Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

2

Lizzie Jones

Interviews in the media pen went smoothly, with most people congratulating me, others asking if im going for P1 next. However, one asked what Lando had said to me while pouring the champagne over me. He poured it over me like it was holy water and I was the demon he needed to banish. I smiled through gritted teeth, raised my trophy a little higher like a passive-aggressive queen, and told the cameras, "Wow, so sweet of him to congratulate me!" when we both knew he meant the exact opposite.

Fake it till you emotionally disintegrate later, right?

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Later, me and Charles hop into his cherry-red Ferrari (because of course he has one), ready to head back to the hotel to prep for tonight. We're both decked out in matching Ferrari-branded sweats, sunglasses bigger than our personalities, and jetlag we refuse to admit exists. Paparazzi are basically teleporting around us. I swear, we took two steps and click-click-click—suddenly we're a Vogue editorial.

On our way out, we sign merch and posters for fans. A little girl holds up a giant handmade poster of me, complete with glitter and a badly drawn braid. I signed it and smiled at her like my heart wasn't shattering into emotional confetti. Tiny tears formed in the corner of my eyes. Me? Inspiring someone? 

Tonight = party time.

Tradition dictates that after race weekend, all the drivers go out clubbing like we're in a reality show version of Drive to Survive: Vegas Edition. I. Am. So. Ready. Let it be known: I LOVE clubbing. The music. The chaos. The dance floor where you suddenly forget you have vertebrae. And maybe tonight... I get behind the DJ deck? My brother Owen used to DJ growing up—he called it his "thing" and refused to teach me, gatekeeping little menace. We had this club in Bristol called The Boiler Room (not the actual Boiler Room, but still iconic), and I used to watch DJs there like they were gods. I'd always dream about spinning a set while the crowd lost their collective minds. Maybe tonight is the night. DJ Lizzie on deck."-on some music" Charles shoves my arm.

"—on some music." I snap out of my thoughts.

"Some what?" I ask, blinking.

"Put. On. Some. Music. are you deaf or something?" Charles says, smacking my arm like an aggressive golden retriever.

"Wow, aggressive much? Calm down, Leclerc, I'm on a high right now. No one can bring me down. Not even you, Mr. Monaco."

I start waving my hands in the air like I just discovered how limbs work. He laughs. I plug in my phone and we start blaring music—mostly chaotic pop, some indie bangers, and one rogue TikTok remix that we definitely shouldn't be proud of knowing all the lyrics to. We sing like no one's watching (but they definitely are, considering we're in a Ferrari in Miami with the windows down), and it's kind of perfect. The sunset hits golden hour. Pink and orange paint the sky. Wind in our hair, loud music, and laughter between verses—it's one of those moments that feels like a core memory being stitched in real time. Me and Charles always talked about this—back in F3, in hotel rooms and under starry skies, dreaming of F1 contracts. He got there first. I followed. And now? We're both at Ferrari. Living it. Breathing it. Doing the thing.

I never want it to end. 

Thirty minutes later, we pull up to the hotel. We wave to more fans, sign some shirts, even see a dog in a tiny Ferrari jersey. I whisper "icon" at it under my breath. Inside the elevator, it's finally quiet. We both sigh at the same time and then burst out laughing like we're 12-year-olds who just got away with something. I lean against the wall, still buzzing. Charles watches me with a grin. "I wonder what you're gonna do first when you get to your room, hmm?" He nods toward my hair. I run a hand through it and make a disgusted noise. It feels like someone poured fizzy syrup over a mop.