The early morning sun streamed through the windows of my house in France, painting the walls with soft hues of gold. It had been a whirlwind few weeks, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I had a quiet moment to myself.
I stretched out on the couch, my body still recovering from the last race's physical toll. My thoughts inevitably drifted to the season ahead. The next race loomed closer, and I needed to stay sharp.
"Alright, System," I muttered, grabbing the sleek console-like device that controlled my F1 integration system. "Status check."
The familiar interface flickered to life, its sharp blue glow filling the room. The system's synthetic voice chimed in, equal parts professional and cheeky.
"Good morning, Calder. Let's see if you're still a contender or if you've been slacking off since that glorious win."
The first panel loaded, showing my current stats:
Strength: 42
Endurance: 45
Speed: 47
Luck: 50
Focus: 43
Racecraft: 46
My stats were solid, but the system wasn't about to let me feel too proud.
"Decent numbers for someone in your league," the system quipped. "But let's not get carried away. Here's where you stand compared to an average F1 driver."
A new bar appeared beneath each of my stats, marked in red. The comparison wasn't pretty. Even the baseline for F1 drivers sat at 70, with the best in the world touching 100.
The system's voice softened, well, as much as an AI could. "Don't take it personally, Henry. You're in the top 10 for F2. But if you're serious about making it to F1, you've got work to do. Especially in endurance. Maybe lay off the midnight snack runs."
"Thanks for the pep talk," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"And yet, Luck is still your strongest stat. Lucky crashes, lucky overtakes… you should buy a lottery ticket sometime."
Despite its teasing tone, the system was right. I had a long way to go.
Later that morning, I drove to a nearby café to meet my dad, David. He had flown in from the U.S., insisting we meet to talk about some "big news." The café was small and tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place where you could linger over coffee and pastries for hours without getting stared at.
Dad was already there when I arrived, a steaming cup of espresso in front of him. He stood as soon as he saw me, pulling me into a firm hug.
"There's the man of the hour," he said, his Oklahoma drawl as warm as ever.
I sat across from him, and we jumped right into the news. Sponsorship offers had been flooding in since my back-to-back wins, and Dad had taken it upon himself to help sift through them.
"We've got offers from some heavy hitters," Dad began, pulling out a tablet and scrolling through the list. "Clothing brands like Gucci, Supreme, and Adidas. And for drinks, Gatorade, Prime, Mountain Dew… you name it."
"Mountain Dew?" I asked, my ears perking up.
Dad grinned. "Figured you'd like that one. You've been drinking it since you were a kid."
The mention of those childhood road trips hit me with a wave of nostalgia. Me in the passenger seat of Dad's old truck, sipping Mountain Dew while he told me stories about his amateur racing days.
"Let's go with Mountain Dew," I said decisively. "Feels right."
"For clothing, I'd suggest something bold," Dad continued. "Your image is growing. You're becoming known as a risk-taker, a confident driver. Pick a brand that matches that."
After some deliberation, I settled on Adidas. Their sleek, modern designs fit the image I wanted to project: bold, professional, and unshakable.
The conversation shifted to bigger topics as we finished our drinks.
"Henry," Dad said, leaning forward, "I'm proud of you, prouder than I can put into words. But these wins? They're just the beginning. The spotlight's on you now, and it's only going to get brighter."
I nodded, sensing where he was headed.
"The media's going to analyze your every move. Sponsors will expect results. Fans will have sky-high expectations. And rival drivers? They'll be gunning for you harder than ever."
He paused, his expression serious. "The key is balance. Stay humble enough to keep learning, but confident enough to trust your abilities. And don't let the pressure push you into reckless decisions. Consistency wins championships."
Dad's words hit home. He'd been through his own battles as an amateur racer, and his advice came from a place of experience and love.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, my voice quieter now. "I'll keep that in mind."
As we stood to leave, Dad placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Henry, no matter what happens, wins, losses, anything, I'm proud of you. Always."
His words carried a weight that made my chest tighten. We hugged, and for a moment, I felt like a kid again, back in that old truck on a long road trip.
As I watched him walk away, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. His belief in me wasn't just comforting, it was fuel.
The drive back to my house was quiet, the streets bathed in the golden glow of late morning. I replayed the day's events in my mind: the system's sobering stats, the sponsorship decisions, and, most of all, my dad's unwavering support.
When I reached my door, I stopped and looked up at the sky, taking a deep breath.
This was just the beginning. The mountain to climb was steep, but I had the tools, the team, and the drive to reach the top.
Stepping inside, I whispered to myself, "Time to get to work."