At forty-two, Leo was the oldest driver in the grid. His fireproof suit felt heavier than it used to, and the sponsor patches on his chest belonged to brands no one under thirty recognized. The young guns called him “Grandpa” in the paddock, not entirely as a joke. But Leo wasn’t here for jokes. He was here for a replay.
As the grid lined up, Leo’s heart beat slow and steady. The five lights blinked red, then vanished. Green. race replay
Three years ago, on this very circuit, he’d led for fifty-nine of the sixty laps. Then, in the final chicane, a rookie named Elias had squeezed him into the wall. Leo had finished ninth—his last full season before the offers dried up. The incident had never been ruled a foul. Just hard racing, the stewards said. Just bad luck, the pundits agreed. Leo knew better. He’d watched the onboard footage a thousand times: Elias’s steering wheel twitching left, just enough to block, just enough to kill. At forty-two, Leo was the oldest driver in the grid