London Heathrow was chaos in three languages Marco didn't speak well and one he barely managed. He followed signs for baggage claim, got lost twice, and finally emerged into the arrivals hall feeling disoriented and exhausted. The airport coffee was terrible and cost more than a full meal back home.
His phone showed 7:23 AM local time. The meeting at Apex Academy was at 10 AM. The academy was two hours north, near a town called Silverstone that Marco vaguely remembered from F1 broadcasts.
He found the train station, bought a ticket with hand signals and broken English, and settled into a seat as the countryside began rolling past. England looked nothing like Italy—flatter, grayer, fields divided by hedgerows instead of stone walls. Everything felt foreign and slightly wrong, like wearing someone else's glasses.
The train was full of commuters in business clothes, everyone staring at phones or laptops, living lives that looked nothing like Marco's. He caught his reflection in the window—rumpled clothes, day-old stubble, his father's blue jacket that didn't quite fit. He looked exactly like what he was: a kid from nowhere, pretending to belong somewhere he didn't.
His phone buzzed. Luca: You land yet? How's England? Is everyone drinking tea and talking about the Queen?
Marco typed back: Landed. On train. Very green. No tea yet.
You got this. Remember—fast is fast in any language.
At Milton Keynes, Marco switched to a local bus that wound through villages with names he couldn't pronounce. The landscape grew more rural, more open. He saw a sign for Silverstone Circuit and his heart rate kicked up.
The bus driver dropped him at a small roundabout. "Academy's down that road, mate. Ten minute walk."
Marco shouldered his backpack and started walking. The road was narrow, lined with trees just beginning to show autumn colors. He passed a few cars—expensive ones, Audis and BMWs. This was clearly an area with money.
The Apex Academy appeared around a bend like something from a different world. Modern glass and steel buildings set back from the road, surrounded by manicured grounds. A sign at the entrance read "APEX ACADEMY - DRIVER DEVELOPMENT CENTRE" in sharp, professional lettering. Through the gates, Marco could see what looked like a small race track, simulators visible through large windows, cars parked in neat rows.
This wasn't a garage in rural Italy. This was serious, professional, expensive.
Marco's stomach knotted. He checked his phone: 9:47 AM. Thirteen minutes early.
The security guard at the gate looked up from his computer. "Help you?"
"Marco Venturi. I have a meeting at ten with Valentina Rossi."
The guard checked a list, nodded. "You're expected. Main building, reception will sort you out." He handed Marco a visitor badge. "Welcome to Apex Academy."
The walk to the main building felt like walking through a dream. Everything was too clean, too organized, too professional. Through windows, Marco could see people his age in matching tracksuits running on treadmills, their form perfect, their focus absolute. One building had what looked like a full gym with equipment Marco had only seen online. Another had classroom spaces with whiteboards covered in telemetry data and race strategy diagrams.
The reception area was all glass and polished concrete. A woman behind the desk looked up with a professional smile.
"Marco Venturi?"
"Yes."
"Ms. Rossi is expecting you. If you'll take a seat, she'll be down shortly. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
"Water, please."
The waiting area had leather chairs and motorsport magazines in three languages. Marco sat, accepted the water, and tried not to look as overwhelmed as he felt. On the wall were photos of graduates—young drivers in race suits, standing on podiums, holding trophies. Several faces he recognized from F3 and F2 coverage. This place produced real racing drivers.
"Marco Venturi."
He looked up. The woman approaching was maybe forty, athletic build, dark hair pulled back severely. She wore dark trousers and a shirt with the Apex Academy logo. Her handshake was firm, her eyes evaluating.
"Valentina Rossi. Welcome to Apex Academy. How was your journey?"
"Long. But fine. Thank you for having me."
"Giancarlo speaks highly of your driving. That's rare—he's not easily impressed." She gestured toward a corridor. "Walk with me. I'll give you the overview before we begin testing."
They walked through hallways lined with more photos, more trophies, more evidence of success. Valentina spoke as they moved.
"Apex Academy was founded eight years ago with a simple mission: find talented drivers who've been overlooked by traditional development programs. We're funded by a consortium of investors who believe modern motorsport has become too dependent on driver wealth. We look for raw ability, coachability, and mental resilience."
They passed a window overlooking the track. Marco could see two karts running, their lines precise and aggressive.
"We receive about four hundred applications per year. We evaluate perhaps fifty candidates in person. We accept approximately ten into our program." Valentina stopped, turned to face him. "You're here because Giancarlo saw something special. But special doesn't mean guaranteed. Today is about determining if you have what it takes not just to be fast, but to develop into a professional racing driver."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because most candidates think they do, and most candidates are wrong." Her expression softened slightly. "This isn't meant to intimidate you. It's meant to set proper expectations. Racing at the professional level requires more than talent. It requires physical fitness, technical understanding, mental toughness, and the ability to learn quickly. We'll test all of it today."
They entered a room that looked like a doctor's office. A man in athletic gear was waiting with various equipment.
"This is James, our fitness coordinator. First assessment is physical. Standard tests—cardiovascular capacity, reaction time, muscle endurance, flexibility. Should take about an hour."
The tests were brutal. Marco ran on a treadmill while wearing a mask that measured his breathing, did endless burpees and planks while James noted times, squeezed hand-grip devices until his forearms burned, touched sensors that tested reaction speed until the numbers started blurring together.
By the end, Marco was drenched in sweat and breathing hard. James reviewed his results with Valentina.
"Cardiovascular is decent, better than average actually. Raw strength is below standard. Reaction times are excellent—top five percent of candidates we've tested. Flexibility needs work." James made notes. "Overall, not bad for someone without formal training. With proper conditioning, he could be competitive."
Valentina nodded. "Next assessment. Follow me."
The classroom was small, just a table and two chairs and a laptop. Valentina pulled up what looked like engineering diagrams.
"Technical knowledge test. We need drivers who understand the machines they're operating. I'm going to show yo various vehicle systems and ask you to explain what they do and how they affect performance."
For the next forty-five minutes, Marco answered questions about suspensions geometry, aerodynamics, tire compounds, brake systems, weight distribution. Some questions he knew from working in his father's garage. Some he'd learned from YouTube videos. Some he had to reason through based on first principles.
Valentina's expression gave nothing away. When they finished, she simply said, "Interesting. You have gaps in formal knowledge but strong practical understanding. That's actually preferable to someone who memorized textbooks without comprehension."
"Is that good?"
"It's not bad. Come on. The real test is next."
The simulator room made Marco's breath catch. Six full-motion racing simulators lined one wall, each enclosed in a rig that could tilt and rotate to simulate G-forces. The graphics on the screens looked photorealistic. These weren't video games—they were professional training tools worth more than his father's entire garage.
"You'll run three sessions," Valentina explained. "First is baseline—we just want to see how you drive. Second is with specific instructions—we'll tell you what we're looking for and see if you can adapt. Third is pressure—we'll simulate race conditions, including traffic, variable weather, and equipment failures."
A technician helped Marco into one of the rigs, adjusted the seat, explained the controls. The steering wheel was covered in buttons and dials. The pedals were stiffer than any kart Marco had driven.
"Take a few laps to familiarize yourself," the technician said. "Then we'll start the timed session."
The simulation loaded—Silverstone Circuit, full F3 car, dry conditions. Marco's hands found the wheel, his feet the pedals. The first corner approached and he braked too early, turned in too slowly, felt completely out of sync with the virtual car.
By lap three, something clicked. The simulator was different from a real kart, but the principles were the same. Read what the car wanted to do. Work with it, not against it. Find the limit gradually, then push beyond it.
His lap times started dropping.
From somewhere behind him, he could hear Valentina and the technician talking in low voices, but Marco tuned them out. The world narrowed to the track, the car, the next corner. His muscle memory took over, adjusted for the different weight and speed, found the rhythm.
After ten laps, the session ended. Marco's fastest time appeared on the screen.
The technician whistled slowly. "That's... actually quite good."
Valentina's face remained neutral. "Next session. We're going to tell you exactly what lines we want you to take. Your job is to execute them precisely. This tests your ability to follow instructions and adapt your driving style."
The second session was harder. Every instinct told Marco to take different lines, but he forced himself to follow Valentina's instructions exactly. Brake here, not there. Turn in at this marker. Apex at that point. It felt wrong, but he did it anyway.
"Good," Valentina said when the session ended. "You can take directions without letting ego interfere. That's essential."
The third session was chaos. They simulated a race start with traffic, then threw in rain effects halfway through. Marco had to navigate around slower cars, adapt to changing grip levels, manage a simulated tire degradation issue, all while maintaining competitive lap times.
He made mistakes—misjudged a gap, locked up brakes in the wet, ran slightly wide at one corner. But he adapted, learned, kept pushing.
When it finally ended, Marco climbed out of the simulator dizzy and slightly nauseous from the motion. His shirt was soaked with sweat again.
Valentina was receiving data on a tablet. She didn't speak for a long moment.
"Your raw pace is impressive," she said finally. "Not the fastest we've seen, but very good considering your limited experience with cars versus karts. More importantly, your learning rate is exceptional. You improved significantly between the first and third sessions. You adapted to instructions without resistance. And your racecraft—the way you managed traffic and conditions—shows natural instinct."
Marco waited. There was clearly a "but" coming.
"But," Valentina continued, "you're rough around the edges. Your physical conditioning needs serious work. Your technical knowledge has gaps. And you have no experience with the professional racing environment—the media, the sponsors, the politics. Everything you'd need to learn, and quickly."
"I can learn," Marco said. "I've been learning on my own my whole life. With actual instruction, with resources—I can learn anything."
"Confidence or desperation?"
"Both."
Valentina smiled slightly, the first genuine emotion Marco had seen from her. "Honest answer. Good." She checked her watch. "Last assessment. Follow me to my office."
The office was professional but personal—degrees on the wall, photos of Valentina with various race cars, a few trophies on a shelf. She gestured for Marco to sit.
"This is where I determine if you're someone we want in our program," she said. "The tests measure capability. This conversation measures character. So I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want completely honest answers. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Why do you want to race professionally?"
Marco thought carefully. "Because when I'm in a car, racing, everything makes sense. The rest of the world is complicated and hard and full of things I can't control. But on track, it's simple. Be faster than everyone else. Everything else—money, background, connections—none of it matters if you're fastest. And I want to prove I can be fastest."
"You understand that's not actually true? Money and connections matter enormously in professional racing."
"I know. But they matter less on track. Out here—" Marco gestured at the office, the academy, everything "—I'm just a mechanic's son who got lucky. But in a race car, I'm a driver. That's the only place where I get to define myself by what I can do instead of where I came from."
Valentina made a note. "Your father doesn't support this."
It wasn't a question. Marco wondered how she knew—maybe Giancarlo had mentioned it, maybe Elena's article had made it clear.
"No," he admitted. "He thinks I'm making a mistake. Chasing something impossible."
"Is he wrong?"
"Maybe. Probably. But I have to find out."
"Even if it costs you your relationship with him?"
Marco felt the weight of that question. "I hope it doesn't. But yes. Even then."
Valentina studied him for a long moment. "One more question. If we accept you into this program, it's a two-year commitment. You'd live here, train here, race in our development series. It means leaving behind your old life completely. No going home when it gets hard. No backup plan. Are you prepared for that?"
Every instinct screamed that this was insane, that he should keep some safety net, some way back to the life he knew.
"Yes," Marco said. "I'm prepared."
"Then wait here. I need to make some calls."
Valentina left. Marco sat alone in the office, heart pounding. Through the window, he could see the track, see cars running, see the world he wanted to join.
His phone buzzed. Luca: How's it going???
Marco typed: Don't know yet. Tests went okay I think. Waiting for decision.
You killed it. I know you did.
Marco hoped that was true. He stared at the photos on Valentina's wall—young drivers who'd made it, who'd turned Academy training into real careers. He tried to imagine his own photo up there someday and couldn't quite make it feel real.
Twenty minutes later, Valentina returned. Her expression was unreadable.
"Marco Venturi," she began, and Marco's entire future hanging in the pause that followed. "Welcome to Apex Academy."