yet. We wereonly just recently were briefed on it by our manager. Any advice?"

        "I'm probably not the best person to ask," he answers. "I don't appear on the show often."

        "By your own accord or because that's the team's stance?"

        "Marcus and Geoff have already briefed you?" I nod. "They're persuasive but I have my own opinions about the show."

        "They must be strong." He doesn't elaborate. "Is this your subtle way of telling me to give it more consideration?"

        Idris hums. "Be cautious of who you step into business with."

        "That's not ominous at all."

        "We have an audience, Stevie." My name rolls casually of his tongue like he's said it many times before. It feels like being welcomed into a special club of people who hold the highest honors. "But if you're ever curious, we can talk when there aren't a bunch of cameras around."

        I nod thoughtfully and make a note to ask Brendon if he can pass along Idris' email. "I'll take you up on that."

        Before Idris can get another word in, someone rushes up behind me and places their chin on my shoulder.

        "You look good in green," Brendon says. As I turn around, he reaches out to shake Idris' hand who excuses himself.

        "I wanted to wear red but Rami scolded me."

        "Remind me to thank him." Brendon brushes something off my shoulder. He's in his race suit once again with the outermost layer pulled down so the sleeves are wrapped around his waist. "You've met the titan."

        "He's surprisingly down to earth." With the mention of red and my interest still riding high from earlier, I ask him, "What's the Forza driver's name? The Tahitian one."

        "Bruno?" Brendon looks at me. "Don't tell me you're fraternizing with the enemy."

        "Just enjoying the view." His expression amuses me. "You don't like him?"

        "He's a little ray of pitch black." Brendon's lips twist together with distaste.

"Am I betraying some sort of friend code by asking about him?"

        "I thought we weren't friends?"

        "Answer the question, Bash."

     "You could do better than him but you're fine."

        "If you say so." I poke his side. "Everyone's rooting for you to win. A front-row start is promising."

        "We'll see," he replies. "Idris was on fire at qualifying."

        "You weren't far behind him."

        "Races are decided within the smallest increments."

        I slap him on the shoulder. "Then make sure you don't fall behind."

...

Once the cars line up on the grid, it's hard to control the erratic beating of my heart.

        Networking on Windsor and Netflix's behalf is robotic after they snap shots of us next to the cars with the two drivers. I have to endure an unusual pairing of Idris and me with a reporter, something about the two of us being the leaders in our own teams. We were quick to shut that logic down as we are nothing without the rest of our teams—bandmates, teammates, engineers, and all else—but play nice and finish the short round of questions regardless. Idris is gracious on his end, even handing off his email address to set up lunch if we find ourselves in the same city again. All in all, he's one of the nicer parts of the experience.

        Now it's a matter of observation, and the view we're awarded is extraordinary; a perfect view of the finish line with a route for a quick getaway so we can enjoy the podium festivities once the race is over.

        Idris Johnson sits upfront like the reigning king he is, with Brendon diagonal from him in the second slot, a prince hungry to take his spot on the throne. Behind Idris in P3 sits a blue and orange car with the #17 of Rix Tsui, a driver from Ventura F1 Racing who's second place in the Drivers' Championship standings. Rounding out the second row is Bruno Tetuanui, a driver for Forza.

        My senses go into overdrive inhaling the burning smell of rubber and absorbing the onslaught of noise from a rowdy crowd that competes with the loud engines. Brendon is right; it's louder than a concert. Or it feels that way. Maybe it's because I'm in unfamiliar territory shrouded by foreign sounds. But as soon as the lights start counting down, I'm on the edge of my seat, eyes glued to the second car on the grid.

        Then, it's lights out and away they go.

        Commentators' remarks blare out through the speakers above us, but most of their words go in one ear and out the other when they use terminology I'm not familiar with. Rami who's more versed in F1 lingo tries his best to explain what's going on in more civilian terms, which helps but it's hard to concentrate when my eyes are feasting on the battle in front of me.

        Idris and Brendon both have flying head starts into the first corner, following in their starting positions while Bruno and Rix trade places behind them, the flaming red car pulling ahead on the outside of the turn. The parade quickly follows, eventually disappearing out of sight so we're left to view them on the big screens plastered around the track.

        "Rix is gunning for Bash." Rami leans over to tell me. "Ventura is second in the Constructors' Championship. They need this win if they want a fighting chance at snatching away one of the championships."

        "How far is he?" I ask, squinting my eyes to check the time. Surrendering to my bad eyesight, I retrieve my phone and pull up the ongoing results.

        "Not far," he replies. "But it's a fast track and Windsor's car does well on it so they have a good chance of keeping P1 and P2, assuming they don't fuck up the strategy."

        "Certain tracks suit different cars?" I ask, feeling lost. "Don't they just need to go fast?"

        Even as the words fumble out of my mouth, I realize how silly I sound. There's a lot of technical work that goes into building a Formula One car, and since they're all unique pieces of machinery running courses that vary from one to the next, it makes sense some fare better than others around different tracks.

        Rami plays it off with a laugh. "Windsor's been dominating for most of the season, aside from the beginning when Bash got a lot of shit luck."

        "Isn't he third now?"

        "And climbing up to second," he replies, catching my gaze from the corner of his eye with the sun beating down on his warm brown eyes and wild curls. "If he can swing P1 or P2 ahead of Rix Tsui, he'll climb up into second."

        The race is due to last over an hour and I do my best to keep up with everything. I'm aware of how uneducated I am, but it doesn't stop me from staying enthralled with all of the excitement. I absorb their energy every time a car soars past in a blur, leaping to my feet with the rest of the crowd when Brendon zooms past.

        Time flies by so quickly I don't even realize we're so close to the end when there are only three laps in the race. After leading the race with the rest of the starting pack, Rix Tsui had to retire due to engine failure, leaving Idris, Brendon, and Bruno to safely secure places on the podium with the generous gap they have to the rest of the pack, barring any accidents before the finish line.

        I tug on Rami's sleeve. "What's happening now?"

        "Nothing yet."

        "I should've brought my glasses. I can't see shit."

        "Just watch the track for—oh."

        My eyes follow his line of sight where his gaze flicks back and forth between the giant screen and a smaller vision of them off in the distance, coming back around to the start of the track. While the two Windsor drivers have extended the distance between them and Bruno, there's barely any space between them leading into the last turn of the track with two laps left to go.

        "The two Windsors have been driving forces for their team today and are on track to secure impressive points, including a fastest lap for Idris Johnson, but with only two laps to go, race leader Idris Johnson has his teammate hot on his tails. And as the two head into turn sixteen, Idris Johnson, whose racecraft has been tight this entire race so far, locks up and spins, giving Ellis the chance to capitalize on this mistake and cinch his way past his teammate on the inside line! The crowd goes wild as the Aussie driver pulls himself into P1, breaking quickly ahead of Idris Johnson for the final two laps! We might see history being made today with a first-time home race win for an Aussie driver here in Melbourne!"

        My eyes stay peeled, watching Brendon's car race through each turn on those final two laps. As my heart pounds faster, my breath pushes out at an increasing speed, and when his car passes the finish line with the chequered flag waving above him, I fly out of my seat along with my bandmates. The crowd is in an uproar, screaming his name with pride. His radio message plays over the speakers as we're whisked away to view the podium ceremony so I can't understand what he's saying.

        "What did we do?! What the hell did we just do?! That's what I'm ******* talking about!"

        "And that's P1 for Brendon Ellis, his fifth win in Formula One and the first in his home race! Idris Johnson rounds out the 1-2 for Windsor with an extra point for fastest lap. Bruno Tetuanui crosses the finish line eight seconds behind both of the Windsor drivers for another podium this season! Good points all around for our podium finishers but Rix Tsui who had to retire earlier in the race will have to settle for P3 in the Drivers' Championship now that Brendon Ellis has raced himself into second behind his teammate. We'll see if boy wonder will be able to keep up this momentum for the rest of the season."

        We make our way to where the podium sits in wait to crown its race winner and runner-ups. The crowd grows quickly, sucking us into its vortex despite our security's best efforts to keep us in their reach. Before we know it, we're another mundane group of onlookers waiting for welcome in the drivers, and I find the thrill of being part of this group worth the temporary stress.

        Bruno Tetuanui comes out first, waving his arms high in the air. His eyes are dark but the elusive charm of his features grants him the illusion of the devil walking straight of the flames of hell and back onto his underground throne.

        Idris Johnson follows and his presence draws even more applause. He takes his place with pride, relinquishing the honor to his teammate who comes out last.

        Brendon Ellis is impossible to look away from once he's taken his place on the top of the podium. His hair is a mess and he's drenched in sweat, but the podium finishers manage to make it look good.

        Somehow through the chaos, he catches my eyes before they hand out the trophies. I can't be too sure since he's far above us, but he flashes a smile as shiny and polished as the gold being placed in his hands.