𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢┃ Charles Leclerc┃

Chapter Thirteen - The Sidelines

The Jeddah Grand Prix was not one for me to remember.

As I stood there, gazing at the roaring circuit, a whirlwind of emotions twisted within me. The air hummed with the symphony of engines, the palpable buzz of anticipation mingling with the scent of adrenaline. But I wasn't out there, where I belonged. Instead, I watched from the sidelines, a victim of circumstance.

The crash in qualifying hadn't just been a collision of metal and asphalt; it had shattered my aspirations. My car, a mere shell of its former self, had lay broken and bruised, its spirit crushed. The engineers, valiant in their efforts, had toiled relentlessly, their sweat a testament to their dedication. Yet time had slipped through our fingers like sand, and the car had remained stubbornly unready.

The ache within me hadn't been just the physical aftermath of the crash; it had been the ache of missing out on the dance of speed and skill, the battle on the track that fueled my very essence. The camaraderie in the paddock, the shared determination among fellow drivers, the unity amidst the competition—all had eluded me that day.

The realisation had hit hard—I had been a spectator to my own passion, a bystander in a world where I thrived as a contender. The disappointment had been a bitter pill, but it had fueled a fire within, a resolve to return stronger, hungrier, and more relentless than ever.

"Good luck, Lando." I said through my radio, large orange headphones pressing against my ears and dulling the sound of my own voice.

"I'll do my best for you, Ana." Lando responded. "For the team."

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn't see me from his car. "Good lad."

As I stood in the paddock, the distant rumble of engines echoed through the air, a haunting reminder of the race I should have been part of. My gaze fixated on the track, where my teammates and competitors surged ahead, each turn and straightaway a testament to their skill and resolve.

The Grand Prix unfolded like a beautifully choreographed symphony, yet I was relegated to the role of spectator, a position unfamiliar and disheartening. Every screech of tires, every crowd's roar, was a sharp pang of longing—a reminder of the rush, the thrill of the competition that I yearned to experience.

Watching my teammate's car streak past, adorned in our team's colors, stirred a bittersweet pride within me. I celebrated his achievements, his maneuvers through each corner, even as a part of me wished desperately to be out there, battling alongside him.

Conversations with engineers and fellow drivers offered solace, yet they couldn't replace the adrenaline rush of hurtling around the track at breakneck speeds.

As the race reached its climax, the tension in the air was palpable, the stakes high, and victory seemingly within grasp. Though I wasn't in the cockpit, my spirit soared with every overtaking move, every daring maneuver my teammate executed.