The fading warmth of the São Paulo evening clung to Sukhman as he walked back toward the hotel. The conversation with Charlotte still echoed in his mind, her admission replaying with the rhythm of his footsteps. She had deliberately sabotaged his car. He had suspected, even known in his gut, but hearing it confirmed stirred something different. Not anger. Not anymore. Just... resolve. He wasn't the same kid she tried to rattle. Not anymore.
The hotel lobby buzzed with a celebratory energy that only followed the end of a dramatic race weekend. Drivers strolled about in casual attire—hoodies, jeans, team polos—momentarily freed from the intense pressure of the track. Mechanics and engineers mingled alongside media personnel, their conversations mixing technical jargon with laughter and light-hearted jabs.
Near the lobby bar, team members toasted their respective drivers while fans, lucky enough to stay in the same hotel, tried their best not to gape in awe at the stars of the motorsport world walking past them like regular guests.
At the heart of this warm chaos stood a large display board propped on a stand near the lounge:
"Bowling Challenge – 8:30 PM Tonight – Ballroom Lane. Friendly Competition!"
The words were scrawled with playful flair, decorated with little doodles of bowling pins and wheels. Beneath it, someone had added in marker: "Winner gets bragging rights (and a mysterious prize box from Room 217)."
Sukhman raised an eyebrow. "Huh! A bowling ball tournament. Seems interesting." He mutters to himself quietly.
"You joining?" suddenly a voice asked behind him.
It was Thiago Martins, grinning ear to ear.
"Come on, kido, we deserve a break. Low stakes, just chilling out," Thiago said, clapping him on the back.
"Yeah, sure," Sukhman said. A part of him hesitated. He never played bowling ball before today— but after the intensity of the last few days, maybe this is what he needed.
By 8:30, the ballroom had been transformed. Two portable lanes stretched across the carpeted floor, glowing neon under UV lights. Loud pop music thumped in the background. A mock scoreboard had been set up on a projector: "Driver Bowling Knockout Tournament."
Sixteen names. Single elimination.
Everyone was laughing and cheering, some more competitive than others. Carter was theatrically stretching his arms like a seasoned bowler. Charlotte, off to one side, watched with amusement but didn't participate. Callum Graves stood calmly at the back of the room, arms folded, a quiet smile on his face.
Sukhman was up in the third match. His opponent: Wei Zhang.
His first roll went straight into the gutter. The second—only knocked down two pins.
The crowd groaned. "Ouch!" someone shouted playfully.
Zhang, with a wild underarm swing, somehow landed a strike on his first go.
Sukhman laughed and raised his hands in defeat. "Guess my talents end at the racetrack."
He stepped off the lane, high-fived Mr. Zhang, and joined Thiago at the snack bar.
Thiago, already through to the second round, was snacking on popcorn. "Tough luck, amigo. But you made a good sacrifice. I'm next against Carter."
"Make it count," Sukhman said.
And he did.
Thiago bowled like a man on a mission. Not with perfect technique—but with passionate, scrappy enthusiasm. He beat Carter, then edged out Yuki Sasakai in the semis.
On the other lane, Callum Graves displayed elegance and control. Every move measured. Every roll deliberate. It was like watching a performance.
By the time the final match began, everyone had crowded around the lanes.
Callum vs. Thiago.
The ballroom buzzed. Cameras came out. Someone even started a chant. "Thi-a-go! Thi-a-go!"
The Brazilian crowd had found their hero.
It went down to the final frame.
Callum rolled an 8, then picked up the spare.
Thiago needed a strike to win.
He stood at the line, exhaled, then sent the ball hurtling down.
Ten pins exploded.
The room erupted.
Thiago threw both arms in the air, running a victory lap past his teammates.
"No GP wins yet," he shouted over the cheering, "but I'm the bowling champion, baby!". (Actually Thiago totally went nuts here.)
Even Callum cracked a full smile and patted his back. "Well earned."
Sukhman clapped along, genuinely happy for him.
After dinner, the hotel quieted down. Most of the drivers had turned in or vanished to their rooms. Sukhman stepped into the men's washroom near the conference hall, yawning.
He was washing his hands when the door swung open behind him.
Callum Graves entered, still wearing his black sports jacket from earlier. He nodded once.
"Kid," he said.
"Sir," Sukhman replied with a small smile.
Callum moved to the sink beside him. "You did spectacular yesterday."
"Thanks," Sukhman said, his smile growing. "It means a lot—especially coming from a legend like you."
Callum didn't look up right away. He dried his hands with slow, precise movements.
"But stay safe, kid," he said at last. "You never know when accident comes. Danger always looms at the corner where you least expect."
Sukhman turned slightly, brows raised. "Sorry?"
But Callum was already walking toward the door.
No wave. No nod. Just a quiet exit.
Sukhman stared at the closed door for a moment.
There had been something... strange about that.
Not threatening.
But definitely not casual.
The legend had spoken.
And left behind a warning or something like that... Sukhman assumed.... of something heavier.
Something that made Sukhman's mind spin—not with fear, but curiosity.
The real games, it seemed, are still ahead.