My Formula 1 System

That night, Luca slept later than most of Trampos in the building. He had treated himself to a very satisfying night gym session. Night gym sessions were something rare, something he had actually never done since attaining his system.

Still in need of a boost, Luca engaged in exercises aimed mostly at power surges, sharpness, and strength explosions. He really needed physical motivation and confidence before the race on Saturday because every ounce of energy would matter in a race with 75 laps.

Some of the workouts he engaged in under the yellow glow of the gym lights were planks, push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and the traditional punching of the heavy bag.

Luca really enjoyed his time with the heavy bag. It swayed recklessly with just a few punches from him, but its tough and hard frame was still a pain to his muscles nonetheless.

When Luca was done, he unstrapped his gloves and settled into the silence that accompanied the system's congratulatory words. No rewards came after since getting Attribute points from activities other than real racing now proved difficult.

He asked his system if he could keep doing night gym workouts occasionally. The system agreed happily but insisted on naming it evening sessions, scheduling the time from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. max. The rest of the night, it said, was meant for dinner, a shower, and an early sleep.

Luca agreed to the system's terms. It was for his own good, after all.

He rose to his feet and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, sliding it open to the left. A strong night wind, already whipping around, pushed its way into the gym without hesitation, rattling loose parts of some gym equipment.

Before he left the gym to return to his room and call it a night, Luca stayed out on the balcony, letting the cold wind dry his sweat in a chilling manner.

The moon was strangely bright, bright enough to give the track a reflective sheen, almost like the surface of seawater.

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"...Passengers arriving from Flight TK721 from Istanbul, please proceed to baggage claim area 6..." the female backdrop voice announced.

The words reverberated through the air of the airport terminal and its surroundings, the chill of the night further amplifying its resonance.

"...Baggage for Flight TK721 from Istanbul will be available at carousel 6."

A lot of hurried footsteps filled the terminal as everyone was eager to reach their destination in Monza since this was the last arriving flight of the day.

A certain footsteps was distinct from the rest; it was calm, placid and collected. Maybe it's because the person was entering the terminal just as others were hurriedly leaving with their luggage.

Ansel hadn't arrived on Flight TK721. His journey had started in Berlin, and his flight had landed in Italy not long before the one from Istanbul. Now, instead of heading out, he was making his way toward the vending area.

Emma was hungry. And a hungry Emma meant trouble.

Ansel scanned the options, his eyes resting on an arranged stack of fresh croissants under a glowing display case at one side to the airport walls.

He pulled out his card and made a quick purchase at the counter, adding a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice to the order.

Balancing the warm croissant in one hand and the chilled juice in the other, he turned back toward the terminal's exit.

Sometimes, Ansel wondered why people were always in such a rush to get on with their lives. He often called himself a pragmatist, and that mindset had always given him the upper hand when solving problems.

It wasn't like rushing would change the fact that you were late. Arriving in a frantic mess wouldn't magically erase your tardiness, it would only make you look less composed, less in control. And let's be honest, no one ever rushed unless they were already behind schedule in the first place.

Ansel's ideology was unique in some way, and when put into simple words, it was almost amusing.

He believed that if you were late, then you were late. No amount of scrambling would undo that. The only logical course of action was to accept it, suck it up, and make sure you weren't tardy next time, instead of making things worse by panicking and creating even more chaos.

That said, it didn't mean he accounted for pessimism.

Optimism was everything. If someone saw even the slimmest window—say, three minutes—to salvage their situation and reset everything back on track, then Ansel would advise them to take it.

But once that window shrank to less than three minutes—less than 150 to 180 seconds, give or take—Ansel would tell them to let it go.

In his view, chances and opportunities were just as rare as fortune. Grab them early, and you'd succeed. Grab them too late, and you'd manage to slip through the closing gate, only to be met with yet another hurdle.

Ansel smiled when he saw Laura carrying his six-year-old niece as if she were a baby.

If he were being honest, his love for Laura now was a hundred times stronger than when they first started dating—even stronger than when they got engaged. It was rare to find a woman who could cherish a child that wasn't hers, yet somehow, Ansel had found one.

He and Laura had always talked about having a child of their own, but for now, they saw Emma as theirs. They had agreed to wait until she turned ten before expanding their family. Besides, Laura had once joked that she wanted Ansel to make it to F1 first before they started having kids.

She had said it in a teasing way, as if it were some kind of reward, and Ansel had long since accepted the challenge.

Ansel groaned and shook his head.

He approached them within seconds. "Someone wanted orange juice," he said with a smile, hoping to get Emma's attention.

Laura giggled and shook her head. "She's out cold," she said, turning slightly so Ansel could see Emma's shut eyes.

Ansel was surprised. The same eyes that had been brimming with tears just minutes ago, demanding treats, were now peacefully closed. "So fast?" he huffed before pressing a kiss to Laura's lips.

Setting the treats down on the steel bench, he gently took Emma from Laura's arms.

When Emma's head was safely nestled against his shoulder, Ansel's eyes caught a familiar figure approaching. His friend, Kendall.

Kendall bounced toward them, flanked by a few bodyguards. As a soccer star, he needed heavy protection.

Seeing Ansel carrying Emma, Kendall frowned. "Is she asleep?"

"Yes," Ansel replied, his gaze drifting downward to what Kendall held in his grasp. It was a big, fluffy pink pony, clearly a toy for Emma.

Kendall sighed and handed it to Laura. "Tell her I got it for her. I made a promise after she wouldn't stop bothering me," he said, feigning a headache.

Everyone chuckled as Laura took the pony.

"Come on, let's go. The convoy's ready," Ken said, leading the way, though his men had already gestured ahead.

"Thanks for forcing me to come," Ansel said as they walked. "I'm starting to like it, though. Just look at this place—everyone's going crazy for the finale."

Ken chuckled, accepting the thanks. He stole a glance at Ansel as they walked. As a friend, he couldn't help but feel bad that even at this Mega Prix, Ansel would once again be absent from the track.

Ansel had arrived at Monza with his family in Ken's privileged private jet, just like how the Hawthorne jet was to Luca. Without their consent, Ken had bought early tickets for Ansel, Laura, and Emma, knowing full well that Ansel had planned to watch the Mega Prix just as he had every race since September—from the comfort of his sitting room, dwelling and brooding over that night in Riyadh.

But Ken wasn't having any of it. Even at the peak of his soccer season back in England, he had made time for this weekend to watch Luca race in the finale and possibly clinch the F2 Championship. He wanted Ansel to come along, persuading him relentlessly, until Ansel finally gave in after Ken revealed the tickets he had already secured.

"Today's Thursday," Ansel muttered, reaching for his phone. "They must've qualified for the grid by now. Do you know the results?"

Ken shrugged. He liked watching F2, not even F1, but keeping up with real-time results and inform wasn't really his thing.

Laura reached into Ansel's pocket, retrieving his phone and handing it to him.
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After a while of tapping and scrolling, Ansel's brow furrowed, only for the frown to settle into a neutral expression.

"What?" Ken and Laura asked in unison.

"Luca starts in P7, Max starts in P8. Hmmm. It's a very weird starting grid."