SEASON V
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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Lucas
The Bahrain pre-season test felt different this time. Not louder, not brighter—just sharper. Lucas stood at the edge of the Ashworth garage, helmet under one arm, race suit unzipped to the waist, watching the mechanics swarm the car like they were stitching together a promise. The air was thick with heat and fuel vapour, the same cocktail that had once felt like home and later like poison. Now it was just fuel. Something to burn.
Last season had gutted him. Not the crashes—those he could take. Not the missed podiums or the endless debriefs where the data told him what he already knew: he’d lost the edge. It was the quiet erosion. The way every corner felt borrowed, every overtake hesitant, every night in a hotel room staring at the ceiling replaying the same loop—Mia walking away at Yas Marina, her small, steady smile that saidI’m okay without youlouder than any argument ever could.
He’d spent the off-season rebuilding in pieces.
First the body: endless hours in the gym, on the simulator, running laps until his lungs screamed and his mind finally shut up. Then the nerve: sessions with a sports psychologist who didn’t let him hide behind charm or deflection. He’d talked about fear—not of crashing, but of never feeling that pure, weightless certainty again. About how losing Mia had cracked something fundamental, and how he’d spent too long pretending it hadn’t.
The heart came last, and it was the hardest. He buried it under routine. Under plans. Under the uncomplicated certainty of a future he could actually control.
The wedding was set for next December—extravagant, lakeside in Como, everything Sienna had dreamed of since she was a girl flipping through magazines. They’d spent the Christmas break at her parents’ estate in Tuscany, then New Year in Verbier with his family. His mother had been polite, distant, the way she got when she didn’t approve but knew arguing was pointless. She’d smiled at the right moments, complimented Sienna’s ring, asked about the flowers. But Lucas had caught the glances—the ones that saidThis isn’t the girl I pictured for you. He hadn’t pushed. He’d just nodded and changed the subject to car specs or tyre compounds. Easier topics. Safer ones.
Sienna was uncomplicated. Warm, steady, straightforward. She didn’t challenge him. It was easy.
And yet, standing there in the Bahrain heat, the wordweddingsuddenly felt heavier than it should. He wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten to this point.
The memory rose unbidden, hazy around the edges like smoke from a dying fire. It had happened not long after Sienna moved in—boxes still half-unpacked in the hallway, her clothes hanging in the wardrobe next to his. Mia hadn’t returned yet; the silence from her end had stretched into weeks, then months. Lucas had probably had one too many whiskeys that night. His thoughts were blurry, words coming slow and thick, the room soft at the corners.
Sienna had been curled on the sofa, scrolling through photos on her phone. A friend’s wedding invitation had popped up—some grand affair in the Cotswolds, all majestic marquees and rolling lawns. She’d sighed, half wistful, half teasing. “Look at this. It’s spectacular. Not quite as spectacular as the one I was planning with… you know, before.” Her previous fiancé. The Spanish footballer. She’d laughed lightly, but there was anundercurrent—something hopeful, testing. “All that planning… maybe it won’t go to waste. Maybe you and I will be there one day.”
He’d nodded, glass in hand, the whiskey warm in his throat. Maybe he’d murmured something vague—agreement, encouragement, he couldn’t remember exactly. The room had felt distant, like he was watching himself from across it.
Sienna had paused, eyes widening a fraction. “Wait… is this what I think it is?”
He’d blinked. “What?”
“A proposal.” She’d said it softly, almost afraid to break it.
He’d stared at her for a beat—heart thudding dully, mind still foggy. Then: “Sure.”
The word had slipped out easy, like saying yes to another drink. She’d thrown her arms around him instantly, laughing, crying, already reaching for her phone. The whirl started right then—calls to her family, her closest friends, excited squeals echoing through the flat. He hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t felt like he should. The momentum carried him; stopping it would have meant explaining why, and he didn’t have the words. Or the energy. Or maybe the courage.
By morning the ring was being sized, dates discussed, venues shortlisted. He’d woken with a headache and a vague sense of having stepped off a ledge without looking down. But he’d smiled when she kissed him, told himself it was right. Simple. Forward.
Now, in the quiet aftermath of the test session, Lucas rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t regret Sienna—not exactly. She was good, kind, steady. But the engagement had happened like a car drifting into a corner: no sharp decision, just gradual slide until the line was crossed. One blurry night, one careless word, and suddenly the future had concrete plans: December, lakeside, vows. A life mapped out in guest lists and seating charts.
He exhaled slowly. It wasn’t regret, exactly. It was the quiet realization that he’d let things happen to him instead of choosing them. And now the wedding loomed like a finish line he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.
The test session started at ten. Lucas climbed into the cockpit, the familiar harness clicking into place. The radio crackled—his race engineer, calm as ever.
“Lucas, pit confirm. You’re good to go.”
“Copy,” he said, voice flat, focused. “Let’s see what she’s got.”
He pushed out of the garage, the car alive under him, responding the way it was supposed to—precise, hungry, no hesitation. Lap after lap he built rhythm: braking points, apexes, throttle application. No overthinking. No ghosts in the mirrors. Just the track and the car and the singular, burning need to prove he could do this.
By the end of the day he’d set the third-fastest time. Not perfect, not yet—but clean. Consistent. The kind of lap that saidI’m backwithout shouting it.
In the debrief he sat quietly while the engineers dissected the data. He listened, asked sharp questions, made notes. When it was over he stayed behind, staring at the telemetry traces until the room emptied.
He didn’t think about Mia. Not deliberately.
