String lights flickered to life as the last of the setting sun tucked itself behind Hard Rock Stadium, though the track that wrapped around it still seemed to sizzle with dissipating heat from qualifying - literally and metaphorically.

Gemma and I made our way back down into the paddock from the VIP box, easing our way into the slew of people looking to catch post qualifying press. Gemma had her arm looped around mine, but her face was painted with disdain. I gave her a reassuring squeeze as we walked through the crowd.

"Okay, I mean it could be worse...right?" I said. "The most important thing is that Cal is fine. He is also technically still on pole tomorrow, isn't he?"

I knew by now that the third and final session of qualifying was the one that mattered the most - the best guys typically blasted their way through with the best times, and the intensity was as tangible as the smoke coming off the tyres. Watching Atlas whip his car around the track in a ferocious effort to catch Callahan's best time had me grabbing for Gemma's arm on more than one occasion. With less than a minute left in the final session, Gemma finally grabbed for me as Callahan took a bad turn and went straight into the wall. Even though he already owned the best lap time of the session and therefore provisional pole, he went out for another lap, which garnered some confusion and criticism. Despite not being fully in tune with racing, there was part of me that understood why he went for another lap. I would have done the same if I had a lead score in a surfing heat - a win is never a win until time expires.

Looking as composed as she could be, Gemma let out a shaky breath. "I don't think I've ever physically felt my heart stop before."

I could almost empathize with Gemma by now - when she'd texted me last month about Atlas's crash in Monza, even seeing the words he's alright did little to settle the rattling in my heart. But having to actually witness a crash in real time? I didn't want to conjure nightmarish visuals of Atlas's car in a wall - seeing that happen to Cal still unsettled me.

"Well, I'm glad I'm here with you Gem," I offered her a smile. I meant it, and I knew she knew when she returned my smile. The lights strung between the palm trees played on her features as we continued along to the interview panel.

Interviews were normally conducted somewhere inside, but because it was Miami, and because it was a glamorous night race, the outdoor ambiance felt necessary. A cool night breeze whipped through the paddock, and I wished I hadn't sacrificed fashion over function as my little baby tee and open sandals offered little protection from the dropping temperatures.

"How many iced lattes would I owe you in order for you to surrender your blazer," I asked Gemma, tugging at her jacket sleeve.

"Absolutely not happening," she replied with her chin up.

I wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Is that little lace crop top you've got on underneath too sultry for anyone other than Callahan to see?"

Gemma scoffed and kept her gaze forward. "You know I hate that word."

I was about to fire back another smarmy remark when my attention was pulled to the interview panel. It wasn't a surge of noise, but rather the opposite - a vacuum seemed to suck all of the noise out of the air as the guys took their places in stools set up behind a small barrier separating them from the rest of us mortals. The top three drivers were first, and we stood facing a sea of silence, waiting on the edge of a cliff to see who'd jump first.

"Ronn Kota, Daily Mail," a tall, greasy-haired man stood up and introduced himself as he tucked a pen behind his ear. "This question is for Callahan. You obviously had a tremendous lap in Q3 that secured pole for you tomorrow, but are there concerns about the state of your gearbox and whether you'll be able to keep your position?"

Callahan swiveled forward on his stool to face the gaggle of reporters, his demeanor far too relaxed for someone who'd just crashed their car. Directly to his left sat Mercedes' Adrian Olsen, who I remembered from the dramatic Silverstone finish, and beside him was Atlas, leaning back in his stool with his hands jammed into the pockets of his black Porsche bomber jacket, undoubtably sour about his P3 finish. While they were no longer in their racing overalls, they still wore some variation of streetwear plastered with their teams logos and sponsors. Atlas was the only one who wore his cap backwards, sitting less composed than the other two.

"They look like Power Rangers," I mumbled to Gemma with a chuckle. "You know how even when they're not in uniform, Power Rangers still always wear their colors."

"Callahan's about to speak," she quipped back, and the shut up was implied.

All eyes were on Callahan, who pulled up the sleeve of his red quarter-zip before addressing the reporter.

"Yeah, I'm very pleased with the car's performance on this track," Callahan nodded in acknowledgement. "You know it's a new track for everyone and so for us to be able to fight with Mercedes and Porsche so closely bodes well for the race. We'll have to see what happens with the gearbox after our engineers take a look. The team should know by tomorrow morning at the latest."

"Just a quick follow up to that," Ronn Kota, of the Daily Mail, raised that pen he plucked from behind his ear. "Were you at all nervous that Vaughn was going to catch you at the end there? His sector times suggested there was serious potential to swipe that pole position from you before the session was ended because of your crash."

A snicker escaped Atlas's mouth.

If Callahan heard him, it was promptly ignored. "I can't really speak to Vaughn's times, it wasn't something we were paying attention to at that moment. I was still putting in purple sectors as well, last time I checked."

While any normal person would have written Cal's final comment off as potentially snarky, his tone said otherwise, and I caught another glimpse of what Gemma truly saw in Callahan Jane. The eloquent, diplomatic way he conducted himself was a reflection of her and her own savvy diplomacy in race car driver form.

The same couldn't be said for Atlas, who shifted in his chair and eyed Callahan, his knee bobbing up and down as the sole of his Nike sneaker slapped against the bottom rung of the stool. It went silent again, and everyone noticed.

"Sorry, one more follow up, this is for Atlas." Ronn Kota, of the esteemed Daily Mail, had clearly found a button that said do not push and was therefore very eager to push.

Atlas lifted his gaze up, and while I could have chalked the sudden chill up to the night air, I was sure the shoot to kill look in his eyes was the cause of my goosebumps.

"What?"

It was only one word, but that was all he needed. Killshot confirmed.

While Ronn Kota of the Daily Mail took a moment to process the shot, Adrian leaned over to Callahan and whispered something behind his hand, which prompted a sly little grin from Callahan. It was easy to catch the responsive eye roll from Atlas, but I wondered if I was the only one who noticed how uncomfortably he shifted in his chair again.

"Atlas, do you think you could have nicked pole from Callahan?"

"Absolutely." There was no hesitation or insecurity in his reply. "My first two sectors were faster than his...before he drove himself into a wall and effectively ended my final lap early."

Callahan swiveled in his stool, leaning forward to glance across Adrian to meet Atlas's gaze. In that moment, they were the center of a collapsing star, and we'd all just been sucked into the event horizon of the black hole they'd created. The point of no return.

"Really?" A subtle edge crept through Cal's voice, and I felt Gemma imperceptibly stiffen up beside me.

Atlas offered him a tight grimace, teeth bared like a wolf to an enemy. "Yes Jane, really."

Everyone had been effectively swallowed up by the raw tension...except for Adrian Olsen, who leaned further back into his chair and barked out a laugh.

"Lads, please," he laughed again, and I was almost distracted by the low, smooth velvet of his voice. "So does anyone have any questions for me, or am I just supposed to be the neutral party in this lovers' quarrel?"

Everyone exhaled a relieved laugh or two, and the tension dissipated into the night. As Adrian fielded a few questions, Callahan stared blankly ahead, his gaze unfixed and vacant as he absentmindedly toyed with the clasp on his watch. I pinched Gemma's elbow again.

"Is Cal mad?" I asked her. "Does Cal get mad?"

"I'm not a mind reader." She sighed out, casting another glance back at the boys. Atlas's expression was less vacant, and more conspiratory. "But I think it's pretty clear that right now Atlas is pushing his buttons."

I smirked. "I think Atlas enjoys pushing his buttons."

Someone else saying Atlas's name snapped my attention back to the interviews. A different reporter was on their feet - a smaller, younger man with a thick, obscure blend of European accents, leaning forward on his toes as if he wanted to physically catch the words that would come out of Atlas's mouth like they were pure gold. Given Atlas's choice of quick, pointedly harsh answers, maybe they were.

"So Atlas, I'm sure this is taking you back to Barcelona a few months ago where you were also robbed of a potential pole position after Kevin Richter put his Mclaren into the barrier, which ended that Q3 session as well and allowed Callahan to keep his provisional pole."

Atlas scoffed. "I'm sorry, is there a question here?"

The reporter cleared his throat. "Well, it seems like this sort of thing is always happening to the two of you. With only four points separating you at the moment in the drivers' championship, I'm sure tensions are high."

Atlas's shoulders heaved as he let out a heavy breath, clasping his hands together in front of his chin, his tone eerily calm and measured. "...I still don't hear a question."

He leaned forward to address Callahan again. "Do you hear a question?"

Cal offered him a passive shrug.

Atlas directed his attention back to the reporters. "Well, then I think silence is an appropriate answer to your imaginary question."

As it seemed like everyone in the staged area took a collective sharp inhale, I thanked the World Surf League for not forcing surfers to do interviews the way Formula 1 drivers did interviews. It was almost like it was set up purposely to cause drama. God forbid I ever had to do a joint interview sitting next to Carissa Keli'i.

The interview panel continued on in an attempt to regain normalcy by shifting their attention back to Adrian, but I kept my gaze fixed on Atlas and the discomfort that pinched his features. Based on what I'd heard from Atlas in the past about the way the media treated him, it seemed like they were used to his temperamental responses, which only made the prodding, gossip-mongering questions feel more targeted. Baiting him, waiting for him to bare his teeth and snarl again.

Watching a race from the VIP boxes above the garages compared to the grandstand was like watching it from another planet entirely. There was a measured calmness to everyone, keeping their hushed conversations and tempered excitement to the confines of their cliquey little circles. Granted, it could have also been because virtually nothing had happened since the start of the race. Adrian Olsen sped away as soon as he hit turn one, putting more and more distance with every lap between himself and the Porsche boys, who were essentially trapped in no man's land while they hung on to P2 and P3 respectively.

After taking a penalty for being forced to change that gearbox the reporters were so interested in yesterday, Callahan had been banished back to P5, where he'd remained the entire race. Now with five laps left in the race to go, the large red headset Gemma had worn most of the race was draped around her neck.

"You look weirdly calm, all things considered," I said to her, gesturing out to the track where a few cars sped by the start-finish line. "I don't really understand why Ferrari willingly took a penalty like that. Cal lost out on a potential podium."

"It's strategic," Gemma replied, casually brushing imaginary dust off of her red leather jacket. "Damage mitigation. If they hadn't replaced the gearbox at all and ended up having to most likely retire from the race, that would be zero points instead of the 10 he'll get for finishing P5. That way the gap between him and Atlas in the drivers' championship is still manageable."

I responded with an understanding nod. I paid enough attention by now to know that Atlas was currently in second place in the championship behind Adrian, then Cal not far behind him. There was also apparently a separate championship for the teams that was based on collective points between both drivers for each team, but a victory in one championship didn't guarantee victory in the other. Adrian Olsen might have been leading the drivers' championship, but Mercedes was behind Porsche for the team championship because Atlas and Jaye combined raked in more points per race than Mercedes did - because in Gemma's words, Adrian's teammate was "more useless than her oven."

The race ended without incident, and thanks to Gemma's elevated VIP status, we didn't have to rush down and power through the grandstand crowd to catch the trophy presentation - we had our own place down among the rest of the Ferrari crew, despite the fact that there'd be no cheering from them tonight. The crews from the winning teams got front and center access, but it was still better than being in a mosh pit-esque crowd of fans.

By the time we made it down to ground level, the boys were climbing out of their cars, heat from the engine still tangible in the air. Atlas's chrome helmet glinted under the lights as he walked over to Jaye and pulled him into a quick embrace. Even after they separated, their helmets stayed pressed together, Jaye nodding occasionally as he clung onto every word Atlas said. He gave Jaye one more pat on the helmet before walking back into the garage alone. Jaye spun around on his racing boots and ran into the waiting arms of his Porsche crew, cheering and jeering as they lifted him up in celebration.

"It's Jaye's first podium," Gemma said, leaning close to me so I could hear her over the crowd noise and commotion.

"What do you think Atlas said to him?" I asked, keeping my gaze back towards the garage.

"I don't know," Gemma shrugged. She paused and allowed herself a moment to muse on it, the faintest grin tugging at her lips. "But it looked like something nice."

I smiled to myself, knowing that in that moment, that was the Atlas I knew. I hadn't just made that part of him up - he was there somewhere, and I'd be damned if I was going to let him just hide that part of him away. 

there's shadows on the wall, wish i would've ran
gotta get away i hope you understand
i try to hide my face like a wanted man
maybe i'll be gone before you count to ten

maybe / machine gun kelly, bring me the horizon

i know i skipped through qualifying and most of the race, but the stuff that came after was more important, and listen doing race scenes *right* is hard. don't worry, there will be more soon.

so now that y'all have really had a good look at alpha atlas what are your thoughts? atlas is starting to show that he definitely has some baggage, and he's not letting sav in on everything.

btw in case it's not clear enough, the alpha thing is meant to be very satirical, i actually grossly detest that word when applied to men and what its implications are. atlas doesn't like being called that either, but he'd rather that then...well, you'll see soon enough.