Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

17

Lando Norris

6 years ago

Lizzie and I had been at the villa for two weeks now, soaking up every moment like it was gold. Mornings spent swimming in the crystal-clear pool, late nights watching movies until we couldn't keep our eyes open. But this summer felt different—every time I was near her, the world spun just a little faster. She made me dizzy in the best way.

Last night, we took a quiet swim under the stars. The night before, we wandered the nearby town, laughing at ridiculous souvenirs and stealing snacks from the local bakery. Right now, I'm lying in bed, daydreaming about one specific thing—

A soft whisper calls from my door.

"Lando."

I open it to find Lizzie in her pajamas, holding a neon orange frisbee that practically glows in the dark.

"That color really suits you," I say, stepping into the hallway and tying up my dressing gown. The clock reads 2 AM.

She smirks, tossing the frisbee at me lightly. "Shut up. Late-night frisbee game? It glows in the dark."

I follow her downstairs and outside to the vast green lawn in front of the villa. The night air is cool, but the adrenaline starts to warm me up.

"Go long!" she yells, launching the frisbee as far as she can.

I sprint back, eyes fixed on the glowing disc. Her satin pink pajamas flutter as she runs barefoot, hair braided loosely. She looks effortless, radiant even under moonlight.

I catch it cleanly. "Show off."

"Guess I beat you in two things now," she calls out, "karting and catching frisbees."

I grin. "That's rich coming from you. F1 is waiting for you, just gotta turn 18."

She flicks her wrist. "No, this frisbee's got you in its sights."

Her laughter rings out, pure and unrestrained. I toss the frisbee high, and as she chases it, I tackle her gently, arms around her waist. We collapse onto the grass, breathless and laughing, lying side by side under the stars.

"I'm going pro frisbee," she declares between breaths.

"I'll give you throws; catches were shaky," I tease.

"Fine. I'll give you catches—you need serious work on your throws," she replies with a smile.

"Do you really think we'll get into the F1 academy after sixth form?" I ask, heart pounding with hope.

"Lando, you're getting in for sure. Best driver I know... well, other than me," she jokes, flicking her hair dramatically.

I laugh and reach for her hand. She takes it, tracing the lines of my palm, barely visible in the moonlight.

"For real though," she says softly, eyes locking with mine, "we'll make it. And we'll be teammates. Promise me—no one else. Not even Max."

I hold out my hand. "I promise, Lizzie Jones. McLaren or Ferrari—it's us."

She shakes my hand, sealing the promise that will stay with me forever.

Now

I wake up with what can only be described as a skull explosion. My hand shoots up to my forehead like it's trying to hold my brain together. Spoiler: it's not working.

"Yo, bro, it's noon. We got a yacht to conquer and then clubbing tonight. Remember I told you this yesterday? Yeah, apparently your liver didn't get the memo and went full demolition derby last night," Max's voice echoes from across the room, like some annoying hype man I never asked for.

I groan, barely able to open my eyes. Max's already pacing like he's the CEO of 'Don't Be A Mess Inc.' He's got that 'I'm so done with your shit' energy.

"Max, shut the fuck up. Your voice is the hangover soundtrack I did not sign up for," I mutter, dragging myself up and knocking my elbow on the bedside table. Great start.

Max throws his hands up dramatically. "Bro, I'm just trying to save your sorry ass from being a human tomato by midday. he plops down on the bed, crossing his arms like a judge at a roast battle. "You, genius. And by the way, you owe me for the 'I'm gonna die sober' promise you made at 2 a.m."

I groan again and rub my face. "I did not make that promise. That was definitely in a parallel universe where I'm a responsible adult."

Max laughs. "Yeah, that universe is somewhere past the asteroid belt. Here's the deal: you get up, get dressed, and try not to embarrass yourself on the yacht today. Because honestly, if you drink like last night again, I'm leaving you stranded on a speedboat somewhere."

I give him my best 'please don't abandon me' puppy eyes. "Max, you know I'm your ride-or-die, right?"

He smirks. "More like your ride-or-dry after last night."

I groan, standing up slowly. "Alright, alright. Clothes. Then water. Then aspirin. Then... pretending I don't still think about Lizzie every five seconds."

Max looks at me like I've grown a second head. "Dude, you need to stop stalking her Instagram at 3 a.m. It's not healthy."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. No more insta-stalking. Got it. But, seriously, Max, this holiday was supposed to be chill. Instead, it's like emotional F1 crash after emotional F1 crash."

Max claps me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the team, mate. But hey, I'm here to keep you in one piece. And if that means babysitting your hungover ass all week, so be it."

I chuckle despite the headache. "Thanks, Max. You're the best. Now help me find my dignity and maybe some clothes that don't smell like last night's regrets."

He grins, heading towards my wardrobe. "Dude, dignity went out the window last night. But clothes? I got you."