Shit.
“You’re about Hirsch’s age,” he went on. “Did you know each other?”
Better to control the story than let them discover it later.
“I interviewed him once,” I said. “Senior year. Donation piece.”
“Was he racing then?”
“We didn’t get personal,” I said. “Rich families don’t volunteer that kind of detail. He talked about the Germany job his father had lined up.”
Sandra nodded. “And six months later he convinced his father to fund the racing program. That explains the polish.”
“Polish doesn’t win races,” Mason said. He glanced at me. “How’s his season look to you?”
I took a sip of coffee that tasted like disappointment. “Competitive, but inconsistent. Podium pace on the right weekend. Not quite championship pace yet.”
That satisfied them. The conversation slid back to Verstappen.
I let it. My pulse took longer to settle.
Two Hours Later - Heathrow Airport
The car hire desk at Heathrow was efficiently British, polite and immovable in its refusal to upgrade Mason’s booking. We left with a silver Vauxhall Insignia that fit three journalists and their luggage with mathematical precision and no mercy.
Traffic on the M25 crawled. Mason navigated. Sandra answered emails with the speed of someone fighting a losing battle.
“What’s your read on the American angle this season?” she asked suddenly. “Hirsch finally competitive, Liberty pushing the US market. Think it sticks?”
“It sticks if he wins,” Mason said. “Americans don’t do moral victories.”
Sandra looked at me in the rearview mirror. “And Hirsch?”
I chose my words carefully. “He understands the spotlight. Some drivers resent the media. He doesn’t. He treats it like part of the job.”
“Lucky us,” Mason said. “Half the grid acts like we’re a contagious disease.”
They laughed. I did too, a beat late.
Outside the window, England blurred past in green and gray. I focused on the rhythm of the road and the easy conversation in the car, the way my colleagues could talk about Jonathan as a professional asset, a storyline, a variable in the championship equation.
I wondered how long I could keep hearing his name in that tone without answering to it.
“Personal life’s a mystery, though,” Mason said. “Most drivers his age, you hear gossip. Girlfriends, parties, drama. Hirsch keeps that side private.”
My chest tightened, but I kept my voice casual. “Maybe there’s nothing to gossip about.”
“There’s always something,” Sandra said with the cynicism of someone who’d covered celebrity athletes for decades. “Either he’s very discreet or very boring.”
“Or very focused,” I suggested. “Some athletes compartmentalize completely during competition season. Backin Philly, I interviewed football players who swore off sex for entire seasons.”
“True,” Mason said as we took the exit for Silverstone. “In my experience, the most focused drivers usually have something going on.”
He glanced at me briefly in the rearview mirror.
“They’re just careful about the audience.”
I stared out the car window, pretending to check messages while my pulse tried to punch through my ribs.Nothing to gossip about.If only they knew. I typed a quick text under the pretense of answering an email.
