According to my PR team, I was supposed to nod and say, “These things happen.”
Lily and I had spent all of pre-season testing trading fastest laps back and forth.The press had already anointed us the rivalry to watch this year.Him versus her, Hermes versus Rennen.Formula 1’s two oldest and most decorated teams were back at it again.And the fact that Felix and Verhoeven had been bitter rivals back in their racing days?That only added fuel to the fire.
Not that I’d helped matters when I lost my temper in the post-race Miami press conference.Since then, I’d given the journalists two weeks’ worth of material, each day bringing a fresh headline about our “toxic feud.”
I missed what Lily and I used to be, but I’d killed that possibility the morning I walked out of Lily’s hotel room last year.
I could still hear her voice on the phone with her mother.
“I need to think about it.”
Just that inkling of doubt had made my stomach turn sour.I couldn’t be the reason Lily put her dreams at risk, so I’d made the decision for both of us—told her I wasn’t interested in a relationship, made it about focus and competition, and given her an easy out.I’d made it my choice so she wouldn’t have to.Then I did the only thing I could do.I walked away to remove any pressure.
Looking at the mess between us now—the hostility, the headlines, the passive-aggressive press conferences—I was right.How could we maintain a relationship while fighting for the same championship?While her contract explicitly forbade it?While our teams could barely exist in the same paddock?
How could two rivals possibly date each other while fiercely vying for the world’s most famous racing title?
My only focus needed to be this championship.For the first time in five years, my Hermes car was the fastest car on the track.New engineering regulations had been introduced this year, and Valkyrie F1— the team that had crushed everyone for the past several seasons—was struggling to adapt.My sister, Georgia, was no longer dominating races or the World Driver’s Championship.
This was finally my year to win the championship of my dreams; to earn the top spot.As long as I could keep Lily behind me.
I had hoped the Rennen car wouldn’t be as powerful as everyone expected, but the moment it hit the tarmac in Barcelona’s pre-season testing session, I knew this year’s fight was going to be between the two of us.
The media may have underestimated Lily, but I didn’t.She was ferocious and hungry to win, and now she had a new team and engine behind her.And as each race went on, the aggressive driving between the two of us only grew.
The fact was, only one of us could be crowned the driver’s champion, and I was hell-bent on it being me.
I forced a breath, feeling it catch in my chest.Miami’s race was behind me, and I needed to leave it there.There was no changing the past, and I had to focus on the Canadian Grand Prix.
Montreal was going to bemyrace.
In the simulator runs, our lap times had been promising—quick enough to put a cautious smile on my engineer’s face.That fragile optimism was exactly what I needed to hold onto, along with the promise that Hermes wouldn’t botch the race strategy.
“Okay, Henri.Free practice 1.”Michael’s voice slid into my headset.“Remember, this track really wears down those tires.”
My fingers drummed on the wheel impatiently—once, twice, three times—a nervous tick I’d never broken.Michael kept going on about brake migration and delta targets, but the words blurred into white noise.All I could hear was the thrumming of my pulse as I watched small droplets of rain tumble down outside the garage.
“Henri, did you copy the—”
“Yes,” I cut him off, sharper than I meant.My throat was as dry as sand, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.“I got it.”
He sighed but didn’t push.Michael had been my race engineer for almost eight years—long enough to know when I was being difficult; long enough to recognize when pushing would help and when it would just make things worse.Michael knew how to read me better than I could probably read myself.
The car dropped off the jacks with a thud.Gray sky flashed beyond the grandstands as the rain picked up.
Great, more rain.After the Miami incident, I felt like I’d had enough rain for a lifetime.Rain meant less control, more variables, more opportunities for things to go catastrophically wrong.
Or for your rival to send you crashing into the barrier.
Turn 1 arrived fast—faster than I expected, even though I’d driven this track a hundred times.I hit the brake a touch too early, feeling the car’s weight shift forward, the rear getting light.My intermediate tires, still cold, protested with a small slide.
“Nice and smooth,” Michael reminded me gently.
I ignored him.The next corners felt twitchy, and I was late and then early through the turns.Not bad enough to warrant a radio call, but not the kind of lap that got you P1.It was the sort of thing a rookie would call fine.
But I wasn’t supposed to be fine.I had to be perfect.
What the hell is wrong with you?I chastised myself for my lack of focus.
