Week two began with an announcement at Monday breakfast. Valentina stood at the front of the dining hall, tablet in hand, expression serious.
"This Friday, you'll participate in your first race simulation. Full grid start, twenty laps, points awarded for finishing positions. This will be your first official ranking within the cohort." She paused, letting that sink in. "The top five will receive additional track time and one-on-one coaching sessions. The bottom five will receive mandatory extra technical education."
Around the table, Marco could feel the tension shift. This wasn't just training anymore. This was competition with consequences.
"Until Friday, you'll have extended track sessions," Valentina continued. "We need to see your race pace, your consistency, your ability to perform under pressure. Questions?"
Dominic raised his hand. "Will the race simulation results affect our overall academy standing?"
"Everything affects your standing, Mr. Ashford. Every lap, every test, every interaction. We're evaluating you constantly." Valentina's gaze swept the room. "Remember why you're here. Ten of you entered this program. Historically, three to four make it to professional racing. The rest—" She didn't need to finish the sentence.
After breakfast, they assembled at the track. The F4 cars were lined up, each assigned to a specific driver. Marco ran his hand over the white bodywork of his car, number 34—the same number as his rental kart at Montebello. Someone had noticed. Maybe Valentina, maybe a mechanic with a sense of poetry.
"Today we focus on race craft," announced Marcus Webb, the driving instructor who'd been observing their sessions all week. He was a former F3 driver, late thirties, with the weathered look of someone who'd spent years in the sport without quite making it to the top. "You can be fast in qualifying, but races are won by reading other drivers, managing tires, making smart decisions. We'll run multiple sessions with different scenarios."
The morning session was about overtaking. They were paired up, told to run five-lap stints where one driver had to pass the other. Marco was paired with James Park, who was methodical and defensive.
For three laps, Marco pressured, looked for openings, tried different lines. James defended perfectly, positioning his car to block every potential move. Marco's frustration grew—he was faster, he knew he was faster, but he couldn't find a way past.
Then on lap four, James made a tiny mistake—braked a fraction too deep into turn seven. Marco was already committed to the inside, already diving into the gap before his conscious mind registered the opportunity. They were side by side through the corner, Marco on the inside, holding his line by millimeters.
He was ahead exiting turn eight.
"Good pass," Marcus said over the radio. "Venturi, that was patient and decisive. Park, your defense was excellent until the error. Switch roles."
The afternoon session was about defending. Now Marco had to hold position while others tried to pass. Amélie was his partner, and she was aggressive, constantly probing, looking for weaknesses.
Marco defended for four laps, his car positioned perfectly, his line choices blocking her preferred approach. But on lap five, she faked to the inside, got Marco to defend, then switched back to the outside line he'd left open.
She passed him on the outside of turn tree, a move Marco didn't even think was possible there.
"Excellent," Marcus said. "Dubois, that was creative and brave. Venturi, you defended well but got caught by misdirection. Both of you showed good racecraft."
By evening, Marco's confidence was building. The physical training was still brutal, but his body was adapting. His lap times were consistent. His racecraft was improving with each session.
Tuesday brought multi-car scenarios. Groups of four, running together, learning to manage traffic. Marco found himself in a group with Dominic, Carlos, and Petra.
Dominic immediately set the pace, his lines perfect, his confidence absolute. Carlos was aggressive, taking risks that sometimes paid off and sometimes didn't. Petra was smooth and calculated, picking her moments carefully.
Marco studied them all, learning their patterns, their tendencies. Dominic always defended the inside but left the outside vulnerable if you were brave enough. Carlos would try the same move three times in a row—it could be baited. Petra was almost impossible to surprise but would yield position rather than risk contact.
On lap eight, Marco saw his chance. Dominic had been defending the inside religiously, forcing everyone to take the long way around. But into turn five, Marco noticed Dominic position his car for the inside defense a fraction early.
Marco stayed committed to the outside—the slower line, the risky line, the line no one expected. His car was on the absolute limit of grip, tires screaming in protest, but he maintained speed through the corner where Dominic had scrubbed off momentum defending the inside.
They were side by side on the exit. Marco had the better line for turn six.
He was ahead.
Behind his helmet, Marco smiled. He could feel Dominic's surprise, his frustration. For ten more laps, Dominic pressured, tried every trick, but Marco defended smartly, using everything he'd learned from James Park and Amélie.
"Session complete," Marcus called. "Excellent driving, all of you. Venturi, that overtake on Ashford was textbook patience. Ashford, your pace was strong, but you got predictable on defense. Mix it up."
In the pit lane, Dominic pulled off his helmet, his face flushed. "Lucky move."
"Wasn't luck," Marco replied evenly. "You left the outside open. I took it."
"Won't happen again."
"Probably not. But something else will."
Dominic's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, just stalked off toward the garage.
Amélie appeared at Marco's elbow, grinning. "Oh, you've really pissed him off now. That was beautiful."
"Just driving."
"That wasn't just driving. That was you making a statement." She lowered her voice. "Be careful, though. Dominic doesn't lose gracefully. He'll try to get revenge on track."
Wednesday and Thursday were full simulation days—twenty-lap sessions with all ten drivers, practicing starts, managing tire wear, dealing with traffic. The sessions were timed and recorded, every lap analyzed.
Marco's consistency impressed the instructors. He wasn't always the fastest—that was usually Dominic or Amélie—but he rarely made mistakes, rarely had off-laps, maintained pace throughout the session.
"You're managing your equipment well," Marcus told him after Thursday's session. "Some drivers burn through tires trying to be fast every lap. You're fast enough to be competitive while making them last. That's race intelligence."
Thursday evening, Valentina posted the grid positions for Friday's race simulation. They were based on best lap times from the week's sessions.
Grid for Race Simulation:
Dominic Ashford - 1:17.8
Amélie Dubois - 1:17.9
Carlos Santos - 1:18.1
Marco Venturi - 1:18.3
Henrik Svensson - 1:18.4
Petra Svensson - 1:18.6
James Park - 1:18.8
Michael Chen - 1:18.9
Maya Okonkwo - 1:19.1
Yuki Tanaka - 1:19.3
Fourth on the grid. Marco stared at the sheet, trying to process it. A week ago he'd been seventh, struggling just to survive the physical training. Now he was starting on the second row for the most important race of his academy career so far.
"Not bad," Yuki said, looking over his shoulder. "Fourth is very good position. Better than starting from front—less pressure, more opportunity."
"Or more risk getting caught in first-corner chaos."
"That too. Welcome to racing."
That night, Marco laid in bed running through scenarios. The start. The first corner. Where Dominic would be aggressive, where Amélie might make a mistake, where opportunities might appear. His mind raced through possibilities until Yuki threw a pillow at him.
"Stop thinking so loud. Need sleep for tomorrow."
"How can you sleep before a race?"
"Practice. Been racing since seven years old. First hundred races are hardest. After that—" Yuki shrugged "—is just another race."
But it wasn't just another race to Marco. This was his first real race in a car, his first race against drivers who actually knew what they were doing, his first chance to prove that Montebello wasn't a fluke.
Friday morning arrived with gray skies and light drizzle. The weather forecast called for the rain to stop by afternoon, but the track would be damp, conditions tricky.
"Perfect," Amélie said at breakfast. "Nothing sorts out the pretenders faster than mixed conditions."
The pre-race briefing was thorough. Marcus explained the rules: full race distance, twenty laps, standard race regulations. Safety car if needed. Penalties for contact or track limits violations. Points awarded for top eight finishers: 25-18-15-12-10-8-6-4.
"One more thing," Valentina added at the end. "This race is being observed by several team principals and scouts. The academy has invited guests to evaluate the cohort. Drive like you're auditioning, because you are."
The weight of that settled over the room. Scouts. Team principals. People who could make or break careers watching from the observation tower.
Marco felt his breakfast sitting heavy in his stomach.
The grid formed up at 2 PM. The rain had stopped, but the track was still damp, puddles in the low spots, a drying line beginning to appear. Conditions were evolving—starting on wet-weather tires or slicks? Most drivers, including Dominic, chose slicks, gambling that the track would dry enough. Marco and a few others chose wets, betting on caution.
Marco's car sat fourth on the grid, Amélie's car directly ahead, Dominic two positions up. The other drivers fanned out behind in their assigned positions.
The formation lap began. Marco weaved his car side to side, testing grip, warming tires. The track was damp but not soaking. The drying line was visible but narrow. He'd made the wrong tire choice—the track was too dry for wets, but not dry enough for slicks to work properly. Everyone was compromised.
They formed up on the grid. Marco's heart hammered in his chest. Twenty laps. Four hundred seconds. Every one of them mattered.
The lights came on, one by one. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
The world held its breath.
Green.
The field launched forward in a wall of sound. Dominic got a perfect start from pole, his slicks hooking up on the dry line. Amélie bogged down slightly on the damp surface. Carlos dove to the inside, trying to steal second place.
Marco's wets had more grip off the line. He was alongside Amélie before the first corner, ahead of Carlos by a nose. The first corner was chaos—ten cars converging on one apex, everyone fighting for position, the wet track offering limited grip.
Dominic held the inside line. Amélie went slightly wide avoiding contact. Marco saw a gap on the outside—the wrong line, the wet line, but with his wet tires it was actually the right line.
He took it.
Through turn one on the outside, carrying more speed than the drivers on slicks could manage on damp surface. Through turn two still on the outside, his wets gripping where others were sliding.
Exiting turn three, Marco was second.
Behind him was chaos. Carlos had tried a desperate move that didn't work. Someone—Michael, maybe—had spun. The pack was scattered, gaps opening up.
Marco focused forward. Dominic was three car lengths ahead, pulling away on the drying sections. But the wet patches negated his advantage. And as the race progressed, Marco's tires would get worse while Dominic's would get better.
This race was going to come down to tire strategy and timing.
Lap five. Dominic's lead was up to two seconds. Marco's tires were starting to overheat, losing grip. Behind him, Amélie was closing, her slicks finally coming into their optimal window.
Lap eight. Amélie was on Marco's gearbox, looking for a way past. Dominic's lead was three seconds now. The race was getting away.
Marco made a decision. Let Amélie past—she was faster on slicks now, would catch Dominic, might even pass him. And fighting her would cost both of them time.
Into turn seven, Marco left the door open. Amélie took it immediately, clean pass, no drama. She immediately started chasing down Dominic.
But now Marco had clear air, could focus on his own pace without defending. His lap times stabilized. Third place was his if he could maintain pace.
Lap twelve. Amélie caught Dominic. They battled for three laps, swapping positions twice, racing wheel to wheel. It was mesmerizing to watch, even from Marco's position thirty meters behind.
Lap fifteen. Dominic made a mistake under pressure—ran slightly wide in turn four. Amélie capitalized, took the lead.
Now Marco had a decision. Push to catch them and risk a mistake? Or secure third place, bank the points, live to race another day?
The old Marco, the desperate Marco, would have pushed. Would have risked everything for glory.
The new Marco, the one who was learning patience, held position. Third place was still podium. Still points. Still a statement.
Lap eighteen. Amélie was pulling away from Dominic. The win was hers. Dominic, frustrated, was making small mistakes. Marco closed the gap slightly but not enough to challenge.
Lap nineteen. Marco caught sight of movement in his mirrors—Carlos was coming fast, having recovered from his first-lap issues. Fourth place wanted third.
One lap left. Marco defended smartly, using everything he'd learned. Carlos was faster but couldn't find a way past. Into the final corner, Carlos tried a desperate lunge.
Marco held his line. Carlos had to back out or risk contact.
Checkered flag.
Amélie won. Dominic second. Marco third.
He'd done it. Podium in his first race in a car, against drivers who'd been racing cars for years.
In the pit lane, Marco climbed out of his car, legs shaking, adrenaline still coursing through him. Amélie was celebrating with her mechanics. Dominic was out of his car, helmet still on, not celebrating.
Marcus approached with a tablet showing the race analysis. "Interesting tire choice, Venturi. Cost you early pace but gave you grip when you needed it. And that decision to let Dubois past on lap eight—that was mature racing. You recognized she was faster, didn't waste time fighting, maintained your own race."
"I finished third."
"You finished third in your first car race ever, against drivers with years of experience. That's not just third. That's exceptional." Marcus smiled. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
The podium ceremony was small but official—a proper podium, anthems played, photos taken. Marco stood on the third step, looking out at the gathered instructors and guests in the observation tower. Valentina was there, making notes. Other people he didn't recognize, people in expensive suits who might have been the scouts and team principals she'd mentioned.
Amélie stood on the top step, deserving her victory. Dominic stood on the second step, his body language stiff, his expression stormy.
When they posed for photos, Dominic leaned over slightly. "Enjoy it while it lasts. This was luck."
"Was it?" Marco replied quietly. "Because from where I'm standing, I made the right tire choice, raced smart, and earned this podium. Same as you."
Dominic said nothing, just stared straight ahead for the photos, his jaw tight.
That evening, the cohort gathered for dinner. The mood was strange—celebratory for some, disappointed for others. Yuki had finished eighth, earning points. Maya finished ninth, just missing out. James Park had the first-corner incident that dropped him to last.
"To Amélie," someone raised a glass. "First race winner of the cohort."
They all drank to that, even Dominic, though his smile was forced.
Marco laid in bed, phone in hand. He'd received messages from Luca (celebrations and memes), from Elena (congratulations and a request for an interview), and surprisingly, from his father.
I saw the race results. Third place. That's good driving, Marco.
Marco typed back: Thank you, Papa. That means a lot.
He fell asleep feeling something he hadn't felt in weeks—like maybe he actually belonged here. Like maybe this wasn't an impossible dream but a difficult one, which was different.
The physical training was still brutal. The competition was still fierce. Dominic still hated him. The path ahead was still uncertain.
But he'd podiumed in his first race. He'd proven himself against the best the academy had to offer.
And that was a start.