Alan Marti looked pleased. In Barcelona he had been welcomed with cheers, but he was already beginning to feel the pressure. Everyone kept reminding him: this was Lynx's home, the company was Catalan, the team too, almost all the investors—and him as well. If he didn't finish in first place, or at least if Diego Valcázar, his teammate, didn't, they would disappoint everyone.
The press was especially intense, harassing him more than usual. He tried to dodge them or at least sound suspicious and sarcastic; he knew that was the best way to deal with the Spanish press.
At least it felt good to be home. He—precisely he—knew what Barcelona meant. He knew what it was like to fully enjoy luxury and modernization. He never could have imagined that he would end up competing, and everything he saw every day helped him relax.
He had to be especially careful with his mother and his sisters. They weren't used to luxury and they drew attention; just by hearing his family speak, people could tell perfectly well that they were from the outskirts. Chonis chungos, that's what they're called in Spain. Neighborhood people. Barrio folk.
Back in 2017, during his third arrest, the member of his family who knew the police station the least was, this time—just this once—being arrested for something that was his fault.
"The NP-Spain director paid your bail, niñato," the policewoman told him. She looked at him with sarcasm, and on her face it was clear she was enjoying the situation far too much.
She stayed standing in front of him, chewing gum that looked completely worn out. He stared at her; he wasn't even sure she was talking to him.
"You wanna stay?" she said. "Honestly, I'm glad you do, so I can spend more time looking at that face of yours. You're very handsome, kid, I mean it—but now get out of here. This place isn't for you. Come on."
He started walking toward the exit before she could smack his ass and burst out laughing. He didn't understand anything.
"So this is the famous 'Alan Marti'?" said a bearded man, dressed in a suit that screamed it cost more than Alan's house.
The man looked at him in disbelief, as if he were a joke.
"Yeah, I've never seen a biker so... pretty..." she said.
The other boy was being escorted by another officer, much more serious. His bail had been paid too. Both of them had been detained for taking part in an illegal motorcycle race; there were many more riders, but only the two of them had been caught—they were the ones winning the race. Alan was first; the other boy was second.
The director of NP-Spain, the MotoGP league. The other boy was one of MotoGP's representatives, and if it hadn't been for the police, Alan Marti would have won that underground race.
"You're hired," the man told him, before handing him a card so he could call.
That's how he made it to single-seaters. Not because he was rich, but because he was genuinely good. He hadn't had the same chance to dedicate every afternoon of his life to practicing in the best machines in the world, but he was the best at what he did. Even though he didn't like MotoGP all that much—because it was too dangerous—through it he met people who helped him reach NF-Spain, the single-seater league. And, surprisingly, he won the competition, breaking even world records, at just sixteen years old, right on that same track where he would now race in the Barcelona Grand Prix. Just remembering it made the pressure double.
The afternoon before the competition, the boy seemed calm—at least on the outside. He didn't know exactly what was making him feel nervous, whether it was that asshole Crust:
Fuck, he's only won one race, he thought.
Or maybe it was the pressure of an entire city on his shoulders. He went out for a run.
He was at a small athletics field at the hotel; he could have gone to his house—his chalet would definitely have been more comfortable—but no, he preferred to stay. Feeling comfortable wasn't going to help him win. He didn't want extra nerves either; he didn't even show up for the practice race on Saturday before the Grand Prix. It was the only chance to practice before the competition. Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and then Sunday morning was the Grand Prix. Probably the one that made him the most nervous—more than even the big final in Miami.
At least he went to watch the practices. He sat in the stands with the guys who hadn't signed up; at least they gathered there to watch the others. He still hadn't become that obsessive, but all professional drivers tended to study their competitors with a magnifying glass, learning the styles of the other thirty-eight rivals perfectly. He preferred to focus on himself, but what if he tried it this time? Just this once.
He sat right next to Valentino Arcos, from Argentina; he was one of the guys he got along with best. At least they spoke the same language—that was good. His English still wasn't especially strong.
"Who do you think is going to win?" Valentino said.
"Me," he replied without looking at him.
"I mean now, in the friendly."
"That fucking Crust," he said without even thinking, "or that Finn Aldon... he's good."
Valentino Arcos didn't know whether he said it because he sensed it, because Crust was leading the race, or because he already hated him.
"Yeah... Finn is kinda fast," he continued. "He's British, right? Sounds British."
"Yeah, he's Saxon," he said mockingly. "He's Canadian, from Quebec. You should know where the competitors are from. You're good, but you need discipline."
Alan wasn't even paying attention anymore; he was watching the race closely. Suddenly, a couple of guys overtook Crust and everyone stood up, focused. One would think Alan was hoping for anyone but Crust to win, but to everyone's surprise—including Valentino sitting beside him—he was only wondering why he was cheering Christopher on.
"Come on... overtake him on the curve," he said.
Crust recovered the lead and was already at least two minutes ahead of any other competitor. He won the friendly with minutes of advantage over second place.
"He's the favorite now," Valentino said. "How many points does he have? Thirty-seven?"
"Thirty-nine," Alan said. "I'm being professional now. Studying the competition."
"Still, he's not even top-tier. He lost ten races in a row."
"Even I was surprised, but he's a Crust. Can you imagine having the name of one of the most luxurious car brands in the world as your last name?"
"And on top of that, being the fucking heir, boludo."
"Of course he was going to be the favorite. SS20 has almost doubled its viewers just because of him. I even think that was the idea: start by losing, draw attention, and then prove he's not a single-seater driver but a fighter jet pilot... gilipollas."
"Maybe. But... I think he cheats," Valentino said then, before Alan stared at him sharply, almost like scolding him.
"Why do you say he cheats?"
"I'm not saying it—everyone says it. All the experts. I don't really believe the theory, but they say that car is a Crust with a Nesspet chassis. They say you have to listen to the engine. They're comparing it to Tyler's, and apparently they sound different."
"I don't believe it, it's nonsense. Nesspet and Crust are direct competitors. Besides, if Tyler had the bad car and Crust the good one, the two of them wouldn't be so even."
"Yeah, I also think it's nonsense," Valentino said. "It's just a theory... look..." He pulled out his phone and searched for a Motorsport profile on TikTok. "Hey, looks like there's a new video about it."
He played it so everyone could hear it, not just Alan Marti.
<<
"Looks like we were wrong, guys," they said in the video. "You know that when I'm wrong, I admit it. Crust apparently isn't cheating—he's actually good after all. Did you see that curve he took? That's a level none of the other thirty-nine SS20 competitors have. I take it back, and don't be surprised if he becomes the favorite from now on."
"But what about what you said about the engines, that it sounded like a Crust?"
"Well, listen to them again."
They compared the sound of Christopher's car first with a Crust, and then with Tyler's car.
"They sound completely different," he said.
"Only you can hear the difference; they all sound the same to me," another guy replied.
"This time I even hear Tyler's car sounding more like a real Crust than Christopher Crust's car."
"They're not going to give the good car to Tyler," he said. Everyone laughed.
<<
Alan Marti stayed thoughtful. He didn't believe that having a better car automatically made you win, but he did know they had given him the tuned Crust with the Nesspet chassis—he saw it, or at least he thought he did. But now... did Tyler have it?
Fuck... Alan thought. Then he's even better than I thought.