Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

■ Las Vegas, Post-Race ■

"That's three out of three, Max. Shall we call that a Royal Flush?"

⸻

LAS VEGAS
AFTER THE RACE
NOVEMBER

Christian raises his brows, mockingly offended by my jacket. "You need a blue one."

I go to tell him no thanks, but Max is running at us. He jumps at the mechanics, and one of them tries to shield me from being knocked over. The hug with them is brief; he's now moving to hug me, and I can feel the adrenaline as he shakes slightly. It doesn't last long; he has to be weighed and they're doing the post-race interviews down the other side of the track. With cars to take the top three over there. It's so dumb. I'm not going to say that publicly, though.

The podium is being prepared as the boys are driven around to the strip, where they'll go have the interviews. We're all moved, to the penned area for those allowed at the podium celebrations. Christian is handed a Red Bull jacket by one of the mechanics, and I'm laughing too hard to take my Jaguar one off for a long minute. I do take it off, though, with help from him, and a mechanic that says he'll hold onto the jacket for me so it doesn't get lost. Christian zips up the dark blue one on me and gives me a grin.

"Much better!" He declares, to my laughter. "Shame we can't sign you for next year!"

"Nah, you're better off keeping Daniel, since I like to throw cars at barriers." Strangely, it's easy to joke about it. I mean, if I don't laugh, I'll probably cry again. So jokes at my own expense it is.

We fall into silence as the interviews are conducted, listening intently to each driver answering questions. Max has certainly changed his tune about the race. Before this weekend really kicked off, he was bitching and moaning about all of it. Now? He's enjoyed himself and has nothing negative to say.

Once the interviews are over, discussion sparks up again, this time from the mechanics, who ask how Mick and Cassandra did. I share what I can safely say about their races, and make a point to compliment that Cassandra's done well, considering the car is not at all set up for her.

The stands that made everyone make Hunger Games jokes are back, and I can't help my laughter again. Christian is completely baffled until I share the joke with him, and then he realises just how stupid the whole thing is. One by one, Daniel, Charles and Max are up on the high stand, and I groan as I realise: I get to hear those two damn national anthems again.

During the Dutch one, he catches sight of me. He winks, and I feel like a goddamn teenager with a crush, having to try and hide my face because it's heating up. The huge screen behind the podium shows my face, and then Jos' face. I didn't even know he was even here. God, he looks pissed. Ripshit pissed.

There's no time for me to worry about that, though, as the trophies are being given, and the champagne waiting to be sprayed. All over everyone but the drivers at first. Fireworks light up the sky and the upbeat music is barely audible over the bangs and pops of all the colour that makes it almost seem like daylight for a few minutes.

As the celebrations die down, I'm helped through the crowd by some of the Red Bull guys; one of them - whose name I don't catch - takes me all the way to the Jaguar garage. Where, as I'm hugged by a waiting Cassandra, I realise I'm still wearing a Red Bull jacket. Much to Oliver's chagrin. He helps me out of the jacket, and gets another Jaguar one on me, so that we can head off to the debriefs. I keep the borrowed dark blue one with me - I'll give it to Max to pass back to his team.

The post-race media circus keeps Mick and Cassandra a little, but the debrief is just about held on time, which is good, because I'm so tired. This weekend has been a goddamn gruelling one. Part of me is glad I'm not racing. I don't think I'd be conscious for the debriefs if I'd been racing this weekend.