Driven For You - A Charles Leclerc Story

014 | Chapter Twelve

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I wanted to kill him. I wanted to scream until his ears bled from the noise. Binotto said he didn't want any more public fights between me and Leclerc, but if I got to that dick before Mattia got to me, then Sky Sports could have a murder on their hands.

But let me rewind a second.

Let me explain as to why my entire mental capacity was going into formulating a plan as to how to murder my team mate.

It was the Miami Grand Prix third qualifying session. I was all ready to get a good time, my corners were perfect, my straights were quick, and my moral was through the roof. Literally nothing could stop me from obtaining pole position.

But oh wait. Yes, yes there was something.

And by 'something' I mean one inconsiderate, arrogant prick with a car that was supposed to be my ally.

It was just after the straight, with three turns left before I would have clocked my best time yet for this track, a big blundering ball of red cut in from behind and completely shoved me off course. My front wing clipped into his left flank and also pushed him off the track in the process. It felt like déjà vu, as both Ferraris veered into the neighbouring wall and remained motionless.

I would have ripped myself from my seat and beaten the life out of him if I hadn't hit my head so hard on the steering wheel. Thankfully my helmet took most of the brunt, but I could still feel a slight headache forming just above my right eye. I was dizzy and disorientated, but Leclerc better have thanked whatever Gods he worshiped for my slight concussion and subsequent inability to get out of my car in time, otherwise he would have suffered a lot worse at my own hands.

When I got back to the paddocks, I scoured the entire garage and pits looking for that coward that refused to look at me face to face, but wherever he was, he had hidden really frustratingly well. Even when I asked the engineers if they'd seen him, they all declined. I practically had steam coming from my nose when Binotto found me and ordered me to go cool down in my motor home before any media outlooks saw. Begrudgingly I complied, throwing open the door and slamming shut after.

I picked up my mug and once again threw it to the wall.

The catharsis wasn't as good as last time.

The day only seemed to get worse when I was informed that several engine parts would have to be replaced, which meant that my grid position was subject to change and be demoted. And to make it worse, Leclerc's car didn't suffer as much damage as mine, so he was let off Scott free when it came to engine penalties, despite this whole mess being his fault.

It must have been another hour later when I found out the true damage. From a potential P1, all the way down to P14. What an absolute joke. The FIA might want to watch there backs as well at this point.

For the rest of the day, I was a grumbling mess. I don't know why this crash made madder than the one in Australia, but I chalked it up to the fact that this was the second time this sort of thing had happened. I know people say twice is a coincident and three times is a pattern, but I could shake the thought that this was on purpose.

Why would he have needed to cut in so suddenly, especially when he knew I was on the inside track? Nothing could convince me otherwise at this point. And I really wanted to discuss this with someone, but the only person that would listen to my complaints would also be actively avoiding me right now because of my temper. Why is it that men are scared of angry woman?