Michael studied me quietly, like he was running data through his head, checking for what was fixable and what wasn’t.
“Hey.”He put a hand on my shoulder, grounding me.“This track suits you.You don’t have to fight it to go fast.”
I wanted to believe him.To feel the confidence that used to come naturally; the certainty that I belonged here.That I could win.
But all I felt was exhaustion.
He tapped the halo twice—that small, rhythmic sound he always made when he was trying to steady me.“All right, listen.Here’s what we do.”My eyes met his as he continued.“One safe lap through the fast section.Show your body what calm feels like.Next lap, we’ll let it flow.Hands lighter.Breathe down the straights.Neat first, quick second.That’s it.”
“But—” I started, ready to argue for something I couldn’t identify.
Michael raised his hands, a quiet warning.“Give me something solid,” he said, voice even.“Then build.And if we’re not the fastest, that’s okay.There are two more sessions.”
He stood before I could answer, and I reached for my helmet, sliding it back over my head.The garage blurred into flashes of purple and gold as I drove out of it and back onto the track.
“All clear.”Michael’s voice was calm over the radio.“Keep it simple.”
“Copy,” I whispered back, though it was mostly to myself.
The out lap was quiet.I focused on warming the tires, letting the circuit unfold without expectation.The curbs, the braking points, the familiar hum of Montreal’s track.
Then came the first proper lap.The quick S-turn approached, that same section that had bitten me earlier.My pulse spiked instinctively, almost like panicked muscle memory was trying to take over.
No, not this time.
In.Across.Out.I gave myself just enough room for error, not too much, not too little.The car didn’t fight me this time.For the first time that day, I felt my lungs actually work.
That’s it.That’s how it’s supposed to feel.
I logged the sensation somewhere deep, where it couldn’t slip away when I needed it most.The lap connected cleanly, one corner folding into the next.And then the second.Each turn was deliberate, mechanical at first, then instinctual.By the time I reached the S-turn again, something inside me had steadied.
We repeated this over and over again, with each lap feeling better than the last.
“Great middle section, Henri.Exactly what I wanted to see.Box this lap.”
“But we’re not top—”
“Box,” he repeated, gentle but firm.Reluctantly, I complied, swinging the car into the pit entry.
Michael was waiting when I rolled to a stop, that near-grin he never quite committed to tugging at his mouth.
“That’s the template,” he said simply.
I nodded in appreciation, though it felt half-hearted.Fourth fastest.Which wasn’t bad, considering how I’d started the session.But it wasn’t good either.Not for what Hermes expected of me.
Michael looked quietly pleased, but I couldn’t bring myself to match his optimism.Someone handed me a towel, and I wiped the rain from the back of my neck before following Michael toward the debriefing room.
I collapsed into my seat while Michael set a bottle of water in front of me, his tablet glowing beside him.The walls of the briefing room seemed to inch closer with each passing second.
His eyes met mine, searching.“What happened out there?”
This was one of the reasons I’d always liked Michael.No bullshit.No empty praise or hollow reassurances designed to protect fragile egos.Just direct, honest communication.But right now, that directness felt like standing naked under a bright light, every flaw and weakness exposed.
“Nothing.”I reached for the water, taking a sip to buy myself time.“Just a bad run.”
“That’s not an answer.”His tone stayed even, but I suspected the patience underneath it was wearing thin.“Where did the anxiety start?First corner?The S-turn?The rain?”
“There was noanxiety.”
