The hum of jet engines softened to a purr as the plane began its descent over the Spanish coast. Below, Valencia stretched out like a vibrant mosaic of terracotta rooftops, blue sea, and sun-soaked streets. The city, rich in history and bursting with energy, was set to host the next chapter of the Grand Prix saga.
Inside the plane, drivers and team personnel leaned toward their windows, catching glimpses of the coastal paradise that would become home for the next few days. Sukhman Singh sat near the window, head resting on the back of his seat, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched the glittering waters of the Mediterranean.
"So," Yudhvir said from the seat beside him, stretching his arms overhead, "ready for round three?"
"Yeah," Sukhman replied, still staring out. "It feels... different now. Like I'm not just a stand-in."
Yudhvir gave a proud nod. "Because you're not. You've earned your seat. And you're gonna earn more."
The plane landed smoothly, greeted by a crisp Spanish breeze and cloudless skies. After disembarking, the drivers and teams were whisked through the airport with VIP treatment. Fans had already gathered outside the gates, waving flags and posters. Sukhman caught sight of a few people holding signs with his name. That still threw him off a little.
By mid-afternoon, the Vaayu GP team had settled into their hotel near the heart of Valencia. The lobby was grand, with marble floors and elegant chandeliers. Team Principal Raghav Satyanarayan coordinated check-ins with his usual air of controlled efficiency.
"Rooms on the sixth floor for the drivers," Raghav said, handing keys to Sukhman and Yudhvir. "Get some rest. We've got a media session tomorrow before practice."
Yudhvir and Sukhman took the elevator up, both looking a bit more tired than they'd admit.
"Man, I forgot how much flying takes out of you," Yudhvir muttered, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
"I just want a bed," Sukhman replied.
They arrived at their adjacent rooms. "See you in a few hours," Yudhvir said with a mock salute before disappearing into his suite.
---
Evening rolled in, painting the Valencian skyline in hues of amber and violet. Yudhvir, feeling a little restless, decided to step out. He left a quick message with Sukhman, who was sprawled across his bed, flipping through his phone and sipping a soda.
He walked without a destination, just letting his legs take him where they wanted. The late evening air of Valencia was warm, touched by the soft saltiness of the sea. Tourists moved in clumps along the wide sidewalks, their chatter a low, pleasant hum under the fading sky. Yudhvir kept his head low, cap pulled down slightly, hands in the pockets of his light jacket. He wasn't trying to avoid being noticed, not exactly—he just wanted to disappear into the city for a little while, to not be a racer, not a headline, not an injury update.
He passed quaint cafés with the smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries wafting out into the street, bars alive with laughter, and the distant sound of Spanish guitar from a street performer playing with his soul. But his feet pulled him onward, away from the noise, toward something quieter.
Eventually, he found himself standing before the City of Arts and Sciences. Its futuristic curves gleamed softly in the amber light of sunset, the white skeleton-like structures casting long, sharp shadows across the water that pooled around the base like a calm moat. The building seemed out of time, a whisper from the future planted in the present, and somehow, it reminded him of racing.
Of the track.
Of the constant tension between old instincts and modern precision. Between gut feeling and telemetry. Between raw talent and honed discipline.
Yudhvir stepped closer, onto the polished platform beside the water. The surface reflected the golden streaks of the sky and the brilliant curves of the architecture, distorted just slightly by the subtle ripple of the fountain beneath. His reflection floated in the water too—faint, blurry, yet unmistakably him. Not the racer. Just the man.
He stared at it for a while. The building, the water, the sky, the ghost of himself rippling in front of him.
"You'll be back," he whispered to himself.
The words surprised him, soft and certain. But they felt true. Not like a hope, but like a vow.
---
Back at the hotel, Sukhman had just started watching an old GP highlights video when his phone buzzed. It was a video call. From Diego Montoya.
Curious, Sukhman answered. "Yo, Diego. What's up?"
Diego grinned on screen, his dark curls slightly damp from a recent shower. Behind him, Sukhman spotted Thiago Martins lounging on a chair and Omar Rani tuning a guitar.
"You busy?" Diego asked.
"Not really."
"Good! Come to my room. We're having a little jam session. No pressure, just some tunes, some laughs. Room 612."
Sukhman hesitated a second, then smiled. "Yeah. Be there in five."
He changed quickly into something casual—a loose tee and joggers—and made his way down the hall to Diego's room, his heart beating just a touch quicker than usual. The door was already slightly ajar, and the low thrum of music drifted into the corridor.
Inside, the vibe was unmistakably laid-back. There was a warm glow from the corner lamp, a soft Latin jazz track playing from a portable speaker on the nightstand, and a bowl of half-eaten chips parked dangerously close to the edge of the table. Three drivers—Diego, Omar, and Thiago—lounged like old college roommates on a slow weekend night. Diego was barefoot, Omar had his feet up on a spare chair, and Thiago was rhythmically tapping a pen against an empty can.
"Mi hermano!" Diego greeted with a bright grin, pulling Sukhman in for a quick one-armed hug.
Sukhman chuckled, but his steps were a bit hesitant. "Didn't know you guys were musicians," he said, eyeing the worn guitar resting on Omar's lap.
"We're not," Omar replied without missing a beat, grinning as he plucked a string that let out an off-key screech. "But we pretend pretty well."
Laughter filled the room, easy and relaxed, but Sukhman hovered near the door for a second longer than necessary. His fingers brushed against the back of his neck as he took it all in. He wasn't quite used to this kind of hangout—not off the track, not without a plan or a schedule. And music? That wasn't exactly his comfort zone.
Diego noticed the hesitation and gently tossed him a compact drum pad. "You play anything?" he asked, voice casual but encouraging.
Sukhman caught it awkwardly, turning it over in his hands. "Some tabla, back home," he replied, his voice a little quieter. "I'm rusty, though."
"Perfect," Thiago said, raising a pair of maracas with mock-grand flourish. "We're not here for a concert. Just vibes."
"Just vibes," Omar echoed, strumming another lazy chord.
Sukhman let out a breath, then moved toward the couch, sitting slowly. He balanced the drum pad on his knees and gave it a light tap. The sound was sharp and clean. Another tap. Then a small rhythm.
Not perfect, but steady. And slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to ease.
Diego joined with a gentle guitar chord. Thiago shook the maracas in rhythm. Omar hummed a random melody off-key, and the room filled with improvised music and the kind of laughter that made you forget there was a race in just a few days.
For a while, it wasn't about lap times or strategies or standing on podiums.
It was just four young racers—beating out rhythms, chasing nothing, and feeling a little more human.
And so the four of them began. There were no rules—just rhythm, spontaneity, and laughter. Omar strummed nonsense chords while Diego beat on the table, and Sukhman found a groove that brought them all together.
They played for almost an hour, switching instruments, telling stories, and sharing racing tales. Sukhman found himself laughing harder than he had in weeks. This, he realized, was another part of the racing life—not just competition, but connection.
Diego passed around bottles of soda. "Here's to making memories before we try to kill each other on the track."
"Cheers," they all echoed.
As the night deepened, the music softened. Omar quietly played a slow tune, and the room fell into a kind of mellow trance.
Sukhman leaned back against the couch, eyes half-closed, listening. He felt something rare—contentment.
Tomorrow would bring the pressure. The track. The strategy meetings. But for tonight, he was just a young man in a new city, surrounded by friends, chasing something bigger than himself.
And he was exactly where he needed to be.