The morning after the grand celebration was quieter, more composed, yet infused with the buzzing undertone of urgency. The Tuscan Grand Prix was now in the rearview mirror, and the race world had already turned its gaze to the next big battleground: Valencia, Spain. As the sun rose over the Italian skyline, casting golden light through the windows of the team hotels and garages, engineers, strategists, and drivers began their exodus from Tuscany.
For Vaayu GP, it was a day of carefully coordinated chaos. Shipping containers were being sealed, equipment double-checked and labeled, mechanics ensuring that every vital component was accounted for before the flight. The red and silver livery of Vaayu's garage was slowly being dismantled, ready to be rebuilt in another country.
Team principal Raghav Satyanarayan stood at the heart of it all like a general observing the movement of his troops. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was no mistaking the pride etched into his smile. "Make sure the suspension kits are packed in the red containers," he instructed over his headset. "And tell Sukhman to be at the terminal by eleven. We're not waiting for him."
Sukhman, meanwhile, had overslept. The excitement of the previous night's party hadn't left him easily. He had stayed up late laughing with the crew, listening to Yudhvir's old racing stories and enjoying the rare atmosphere of victory.
"Wake up, champ," Yudhvir's voice echoed, followed by the soft thwack of a pillow smacking against Sukhman's face. "We've got a flight to catch, and if you're not careful, you'll miss Valencia and be racing in your dreams."
Sukhman stirred beneath the hotel sheets, groaning as he rolled onto his side. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbled, his voice raspy with sleep.
But even through the grogginess, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The sunlight streaming through the window wasn't just another signal to get moving—it felt like a spotlight. Not one of pressure, but of purpose. For the first time in his short racing career, he wasn't just along for the ride. He was part of the story.
He sat up slowly, pushing off the blanket and letting his feet hit the cold hotel floor. The adrenaline of the last few days still buzzed faintly in his veins. Sixth place at the Tuscan GP. A daring one-pit-stop strategy. Surviving tire degradation and dancing on the edge of grip. He had earned something more than points that day—he'd earned the respect of his team, the paddock, and, most importantly, himself.
"Valencia, huh?" Sukhman said, cracking his knuckles as he glanced over at Yudhvir. "Think the Spanish sun will be kinder to my tires?"
Yudhvir chuckled, tossing Sukhman's duffle bag onto the bed. "You keep racing like that, and I think even the sun's gonna have to adjust to you. You made people look twice, man. Twice. That's not nothing."
Sukhman stood, stretching his arms with a long exhale. "Yeah… it's starting to feel real now. Like I actually belong here."
"You do," Yudhvir said, his tone sincere now. "You've proved it twice. Not just with results, but with guts. Most drivers would've folded when told to push 24 laps on softs. But you? You danced with disaster and came out clean."
Sukhman laughed. "Clean might be pushing it—I nearly spun at Turn 7."
"Nearly is not spinning," Yudhvir said, slapping his shoulder. "Now hurry up, the car's waiting. Raghav will kill us if we're late."
As Sukhman pulled on his team jacket, zipped it up, and grabbed his passport, a quiet confidence settled over him like armor. He wasn't the same hesitant driver who had fumbled through his first media day. He had stepped into the fire, and he wasn't afraid to do it again.
By the time the two reached the Florence International Airport, the terminal was already bustling. Drivers from across the world were arriving with their entourages, each flanked by assistants, managers, and fans hoping to catch a glimpse or a selfie.
At the international departure lounge, Sukhman spotted a familiar figure.
"Amelia!" he called out.
The British racer turned, her signature ponytail swaying. She smiled, raising a hand. "Look who made headlines. Mr. P6."
He laughed. "P6, thank you very much. Not quite your level, but getting there."
Amelia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Please. I finished tenth. You beat me fair and square. I'll be watching my mirrors more carefully in Valencia."
They were soon joined by Diego Montoya from Rip Jaw Racing, carrying his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. "Well, well. The rookie gets fan club status now?" he teased.
"Don't start," Sukhman chuckled. "I'm still learning how to buckle my helmet properly."
Yudhvir joined the group, leaning heavily on his walking stick but as cheerful as ever. "This kid's grown up in a matter of weeks," he said. "If he keeps going like this, I might not have a job when I come back."
"Are you cleared yet?" Amelia asked, gesturing to Yudhvir's leg.
"Not yet. The doctors want me off the grid for at least two more races. But I'll be there. Watching. Maybe throwing peanuts at you lot from the stands."
Diego laughed. "Please do. I need the protein."
They continued chatting as more drivers joined in—Ayanda Nkosi passed by with a polite nod, headphones over her ears, lost in thought. Daan Vermer and Ming Jao waved in greeting. Even Isabella Romano gave Sukhman a brief, approving nod as she walked by with her PR team.
There was an odd camaraderie in the air—competitors, yes, but all belonging to the same strange family that only those who lived at 300 kilometers an hour could understand.
As their flight was announced, the group began moving toward the gates. The next leg of the journey was about to begin.
"Valencia," Diego said as they boarded. "New track, new challenges."
"New possibilities," Sukhman added.
Yudhvir clapped him on the back. "And one more race closer to greatness."
Outside, the engines of the chartered flights roared to life, ready to carry the dreams, ambitions, and rivalries of the world's fastest drivers to Spain.
The countdown to the Valencia Grand Prix had begun.