"Cute." I tap the pole position trophy Brendon is carrying; it's a small tyre with his name and winning lap time stamped in metallic silver.

        Coming back feels normal, unlike a newbie as I was last time, though my Formula One knowledge has only marginally grown since. The badge with my name, picture, and "VIP" in bold letters hangs around my neck while the green and black attire I've chosen represents the team I'm rooting for.

        I haven't been to another race yet so I have nothing to compare it to, but Brendon's entire body comes alive whenever he sets foot in Albert Park Circuit.

        Sweat drips from his forehead and he wipes it away with a small towel while twirling the trophy in his hand. He informed me before qualifying started that if he won pole position, he and the team would be giving it away to a fan after the race, so he's admiring it before he has to sign and hand it over.

        "How was your debrief?"

        Brendon laughs and pivots toward the area with all of the motorhomes, waiting for me to follow along with him before he starts walking. "It was good. Car was on fire today."

        "The car or you?" I chuckle. "Idris had a rough start."

        Not that I'm trying to insult him; just a simple observation. Though it's only the first race of the season, so I don't doubt the titan will bounce back quickly. Getting used to a new car every season, even one built to suit their driving style, can't be easy, and on my way in this morning I heard he got over a nasty cold a day ago so he's still feeling sluggish. Idris has to settle for a P6 start tomorrow. Not terrible but not what he or the team were hoping for. It's not often we see a Windsor driver starting outside of the first two rows.

        "Yeah." Brendon winces. As much as he's looking out for himself and hoping to win—that is the job of an F1 driver, after all—he still has to contribute to a Constructors Championship, so he's mindful of whether or not his teammate is looking good on the track as well. "Think something was up with his car. He was doing better at the practice sessions. But he'll be fine. He always is."

        Watching Brendon breezily seize a fastest lap time in Q3—the final session of qualifying where the top ten drivers make their attempts at securing the fastest lap of the session—for provisional pole position is impressive either way, and if tomorrow's race unfolds in a similar way, he'll be sitting high up on the top of the podium.

        I've been in the Windsor hospitality suite going over work emails while Brendon finishes shop talk with the rest of his team, as well as the press conference. When he grabs me, a trail of journalists are hot on his tail, but he dodges them as soon as he enters the building.

        Now that we're leaving, they're back and hungry for more answers. Brendon does a good job of keeping them entertained while doing his best to hide me from the cameras as much as possible. I'm sure there are already pictures circulating of the two of us since we arrived at the track together this morning, but there's nothing I can do about it. They're respectful, only briefly greeting me and telling me they hope I have a good day.

        "How was the car, Bash?"

        Brendon lifts his trophy. "Pretty good. Our amazing and hardworking team managed to fix a lot of the problems we had back at testing so we're hopeful for a good result tomorrow."

        I keep my head down while we make our way over, but it's hard not to sneak a glimpse here and there of Brendon in his element. Considering how brunch with his family ended the other day, he deserves to enjoy himself. It's just sad he isn't able to enjoy it with his sister.

        The journalists taper off as we get closer to the motor homes until we're alone. Before we pass the first, someone in navy blue overalls rounds a corner.

        Brendon jogs to catch up and slaps him on the shoulder, compelling him to turn around. A smile spreads across his face and his eyes dart down to the trophy in Brendon's hands.

        "Hey, that was a good lap." The two slap hands. "Looking for a repeat of last year."

        Brendon laughs. "You were on fire today, too. Managed to get ahead of Johnson."

        "Barely survived. Almost locked up at the last turn," the man jokes. His eyes settle on me, curiosity swirling. "Friend?"

        Brendon tugs on my hand. "Stevie. This is Brooks. He drives for Audi."

        I wave. "Nice to meet you."

        "You too," he replies. "I think you were—" he shares a look with Brendon, "—here with Bash last time, right? I think I missed you."

        "With the rest of my band." I nod. "And, I guess, Windsor."

        "Face of Windsor is basically Windsor," he jokes. "You have friends in high places."

        "He does," I say lightheartedly at the same time Brendon agrees.

        They talk for another minute or two before Brooks alerts us he's been summoned for shop talk. Before leaving, he leans over to shake my hand, commenting he hopes we have a chance to talk at the next race.

        When we arrive at the Windsor motor home, we walk through the main waiting area to head up to Brendon's room. It takes a few minutes since he has to stop and thank the many people congratulating him on a good qualifying.

        Navigating the chaos of the F1 paddock is like trying to defy gravity, but once we arrive at Brendon's room and the door closes behind us, we plummet into silence, drifting far away from the rest of the galaxy.

        There's not much to it; a desk, coffee table, single chair, and a love seat. A set of closet spaces and a bathroom. Aside from the few odds and ends strewn about, evidence someone does use this space, it's bare. I understand the need for refuge, though, so the emptiness of it all doesn't bother me.

        Brendon places his trophy on the table while I throw myself onto the loveseat. Even though I haven't done much today besides look at a small screen and squint at a bigger screen during the part of qualifying I managed to catch because I forgot my glasses (again), I'm still exhausted.

        "Could use a new paint job," I joke.

        "If I spent more time in here, I'd probably agree." Brendon opens the closet and pulls out a duffle bag, placing it on the desk so he can grab his street clothes. "Just give me a second to change and I'll be right out."

        "You can find me in this exact spot. I think I will slowly wither away into nothing."

        Since the grid is constantly moving around each week, and even when they're settled into a new country, most of the drivers' time is spent elsewhere, it makes sense they don't put much thought into decorating their personal space.

        But I have an eye for these kinds of things, so when my eyes land on a blurry dark square at the corner of the mirror, I recognize it as the one piece of Brendon that remains even when he's gone.

        Call me a liar. Save the withering away for another day.

       It's old and the corners are either ripped or curling in on themselves, but it's easy to see it's a picture that means something.

        Young Brendon is standing next to a kart with a shiny trophy in his hands. On either side of him stand his parents, with his dad resting one hand on his shoulder and his mother carrying a baby Stacey in her arms. If there's a vision in my head of what a perfect family looks like, it's this. All proud and happy and full of life. I have to remind myself it's simply a picture and this family has as many cracks between their wispy layers of realism as mine does.

        "I can find you at that exact spot, huh," Brendon quips.

        He's wearing his street clothes, though the Windsor and sponsorship brandings remain. Any time they spend at the circuit is prime real estate with the way they're constantly followed and photographed.

        "This is a cute photo." I place it back in the corner of the mirror. "It's the only picture you have of your family. Even on your phone."

        "Sneaking peeks at my wallpaper?" he asks. Pivoting on his feet, he starts piling all of his belongings back into his bag. Most of things will stay until the end of the race tomorrow, but he takes a few things back to the hotel.

        "You asked me to post something so you could continue your streak," I reply, leaning back against the cabinet. "Not my fault you're a grown man who still uses Snapchat in 2022."

        Even with his back toward me, I'm still just a lonely planet orbiting his delicate smile. "At least it was a nice picture."

        "Of course it was." I pause. "How are you feeling?"

        He takes his time replying. "Will be better when I get some sleep." Brendon turnswith the strap of his duffle slung around his shoulder. "Can we order cheese fries for dinner?"

        Me coming over to hang out in his room isn't a question, just an understood mutual decision. "Won't your trainer be mad?"

        "I'll deal with it later."

        Cutting the distance between us, Brendon stands inches in front of me. It's so quiet in that room I can only hear the two of us breathe, and the sound from my end gets cut off as he leans forward, reaching his hand up. Diverting at the last second, Brendon pulls to the side of my face and yanks down the picture before tucking it into his bag. Meanwhile, I find the ability to breathe again with him standing this close to me.

        "You don't have to hide it." Despite his avoidance of talking about his parents, I can't imagine leaving Australia without making sure he's okay. Truly okay. Not the kind of okay where we all like to pretend we are when we don't want to talk about shit.

        Although, I'll take Messy Maverick over Adam Ellis any day of the week.

        "Cheese fries is a good side dish for trauma dumping."

        Brendon laughs and I hope it continues forever. Before he can stop me, I reach into his bag and pull the picture back out, smoothing out the lines before placing it back in its spot. Maybe he'll regret spilling all of his secrets over me later. Maybe he'll despise having to look at his father tomorrow when he gets ready. I cling to the hope he takes the good memories and uses them as fuel to win a race and prove his father wrong.

        "Make it enough cheese fries to be a whole meal and we have a deal," he finally replies.

        I hold my hand out, accepting the warmth of his hand against mine. "It's a deal."

...

"The pit exit down here at Albert Park leads into a tight corner which means drivers cannot go flying once they exit the pit lane. Brendon Ellis has a slow exit after pitting for the hard compound tyre, but he has enough cushion to breeze through that first corner ahead of Rix Tsui who's been holding off the likes of Brooks Davidson, a surprise appearance near the front of the pack. The second year driver for Audi had a rough rookie year but has been showing some momentum thanks to the 2022 car. If he can manage to get ahead of Tsui, he'll score the first podium of his career."

        Sitting in the VIP seats above the pitlane is a different experience than the grandstand. Since I don't have the safety net of my best friends with me, this is a much preferable view and experience. I'm not having to manage the high crowd levels on my own and can sit back, enjoy the view for what it is. While there are still a lot of people around, it's manageable.

        Idris Johnson's wife Monthakan sits next to me with a still calmness that can only come from someone who's spent as long as she has navigating the world of the F1 paddock. From the minute I step into VIP, she welcomes me with open arms and keeps me company, adding in well-timed commentary while doing her best to educate me.

        "Idris is untouchable," I comment in awe while watching his gap to Brendon grow and grow by the lap. After managing to jump up a few spots at the start of the race, Idris managed to pull himself ahead of the rest of the pack shortly after, leaving Brendon to maintain a modest P2 behind his teammate.

        "It's always been a strong track for him," Monthakan replies. "Barring yesterday. But it's not been an easy track to overtake at. They did some modifications last year to widen some of the corners so that helps. And there are three DRS zones this year so that give an advantage. But he got lucky at the start with Brendon's lock up."

        I nod, remembering her explanation of DRS earlier in the race—a system which allows the drivers to open up part of the wing of the car which reduces drag and helps increase straight-line speed. It's only allowed in certain sections in the track and the drivers need to be within a second of the car in front of them in order for it to be activated.

        It's confusing to learn at first, but once I'm watching the race, it's easier to follow.

        "Brendon probably isn't likely to get DRS to help him catch up to Idris?" I ask, hoping I don't sound too naive.

        Monthakan shakes her head with a soft smile. "Not likely unless something happens to slow him down a lot. But, luckily for Bash, he's too far ahead of anyone else in the DRS train for them to use it on him so he should be in the clear for now."

        "Got it."

        "It's been mostly quiet for a few laps now but Jonas De Carlo clips a bit of the grass going into a turn and finds himself spinning onto the gravel. Unfortunately, the Heisman Racing driver will have to retire. Marshalls will have to push the car off the track and clean up some of the debris, so this triggers a safety car, which allows some of these drivers who are struggling with tyre grip to take advantage of the minimal damage of pitting for fresh tyres. Both of the Windsors stay out while both Rix Tsui and Brooks Davidson head into the pit lane."

        "Why aren't they going in?"

        "They both switched not too long ago. And they're on hards so it should last them until the end of the race."

        I nod. "Okay, yeah."

        She smiles. "You'll catch on. Promise."

        All I can do is nod and remind myself to watch more races so I can pick up terminology and learn about strategy. There's way more to F1 than just driving fast, and if I'm going to be spending as much time with Brendon as I have been, it'll help to learn.

         The safety car can help reduce some of the gaps between drivers, depending on their current speed when the car is signaled, but it keeps most of the race at a standstill. Both Windsor cars are far enough ahead they don't have to worry, but safety cars, as I've learned, can create a lot of excitement between the mid-field cars who've otherwise been stalled inside the DRS train.

        Once the track is cleared and the race restarts, cars fly back up to normal speed and excitement ignites once again. Most action comes from the battles in the mid-field that I find myself only paying attention to the two upfront when they flash past in the blink of an eye. Before I know it, the race ends and Idris and Brendon secure a 1-2 for Windsor.

        It's not another home grand prix win for my Aussie but P2 isn't something to cry about. When the two of them park their cars and greet the rest of the team cheering them on, they're both wearing smiles, happy for the good start to the new season.

        I don't get to see Brendon for a while since he has to go through the usual after-race protocols, including press, but I bask under the glow of his smile from up on the podium.

        Whether he's at the top of the podium or learning from his greatest idol, it does nothing to diminish his shine. He's a star through and through, and anyone that can't appreciate that doesn't deserve him.