The Brisbane Blowback

The rooftop bar buzzed with energy as dusk melted into night. String lights crisscrossed above, flickering over a mix of lounge chairs and people gathered in cliques. Music pulsed from hidden speakers, rhythmic and hypnotic. Laughter and the occasional pop of champagne filled the air.

Sukhman leaned against the railing, drink in hand, his gaze scanning the horizon of city lights. The moment had everything—glory, recognition, celebration. And yet, Charlotte's words earlier gnawed at the back of his mind like sand in a shoe.

"You good?" Diego's voice pulled him back.

Sukhman turned his head. Diego was holding two bottles of beer, offering one with a lopsided grin.

"Yeah," Sukhman said, accepting it. He took a swig and sighed. "Just had a weird run-in with Charlotte before this."

Diego raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What happened?"

"She basically called me arrogant. Said I'm losing who I am. That I'm arguing too much with Siddharth, skipping out on meetings, getting too caught up in all this."

Diego let out a low whistle. "Harsh."

"Right? I've worked my ass off to get here. Finally start winning and suddenly I'm the bad guy for celebrating a little?"

Thiago appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Sukhman's shoulder. "That's classic jealousy, man. You're getting under their skin. You've been killing it. Don't let anyone make you feel guilty about having fun."

"Exactly," Diego said, clinking his bottle against Sukhman's. "You're finally being noticed. Let them talk. We'll party tonight and win tomorrow."

Sukhman nodded, the weight of doubt temporarily lifted by the comfort of friends and flashing lights. The music kicked up a notch, and soon they were moving in rhythm with the crowd, laughter replacing whatever guilt had lingered.

---

The sun blazed mercilessly through the glass of the rooftop bar. Sukhman stirred, blinking against the harsh light. He was still in his clothes from the night before, sprawled on a lounge sofa with a pounding headache and dry mouth.

He sat up, groaning. The place was mostly empty now, save for a few staff members cleaning up.

"Shit," he mumbled, fumbling for his phone. It was nearly noon.

As if on cue, it rang. He squinted at the caller ID. Siddharth.

"Hello?"

"Finally," Siddharth's voice was clipped. "Get back to the hotel now. You have a duel race. One-on-one. With Charlotte. In two hours."

Sukhman's blood ran cold. He had completely forgotten.

"Wait, today? Now?"

"Yes. Get ready. I'll meet you at the track."

The call ended.

"Fuck."

---

He barely made it to the hotel, showered in record time, and threw on his race gear. There was no breakfast, no coffee—just adrenaline and regret.

By the time he reached the Brisbane circuit, the sun had turned brutal, and the grandstands were already filling with curious spectators eager for a surprise match-up.

Charlotte was already in her gear, her helmet under one arm, expression unreadable.

"You made it," she said coolly.

"Barely," he muttered.

The two took their positions, the cars revving as the lights blinked in sequence.

Three. Two. One. Go!

Sukhman burst off the line, his initial reaction sharp and precise. For a moment, it felt like instinct was taking over, like the machine and his body were one.

But that illusion shattered by the second lap.

His hands trembled on the wheel. His head pounded in sync with his heartbeat. Each corner came a fraction too late. Each decision lagged by milliseconds. He tried to steady himself, focus, channel the rhythm he knew so well.

But Charlotte was unrelenting.

She cornered with crisp precision, overtaking him with a brutal ease on the fourth lap. Every mistake he made widened the gap.

By the final lap, Sukhman was pushing too hard, trying to recover seconds he didn't have. He clipped a curb, swerved wide, and by the time he corrected, Charlotte had already crossed the finish line.

The checkered flag waved. The crowd erupted. Not in awe, but surprise. Sukhman Brar—the rising star, the back-to-back GP winner—had just been beaten.

And it wasn't even close.

He rolled into the pit lane, pulling off his helmet with a groan. Sweat dripped from his forehead. The disappointment was immediate, and heavy.

Charlotte approached, her gaze unreadable.

"Tough race, huh?" she said simply but in a mocking way.

Sukhman looked at her, too exhausted to be angry. "You planned this, didn't you?"

"You agreed to it. I just reminded you what focus looks like."

She walked away, leaving him standing alone in the pit lane, the sound of victory not his to claim this time.

---

Back in the garage, the atmosphere was thick with a mix of heat, silence, and embarrassment. Mechanics moved around, not making eye contact, the hum of cooling fans and the sharp clink of tools echoing louder than usual.

Siddharth didn't speak. He simply handed Sukhman a water bottle and gestured to the telemetry data on the tablet.

"We'll talk when you're ready," he said.

Sukhman nodded, sweat still dripping from his brow, but it wasn't just from the race. His muscles were heavy. His eyes burned. His hands… still slightly trembled. He slumped into the metal chair beside the workbench and stared down at the glowing screen in his lap.

Throttle response—delayed.

Corner entry—tentative.

Straight-line pace—erratic.

Lap times—slipping, inconsistent, average.

Each line of data was a slap across the face. A hesitation in sector two. A braking misjudgment in sector three. He could almost feel the race again: the way Charlotte had surged past him cleanly, decisively, without needing to look back. It wasn't that she was inherently faster—no, he hadn't shown up. Not really.

He lost the race the moment he picked the rooftop party over proper rest.

The moment he let his ego outpace his discipline.

Reality didn't whisper—it roared now.

The door to the garage swung open with a sharp hiss of hydraulics. Heavy footsteps followed, slow and deliberate. Coach Arne Schultz emerged from the hallway, his broad frame blocking the light behind him. His ever-stern face was even tighter than usual.

Sukhman flinched. He knew that walk. Knew that face.

Arne stopped in front of him. "You. Come with me. Now."

Sukhman rose slowly, still clutching the bottle, the telemetry tablet left behind like a discarded confession.

They walked past the pit wall and into the adjoining briefing room. Empty. Quiet. No cameras. No teammates. Just the two of them.

Arne didn't sit. He turned to face Sukhman with arms folded.

"You want to tell me why I just heard from one of the junior mechanics that you spent last night drinking on a rooftop?" he asked, voice low and cold.

Sukhman swallowed. "I… it was just one night. I needed to clear my head."

"Clear your head?" Arne repeated. "Is that what that was?" He took a step forward. "You call that racing out there?" He jabbed a finger toward the track outside. "That wasn't racing. That was surviving. You were slow on exit, slow on entry, and twitchy on every straight. Just think if it happened in the Brisbane GP final day. For this season our chance of winning is realistic. Only 13 points behind. But one mistake and everything we have built upon will be into dust. Do you understand the pressure we are in?"

"I was just—"

"Oh! I get it. You were just hungover!" Arne snapped. "Your reflexes were shot, your concentration was gone, and your hands—don't you dare tell me you didn't feel your hands shaking in lap five!"

Sukhman clenched his jaw. "It was a mistake. I didn't mean for it to—"

"You didn't mean for it to ruin your entire race? To get beat like a rookie by someone who came to prove a point?" Arne's voice was rising now. "You embarrassed yourself, your team, and most of all—you insulted the very sport you claim to love."

Sukhman turned his head away, jaw tightening. Shame burned behind his eyes, but he couldn't look at Arne. Not now.

"You think talent alone is going to get you to the top?" Arne continued, voice quieter but cutting deeper. "That raw speed and a few podiums are enough to win a championship?"

Sukhman didn't answer.

"You're wrong. Champions aren't just fast—they're disciplined. Focused. They know when to rest, when to push, and when to say no to distractions. Last night, you didn't just let yourself down—you let down Siddharth, the mechanics, your sponsors, everyone who believed you were more than just another kid with a fast lap."

Silence settled like a weight between them.

"You were better than this," Arne said, voice low again. "I thought you still were."

Sukhman finally looked up. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I still can be."

"Then prove it," Arne said. "Not to me. To them."

He turned and left the room.

Sukhman stood there for a long moment, alone with his choices. The thundering noise of the paddock seemed distant now, like it belonged to someone else. Slowly, he walked back to the garage, where Siddharth still waited, leaning against the wall, eyes on the telemetry, pretending not to have heard everything—but clearly had.

Sukhman sat down again.

He finally spoke, quietly.

"Let's go over strategy. I want to fix this."

Siddharth didn't smile. He just pulled up the next track's data.

"Good," he said. "Let's get back to work."