#trident f3

Rafa had his own way of standing out in the motorsport world, with that sweet and reserved air that, however, made room for a solid and unbeatable driver on track. And he had managed to make his name known even in his first weekend in Formula 3, alongside drivers with much more experience than him, asserting himself on a Melbourne that had been anything but forgiving, and making his white, red, and blue single-seater emerge from the puddles that turned the track into nothing more than a blurred memory. But then again, Brazilians had always made themselves heard, especially when the rain came. And he had never been any different.

He had a car that had left nothing but scraps for his rivals for years now, and his red helmet was the fleeting sight the others caught from behind his rear wheels—a reminder that talents like his were rare and that he had no time to slow down, as if his dream and his goal would simply stop and wait for him. Yet, he was also the kind of person who, after dominating without mercy, would go to the fans or the interviewers, laughing along with them, chatting like any other boy his age would, forgetting the ruthless leader he became between the corners and the scorching asphalt. It was almost as if there were two people inside him, seamlessly blending into the sweet and clean-cut face of a boy who was special—both as a person and as an athlete.

He had parked behind the number one marker, finishing an absurd and chaotic race due to the many mistakes of the other drivers, who had taken trips into the gravel or ended up in the wall, causing yellow flags that, in a way, had robbed him of the chance to truly shine—without the first place coming to him behind the safety car. He had gone a little long on the stop, as if the emotion had made him hit the brakes a second too late, nudging the number one sign with the nose of the Trident before taking his time, waiting for the other two drivers in the top three to park their single-seaters beside his. Then, he grabbed the steering wheel, detaching it to stand up and climb out of the cockpit, rising victorious with his arms in the air and his eyes visible through the open visor—his smile leaving little to the imagination.

—Rafa! Give us a one!— Every photographer shouted as his team and the academy he was part of celebrated him, ignoring the fact that the season was still long and focusing instead on how he had started on the right foot, showing exactly who had to be beaten.

And everything around him was a blurred bubble, almost muffled by the massive, menacing clouds watching from above. Everyone was humming, laughing, smiling at him, patting his shoulders and helmet for the first time in a race weekend he shared with the queens of motorsport. He could feel the entire race in his body—every lap in his hands and knees as he melted into every hug, a little awkwardly as always, unsure whether to shake hands, throw friendly fist bumps, or just let them decide how they wanted to celebrate.

—Come on, weigh time— a steward took him, leading him toward the podium scales for the post-race weigh-in, making him look around with that strange, confused air, as if he were searching for something amidst all the people in parc fermé. Or someone.

His brown eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for a pair of glasses so familiar that they always made him smile, and a smile that reminded him of the Brazilian sun, the very one he carried in his irises. She had to be there, somewhere. She had never missed a race since the day they had met.

Everyone was trying to talk to him while he did his best to satisfy all the photographers with different poses, and the men from the Ferrari Driver Academy were speaking to him, raising their voices to be heard above the chaos reigning in pit lane—from the preparations for the upcoming F2 feature race to the crowd gathering to watch the F3 podium. But all he saw was her standing a few steps back, leaving him his moment. Huddled under an umbrella with his lead mechanic.

—Let’s go, Rafael— the same steward took him, Theophile, and Noah, leading them toward the makeshift cool-down room on the back balcony of the podium, while the three walked up, huge smiles on their faces as they chatted about the race and the miserable conditions that had made it such a challenge.

He looks at her again, like maybe she’ll be gone if he doesn’t, but she’s already giving him the smallest nod, like go on, I’ll be here.

A few minutes later, after discussing the car with his teammate and confirming with the engineer who would be joining them on the podium, the Brazilian was leaning against the wall next to the Van Amersfoort Racing driver, adjusting the cap with the number one on it. A huge smile was still stretched across his face, unable to stay quiet as he laughed—almost like he needed it to burn off the adrenaline from his first-ever Formula 3 race.

—I thought you’d be happier about winning— a voice said, appearing in front of him before he could even register it.

—You can’t be in here— he blurts out, even though his grin is already giving him away.

It was the same one he always had when she was around—when she held his helmet while he signed autographs for fans or when he drove the team’s quad around the paddock, badly singing along to whatever song she had made him listen to during their lunch breaks under the tents.

—I won’t stay long— she smiled, hands full of cables and driver cards she should have been taking to the garage instead of sneaking up the podium stairs to reach him, while Noah and Theophile drank some water and waited for the signal to step outside and collect their trophies. —I just had to remind you how much you amaze me every time—

He got that usual expression, a little confused and unreadable, typical of someone young, sweet, and a little hard to pin down. But she knew him like the back of her hand, though it had taken her a while to pick up on the smallest details of the Brazilian.

She had barely stepped inside before he started yapping, his words coming out in rapid bursts, barely making sense but not caring if they did. He was always like this when she was around, because with her, there was no need to worry about keeping up the sweet and reserved good-boy image—he could be anything he felt like being, whether it was the unbeatable driver, the unshakable athlete, or the guy who couldn’t shut up even if he tried.

—and did you see the way I almost lost the car in turn 3? I swear, I felt it slipping and I just— he said, speaking quickly, knowing their time was limited. —My heart stopped. Like—actually stopped. I knew it was going to be okay, but it was thrilling—

And his passion was so pure. That all she could do was lean against the wall, listening to every tiny detail, without reminding him that after the podium, they had all the time in the world to talk about it over eggs and a glass of water in hospitality.

—You’re doing the thing again—

—What thing?—

—The thinking thing— she said, knowing how confident he was but also how he always demanded the absolute best from himself and his races, even though nothing could change the way he saw himself as an athlete.

—Well, yeah, my brain kinda works like that— he joked, adjusting his cap again.

—I mean, it isn’t the race you wanted, but it was the best debut you could have had in these conditions— she stopped for a second, fixing the collar of his fireproof suit, smoothing it just below his Adam’s apple. —And I’m proud, as always—

—I know— he smiled, that bright, sincere one that made his dimples stand out.

It’s ridiculous. They’re standing in the cool-down room, moments before he’s meant to step onto his first-ever F3 podium, laughing over nothing. But that’s how it always is with them. No matter where, no matter when—he just finds her. Always.

—I should go before someone finds me in here— she said, noticing the steward moving with that professional air, the accreditation device hanging from her neck, an earpiece in her ear as she approached them.

—Are you, uh… representing the winning team on the podium?— the steward asked, sounding bored, knowing only one team member could go up and celebrate with the top three.

—Oh, no, I’m actually leaving— she said apologetically, before stepping back.

—We’re two idiots, Rafa— she laughed, grabbing his shoulders and hugging him tightly, her face resting in the crook of his neck while he rubbed her back, right where the Trident logo stood proud, their hearts beating almost in sync, knowing this was only the beginning.

—I’m, like, really sweaty right now— he muttered, inhaling the garage scent in her hair, mixed with the same perfume she had always worn.

—Believe me, I know— she chuckled.

Rafa held her a little tighter, allowing himself to enjoy the moment, just this once. And he laughed into her hair, his entire body shaking with the weightlessness of it all. Then he stepped onto the podium, lifting the trophy high. Happy. A winner.