“But,” I added, “it’s… good that people talk about it.”The words came out thin, rehearsed.
“And you?”Ollie pressed.“How do you personally deal with the burnout, the mental fatigue, the constant pressure to perform?”
My throat felt tight.The lights seemed to pulse, too bright, exposing every lie I was about to tell.
“I focus on racing,” I heard myself say.“That’s my job, and I love it.You don’t burn out on something you love.It’s not a problem for me.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back.Wanted to swallow them down and say something—anything—else instead.
I could hear Lily’s voice now: “Of course you burn out on things you love, Henri.”She was right, of course.I’d learned that lesson before.Hell, even Georgia had to learn that lesson when she first joined F1.Racing couldn’t be the only thing I did—not if I wanted to stay sane.
Ollie looked genuinely incredulous.“You never struggle?Never feel the fatigue, the pressure, getting to you?”
“Like I said, I’m fine.”
He paused as if he was almost surprised by my flat-out lie.“What about Barcelona in F2?I remember there was some kind of incident—”
“No,” I said firmly.Now that wasn’t something I was willing to revisit.The microphone caught the edge in my voice, a snap I couldn’t quite hide.
Perfect.Now I sound defensive and dishonest.
Ollie tapped his foot in a slow rhythm, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen under glass.After a few more questions, he nodded towards the Director.“Right,” he said after a pause that lasted too long.“I think we have what we need.”
Ollie closed his notebook and gave the camera a subtle nod.The red light blinked off.
“Thanks for your time,” Ollie said, already gathering his things.
The quiet of the room that followed wasn’t relief.It was the hollow, uncomfortable silence of a disaster barely contained.I sat there for a moment, frozen, the weight of the microphone still clipped to my shirt.Finally, I reached up and unclipped it with shaking fingers, setting it down on the chair with more force than necessary.
Back in the dressing room, the door opened without a knock.I didn’t turn around; kept shoving things into my bag with more force than necessary.
“Dubois.”Ollie’s voice startled me.“Wasn’t sure you’d bother showing up after Monaco.”
I turned slowly.He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, blocking my exit with infuriating casualness.
“You’re not that lucky.”I focused on zipping my bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper.
Also, I was contractually obligated to show.
His laugh echoed off the cream walls, too loud for the small space.He picked up a makeup brush, twirled it between his fingers, then dropped it with a deliberate thump.
“You look tired, mate.Monaco take that much out of you?”
Everything takes that much out of me these days.
“Something like that.”I slung my bag over my shoulder, moving toward the door, toward him.
He didn’t budge, just stood there, that easy smile fixed in place, picking at his fingernails with studied nonchalance.
“Must’ve stung,” he continued, voice dripping false sympathy.“Pole position, home race, wet conditions that should’ve played to your strengths.And still…” He made a sympathetic clicking sound.“You couldn’t do it.I mean, if you keep driving like that, you’ll have to get used to finishing behind her.”
“You finished behind me for three seasons straight, Ollie.Didn’t see you getting used to it.”
His expression barely flickered.He pushed off the door, closing the distance between us, ignoring my last comment.“So, you and Lily in that hallway back in Montreal.”
I went still.“What about it?”
“Come on, Henri.”His tone was almost friendly.“You visited her late at night?The way you looked at her…” He gave me a disbelieving scoff.“What, did you tell your team you were just talking?”
