The cool night air rolled in over the Tuscan countryside, blanketing the circuit and nearby villas in a breeze scented faintly with pine and lavender. Lights glowed warmly from the grand hall Vaayu GP had rented for the weekend, nestled among old stone buildings and vineyard-covered hills. The day's adrenaline had mellowed into excitement, and laughter echoed from within.
Sukhman stepped into the hall, still in his team polo, his hair slightly damp from a quick shower post-race. He hadn't expected a full-fledged party, but the moment he walked through the doors, the clatter of glasses and hum of celebration told him otherwise.
"There he is!" Siddharth called, raising a glass as the team broke into applause.
Coach Arne, leaning against a high table near the drinks counter, offered him a rare smile. "You survived softs till lap 24. I'll admit it, I didn't think you would."
Sukhman chuckled. "Neither did my spine by lap 20."
"Raghav wants to talk to everyone," a junior engineer informed them.
Within minutes, the room quieted as Team Principal Raghav Satyanarayan stepped onto a makeshift platform at the front, glass in hand. His presence was commanding, even in casual wear—dark jeans and a neatly pressed shirt.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his deep voice silencing the chatter. "I'm going to keep this short, because I know we all want to get back to enjoying the wine and whatever the chef called that divine risotto."
Polite laughter rippled through the team.
"We started this season on the backfoot. Our main driver, Yudhvir, out due to an injury before the season began. Everyone wrote us off. Some media houses didn't even bother ranking us in the bottom half—we weren't ranked at all."
He paused, scanning the room, before his eyes rested on Sukhman.
"And yet, here we are. Two Grand Prix in, and our reserve driver—a rookie—has placed us 7th on the championship leaderboard. That is not just performance. That is belief. That is effort, sweat, and talent converging."
The room erupted in applause. Sukhman lowered his head, humbled.
"Sukhman," Raghav continued, "you didn't just hold your ground today. You executed a high-risk strategy and brought the car home. You proved that this team's spirit doesn't rely on one name. We are a unit."
He raised his glass.
"To the team. To resilience. To Vaayu GP."
"To Vaayu GP!" they echoed.
As music resumed and people returned to dancing and chatting, Sukhman found himself being pulled in every direction—photos with engineers, handshakes from mechanics, a celebratory dance forced on him by the communications team. Through it all, he felt warmth blooming inside him, a strange mix of pride and disbelief.
Later in the evening, Raghav found him again, two glasses of non-alcoholic cider in hand.
"You handled the pressure well today," Raghav said.
"Thanks. Still processing it all."
Raghav nodded. "We won't always have good races. But momentum matters. You've given us that. Rest tonight. The road ahead gets tougher."
As the party carried on around them, Sukhman took a moment to step outside. The night was quiet save for the distant sounds of the celebration and the chirping of crickets. He looked up at the Tuscan sky, stars brilliant above.
He wasn't just filling in anymore. He was part of the team. And for the first time since stepping into this world, he truly felt he belonged.
---
Inside, Coach Arne and Siddharth stood by the bar, half-filled glasses of ginger soda in hand. The warm light from the chandelier above cast a soft glow on the polished wood of the room, while laughter and music echoed around them.
"He's starting to believe in himself," Arne murmured, his eyes on Sukhman, who was deep in a conversation with one of the engineers, animated and grinning like the weight of weeks had finally begun to lift.
Siddharth smirked, his tone laced with quiet pride. "About time. All it took was two GPs, a dozen heated arguments, and a plan that nearly gave you a heart attack."
Arne chuckled, taking a sip. "I still think you're a lunatic for that tire strategy. But... maybe it worked out. He needed to feel the edge. Needed to dance with it a little."
Siddharth's gaze softened. "He was too focused on proving he belonged. Now, I think he's beginning to realize he already does."
Across the room, Raghav clinked glasses with a group of crew members, his booming laughter carrying over the music. Mechanics and technicians moved freely among the clusters of people, loosening their usually stern demeanors for one night of joy. Even the normally reserved analysts had broken into smiles, caught up in the rare air of celebration.
Arne sighed, raising his glass higher. "To keeping the dream alive."
Siddharth tapped his glass to Arne's with a light clink. "To the underdogs that refuse to stay down."
They joined the others shortly after, folding into the sea of chatter and joy. The night carried on with energy that pulsed like a heartbeat—stories from past races were exchanged, toasts made to absent friends and future victories. Someone even found a guitar, and the hum of an impromptu melody joined the rhythm of clinking glasses and shuffling feet.
It wasn't the kind of celebration that marked a championship. It wasn't about medals or records. It was about spirit.
And in the middle of it, Sukhman Singh laughed without looking over his shoulder.
Whatever storm the next Grand Prix brought—tonight, they had already won something just as rare: belief.