I stiffened. “They won’t.”
“They might. You walked out of your post-race interviews in Suzuka after three questions. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
I clenched my jaw. “Because they kept asking the same thing. What went wrong, Aleks? Why so off the pace? Was it the strategy, or something else?”
“Exactly,” she said, setting the card down. “And if they start digging again, especially with Archer’s name still floating around, you need to shut it down clean.”
Terri, still typing, didn’t look up. “Just say you’re focused on performance. Deflect. They’ll move on.”
Heidi added, “Unless you give them a reason not to.”
I pressed my thumb and forefinger against my brow, grinding away a headache. “I’ll handle it.”
“Not good enough.” She snapped the card onto the table. “You need a line.”
“Try this,” Terri said. “I respect the media’s role, but I’m here to race. I won’t be distracted by speculation.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “You write for politicians on the side?”
“Just you.”
I leaned back again, folding my arms. “Fine. I’ll play nice. Say the lines. Smile for the cameras.”
“Good.” Heidi’s voice softened just slightly. “Because like it or not, they’re watching. Waiting to see if Suzuka was a fluke or the beginning of a decline.”
Terri stood and passed me a fresh towel. “You need to go sweat it out.”
“For once, we agree.”
I left the room without waiting for a goodbye.
I didn’t go back to the hotel. Not yet.
The Obsidian performance centre at the paddock was sleek and over-lit, mirrors everywhere, like the only way to improve was to confront your own reflection. I tugged off my branded polo and tossed it aside, leaving just compression wear and frustration.
Treadmill first. Sixteen clicks per hour. Steady. Focused.
My feet hit the belt like I was chasing something I couldn’t name. Or maybe running from it.
I didn’t plug in music. I wanted the rhythm of the belt, the slap of soles, the rasp of breath, the thud of my pulse. The hurt.
The voice in my head kept playing the same clips on repeat:
You kissed her.
You walked out of a press pen like a fucking rookie.
You dropped twenty-one points in one race.
You let her in.
I pushed the speed up. Eighteen. Eighteen and a half.
The belt whined beneath me.
I kept running.
The sweat came fast. Chest heaving. Breath burning. The mirrors blurred.
