Ice and asphalt [Charles Leclerc]

36

Between the race in China and the one in the Netherlands, there's a small break that perfectly coincides with the ice show. Charles and I are finally going on the vacation we promised ourselves. The Dutch Grand Prix is making its return to the calendar, largely due to Max's growing popularity. I hate to admit it, but he's an incredible driver, and it won't be long before he becomes champion. Still, the messy history between us lingers. Max cheated on me, and that betrayal hit me hard. It left scars that run deeper than I care to admit, eroding what little trust I had in relationships. I push the thought aside, focusing on the lively dinner table. Both our families — the Gaslys and the Leclercs — are here, filling the room with chatter and laughter. It's loud, but in a comforting way. I look around, catching glimpses of Arthur teasing Pierre, and Pascale smiling warmly across the table. It feels like home. "Are you excited for tomorrow?" Cat asks suddenly, breaking through the noise. She's always got that infectious energy, her smile practically lighting up the room. Pierre's girlfriend fits in seamlessly with both families, and she's been such a positive force, especially for Pierre. "Yeah, I'm excited," I reply, though I let out a sigh. "But I'll be happy when it's all over and I can take a break." I feel Charles' hand slide onto my thigh under the table, a subtle gesture that keeps me grounded. Pierre, who's become slightly more accepting of Charles and me, still can't resist making a jab. "How are you two planning on going on vacation when your students still need training?" He gestures between me and Charles, searching for a reason to throw a wrench in our plans. "My beloved brother," I say with a grin, "Angelina has offered to step in and help with training." Pierre raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that answer. I can see him trying to formulate a rebuttal, but he stays silent as I continue. "That way, I can take a break, go on vacation, and even catch a few races if I feel like it." The truth is, having Angelina offer to help has been a huge relief. Training Céline and Léon has been rewarding, but it's also been overwhelming. I've been juggling so much that the pressure started weighing me down. Knowing that Angelina is willing to step in gives me space to breathe — and that's been crucial. There's always that voice in my head, the one urging me to go off my meds, promising relief from the heaviness that creeps in sometimes. But with more rest, more help, I can push those thoughts away.

Later that night, Arthur and I are curled up in bed watching a movie. The house is full, just the way our moms wanted it. My mom and Pascale had insisted that, with everyone living on their own now except for Arthur, they wanted to savor every moment when we're all under one roof again. If I wasn't training Céline, I'd probably still be living here, but I fell in love with my little house at the edge of the forest. There's something peaceful about looking out over the sprawling vineyard that makes it hard to leave. Arthur shifts slightly, and I adjust my head on his chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall as we settle into the quiet. The movie plays in the background, but I can tell something's on his mind. He's been quiet in a way that isn't normal for him. "You know," he starts, his voice low but steady, "I was afraid you'd drop me for Charles." I lift my head slightly to look at him, confused by the sudden confession. "Arthur, you're my best friend," I say softly. "You're irreplaceable." He lets out a small sigh but doesn't look entirely convinced. "I know that," he says, his voice more serious than before. "But... you love him." The word lingers in the air between us. My heart skips a beat, and I can feel it start to pound in my chest. Love. We haven't talked about that yet. It hadn't even crossed my mind that it was love, at least not consciously. And now, with Arthur saying it so plainly, I can't help but question it. I know from my therapist that I can't always trust my instincts, especially when it comes to emotions. So how do I even know if it's love? "We haven't called it love yet, Art," I reply, my voice quieter now, my eyes flicking back to the screen. But Arthur lets out a small chuckle, and I feel him relax beside me. "Maybe not," he says, his tone teasing. "But I see the way you look at him." I don't respond, just keep my eyes on the movie, though the plot is lost on me now. Arthur's words linger, stirring something deep inside me that I'm not quite ready to face. Maybe he's right. Maybe it is love, but admitting it — even to myself — feels like stepping off a cliff into the unknown.