Bertha pointed me toward my seat, second from the left.The one designated for P2.
Henri arrived a moment later with his PR team, like bodyguards protecting something valuable.His expression was fairly neutral, but I could see a small smile hiding behind his eyes.He was pleased with himself, as he should be.
After his disastrous free practice yesterday, today he’d managed to beat me by thousandths of a second for pole, which I was a bit peeved about.Two seats down, Éliott Simon, another driver, was already holding court, charming the front row like it was second nature.
Press conferences had always felt oddly comfortable to me, which I knew was weird given how many drivers dreaded them.But there was something predictable about the format, something manageable.Questions you could anticipate, and answers you could prepare for, especially with a good PR team.
My mother had always claimed I had a gift for “smoothing edges”—for taking pointed questions loaded with subtext and turning them into something softer, more palatable.For defusing tension with a well-timed smile or a self-deprecating joke.That skill had served me well when I wasn’t the main story or the one in the hot seat; when I could sit in the supporting role and watch other drivers, like Georgia, squirm under scrutiny.
But now, sitting at P2 in the championship, just a few points behind Henri, I was undeniably in the hot seat.And my answers to their questions definitely carried real consequences.
Being next to Henri again felt strange in a way I couldn’t quite articulate.The last time I’d seen him this close was Miami, right after the crash, when I’d helped him out of his car.He looked exhausted, like sleep had evaded him over the past few days.
But even tired, Henri had this captivating, quiet command that drew attention without effort.When he spoke, his voice carried that low, deliberate confidence that made interviewers lean in closer.Something about his hazel eyes, the way they watched you with complete focus, made you feel like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
No wonder I caved and gave in to my feelings for him last year.But the Henri sitting next to me wasn’t the same man from last season.The suave, nuanced answers might sound familiar, but the voice behind them had changed—sharper now, more focused, tinged with frustration.He was desperate to win this championship, and that desperation had transformed him.
It had probably transformed both of us.Eight races in, and it had all but consumed the two of us.
Henri finally glanced in my direction, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before he gave a curt nod.“Blackwood.”
So, it’s like that, is it?
“Dubois,” I answered, matching his tone, though I added a small smile meant to bridge the gap.He didn’t return it, but his posture loosened.A subtle tell, like he’d almost considered further acknowledging me.
Fine.I didn’t like him much either right now anyway.
A British voice cut through the loud chatter, a signal the conference was about to start.“Lily!A solid P2 today.How does it feel?”
“Obviously would have liked P1,” I said with a grin.“But all things considered, I’ll take finishing without hitting anyone as a win.”
A few journalists chuckled.I knew they were going to ask about the almost collision this week, so I figured getting out ahead of it would be easiest.Although that probably wasn’t what Bertha had hoped for.
“In all seriousness, the team worked hard this week, and we’re seeing the success from that work.”
“Tell us,” an American journalist piped up.“That moment with Henri during free practice yesterday—any thoughts on that near-miss?It looked a little tense.”He leaned forward eagerly, his press badge swinging against his lanyard.
This was why I loved the American journalists: they got to the gossip right away.No need for chitchat.And as a British driver, I appreciated that.
“We both went for the same line,” I said lightly.“It happens.That section’s tight.Anyone who’s driven it knows there’s not much margin.”
“Henri,” the journalist followed up, like a shark sensing blood in the water, “do you feel like you left her enough room?”
“We made no contact,” Henri replied.
There was no stopping the snort that left my mouth, and I could practically feel Bertha’s invisible hand squeezing her stress ball somewhere in the back.
“Right.But it was close?”
His voice was level, but I noticed the small finger taps on his knee—his age-old tell that he was nervous.“As Lily said, we both wanted the same piece of track.”
An understatement.But I bit back what I really wanted to say.He’d nearly put me into the wall—a topic that Felix had been allowed to mention during his team principal interview, but which I’d been told to ignore.I suspected Bertha couldn’t control Felix’s frustrated outbursts toward Hermes like she could mine.
I leaned toward the mic, giving them the answer Bertha had prepared.“Honestly, the camera angles can be deceiving.There was more space than it appeared on the broadcast.”
“It looked tighter on TV than it felt in the car,” Henri added, and I had to give him credit—his voice carried just enough casual confidence to make it sound believable.
“Well,” a different voice cut in, female this time, “I assume he apologized to you after this weekend’s incident?Given what happened in Miami?”
