The roar of the crowd was distant, muted beneath the relentless noise inside Luca's helmet. Silverstone's grandstands were packed, fans wrapped in team colors, waving flags that fluttered in the cold breeze. But for Luca, none of it mattered. All that existed was the razor-thin line between control and chaos, the whisper of tires on tarmac, and the pounding of his own heart.
The qualifying session had started with promise. Luca had managed to keep his cool through the opening laps, setting times competitive with Nathan Kane. But as the session progressed, the pressure began to mount — from the team, the media, and most importantly, himself.
Tom's voice crackled over the radio, steady and calm. "Luca, you're holding P3. Keep consistent. Remember what we talked about — control, not aggression."
But the deeper Luca pushed, the more his confidence wavered. The car felt alive, threatening to bite with every turn. The rear end would twitch unpredictably, the tires on the edge of grip. One mistake and the dream could shatter.
Nathan Kane set his fastest lap early, his experience showing in every sector. Luca's first flying lap was clean, but half a second shy.
With a minute left on the clock, Luca pushed for a final lap — every nerve screaming, every muscle tensed.
At Maggotts, he braked late, but the car slid wide, the rear tires losing grip for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity.
He fought the slide, eyes locked on the apex, but the clock ran out.
The session ended — and Luca was P4.
Back in the garage, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken disappointment.
Tom approached, placing a firm hand on Luca's shoulder. "You did well. It was a learning lap. Next time, you nail it."
Nathan, surprisingly, offered a rare smile. "You're getting there, kid. Razor GP's future is in good hands."
Luca nodded, but inside, a storm brewed. The pressure wasn't just about lap times — it was about legacy, expectations, and the shadow of Matteo.
That night, alone in the motorhome, Luca stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment. The pressure was a furnace, threatening to consume him.
But it was also the fire that forged champions.