The sun filtered through the high-rise windows of the hotel suite, streaks of amber and gold gently spilling across the room as dawn took hold of the city. Sukhman sat cross-legged on a woven mat by the window, eyes closed, breathing in steady intervals. The rhythmic hum of morning traffic far below blended with the faint chirp of birds—a rare calm in the chaos of race weekends.
His hands rested lightly on his knees, the tips of his thumbs and index fingers meeting in a gentle curve. Meditation had always been his reset button. A way to clear the fog, center his spirit, and reconnect with purpose. But today, as he exhaled and visualized the racing line of his thoughts, one voice kept skidding into the lane.
"Guts and generosity won't be enough to hang with the elites, mate. Not yet."
Callum Graves' words lingered like oil on water. No matter how many deep breaths Sukhman took, they clung to him. He wasn't even sure if it was the condescension or the truth in them that unsettled him more.
After twenty minutes, he slowly opened his eyes, feeling the crisp morning air touch his skin. It helped. Not enough to silence everything, but enough to get up, tie his turban with practiced grace, and prepare for the day.
---
The hotel's dining area was already buzzing when Sukhman walked in. International racers, managers, media personnel, and staff intermingled in a courteous dance of greetings and clinking cutlery. His presence turned a few heads—not as many as the night before—but enough.
He spotted Diego Montoya waving from a corner table, Amelia Foster sitting beside him. Diego's grin was infectious, even across the room.
"Sukhman! Oye, Singh Saab, over here!"
Sukhman chuckled softly and made his way over.
"Morning," he greeted, pulling a chair. "Didn't expect to see you two up this early."
"Jet lag doesn't care about expectations," Amelia said with a smirk, sipping her coffee.
Diego reached for another croissant. "Also, I heard the eggs here are divine. Haven't tasted anything divine yet, but I'm holding out hope."
They shared a brief laugh, the warmth of friendly company cutting through some of Sukhman's internal haze.
"You looked composed last night," Amelia said after a pause. "More than most would be, given what came out."
Sukhman blinked. "Thanks. I wasn't planning on it. Just... felt right to say something."
"Still," Amelia leaned forward, eyes serious now, "your words helped Charlotte more than you know. Public opinion is tearing her apart. Sponsors pulling out. Her own team keeping her at arm's length. But because you didn't condemn her outright, she has a sliver of space. Maybe enough to hold herself together."
Diego nodded. "Man, you handled it with class. Real grace."
Sukhman didn't respond immediately. His fingers toyed with the edge of his napkin. "I did it because I had to let go. Not for her. For me."
Amelia smiled. "Whatever your reason, it mattered."
---
Free Practice 1 was a blur of dust and data. The track—a winding coastal beast with narrow chicanes and unpredictable wind tunnels—refused to yield to Sukhman's rhythm. Turn 8 caught him twice. Sector 2 kept bleeding time.
In the pit afterward, Siddharth pored over the telemetry, brow furrowed.
"You're braking late at Sector 1 and easing off too much at the back straight. That's not like you."
Sukhman wiped sweat from his brow. "I know. I just need to adjust."
Siddharth crouched beside him, his voice low. "Hey buddy, is something bothering you? You don't seem fully here."
Sukhman paused, then forced a half-smile. "Nah. It's just the track. I'll get used to it."
But Siddharth wasn't buying it. His eyes narrowed, ready to press.
"Let it go for now," came Nandini's voice. She was leaning on the wall behind them, arms folded. "He needs rest, not interrogation."
Sukhman stood, grateful for the exit. "Thanks, Nandini. I'll catch you guys later."
Siddharth waited till he was gone, then turned to her. "Why did you stop me? He's clearly not okay."
"Because some things you have to figure out yourself," she said, her voice calm. "He's doubting himself. You can't coach that out of someone. He has to fight through it."
---
By late evening, the sky had turned a dusky rose, and the hotel terrace overlooked a city winding down in layers of light and shadow. Sukhman leaned on the railing, a glass of water in hand, the wind tugging at his sleeves. He'd gone through FP2, tried pushing harder, but the discomfort persisted. Not with the car. With himself.
He didn't notice her until she was beside him.
"Well, aren't we moody today."
Sukhman looked up with a start, the quiet hum of the Tuscan wind brushing past his face as he turned toward the familiar voice. Charlotte Reid stood next to him, arms folded, leaning casually against the railing. Her signature smirk curled just slightly at the corner of her lips—arrogance, mischief, and something sharper in her gaze.
"You following me now?" he muttered, too drained to summon sarcasm, too tired to hide the irritation in his voice.
She scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself. I saw your sorry silhouette moping from the hallway. Thought I'd come by before your tears rust the railing."
Sukhman sighed, long and slow. "What do you want, Charlotte?"
"Just wanted to see what's eating you. You look like a tragic poet staring off a cliff." She glanced around the terrace with exaggerated drama. "What is this? Your brooding hour?"
He didn't reply right away. His eyes stayed locked on the horizon—where the late afternoon sun dipped low behind rolling vineyards, painting the sky in mellow orange and fading blue.
Then, against his better judgment, he spoke.
"Callum said I wasn't ready for the elites. That guts and generosity weren't enough."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "And that broke you? Seriously?"
Sukhman turned toward her now, just slightly. "You weren't there. He wasn't being cocky. He was serious. Cold. Like he'd already decided I don't belong. After all he is the title contender a legend of this game. He doesn't need mind games to win."
Charlotte stared at him for a second, then shook her head with a chuckle. "Wow. You really are soft."
He flinched, ever so slightly.
She stepped in front of him now, breaking his view of the valley. "Do you think any of us got here because someone handed us a gold-plated invitation? Callum? Me? Ayanda? You think we all had cheerleaders and motivational speeches in our ears?"
Her voice lost some of its usual edge. "We all got burned, Singh. Every one of us. I was practically crucified by the media this week—and for good reason. You nearly got taken out of a race because of me, and the entire world wanted to watch me go up in flames. My own team didn't look me in the eye for two days."
She took a breath and looked at him, expression softening just a fraction. "And you—you had every reason to hate me. But you didn't. You gave me room to breathe again. You saved me from drowning in all of it. Even if I'll never admit that on camera."
Her voice hardened again. "And now you're here, sulking, because one guy said you're not good enough? Grow up."
"I just—" Sukhman began, but Charlotte cut in.
"No. You need to listen. Because I'm only saying this once."
She leaned in slightly. "You need to toughen the hell up. Because what Callum said? That was nothing. You'll hear worse. Louder. Harsher. From people who don't give a damn about your story or your reasons or your morals. If one whispered insult can shake your foundation, maybe you really don't belong."
The words landed like stones in his chest.
But then she paused. Something changed in her posture, just a bit. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her voice lowered.
"But I don't think that. Not really."
Sukhman blinked.
"I think," she continued, "you forgot who you are for a second. You let one guy's opinion rewrite your whole script. Don't make it a habit."
She stepped back, giving him space again.
"You're a racer. So race like it. Fight like it. Screw what that fucking champion said. Prove him wrong."
And with that, she turned.
Halfway to the exit, she looked over her shoulder.
"Oh, and one more thing. If I ever catch you sulking on a terrace like a sad poet again, I will push you off it."
Then she disappeared through the door, leaving Sukhman standing there, wind tousling his hair, his chest heavy—but not in the same way as before.
He looked out again at the horizon. The sun was still dipping. The breeze still calm.
But now, inside him, something had shifted.
Not a fire yet.
But a spark.
A quiet, defiant spark.