Breaking the Grid

Here for you

I'm sitting in the cockpit of my car, feeling the familiar grip of the steering wheel beneath my gloves. The air is thick with the smell of fuel and rubber, and the steady hum of the pit crew surrounds me. My heart beats in sync with the engine as I focus on what's ahead. Joe had tagged along earlier, hovering around like a shadow until he was pulled away for a meeting. Good. I needed to be in my zone today, and having him around was nothing but a distraction.

Now, it's just me and the car, and my team has been working all week to give me the best setup possible. The energy in the garage is electric, but I'm laser-focused. Today is mine. The practice session is crucial, and even though I can feel the pressure, it's nothing I can't handle. I thrive on it. No distractions, no second thoughts—just precision.

"Blair, car feels good?" my engineer asks over the radio.

"Feels perfect," I reply, tightening my grip as the engine roars to life. I'm ready.

I take off, pushing myself and the car to the limit. Each corner, every straight—it's all about precision. I focus, maybe too much, but it doesn't matter. I'm in control, and no one can say otherwise. I push harder, feeling the car respond like an extension of myself. My lap times are fast, faster than anyone else today, but I don't stop there. I need more. I always need more.

"Blair, you're topping the charts. Fastest out there. Keep it up," my engineer's voice cuts through, calm but proud.

But I'm not satisfied. Not yet. I can still squeeze more out of the car, out of myself. As I round another corner, I can feel the grip holding tight, the car hugging the track perfectly. I push through the acceleration, feeling the power surge as I come down the straight.

I barely register the numbers flashing on the screen, showing me at the top. All I care about is how it feels. The adrenaline, the speed—I'm pushing myself harder than anyone else out here, and it feels incredible. I can hear the engineers over the radio, but their words are a distant hum compared to the roar of the engine. I know I'm good. I know I'm the best right now.

"Blair, we're setting new records today. Keep this pace, you've got it."

I push into the final lap, faster, harder. The car responds perfectly, and the strategy we've been working on all week clicks into place. Nobody can say anything. Not my team, not my competitors. I'm in control, pushing the car beyond what anyone thought was possible.

As I finally pull back into the pits, the team surrounds me, their faces glowing with pride. They know it too—today, I'm unstoppable.

As I step out of the car, my race engineer comes up to me, tablet in hand. "You're consistently setting the fastest laps, Blair. That last sector—nobody's touching it. If you keep this up, you'll be unbeatable on race day."

I glance at the tablet, briefly scanning the data. I know I've done well, but there's always something to improve. "Yeah," I mutter, "but we can still tweak the balance in Turn 4. Feels like we're losing a bit there."

He nods, scribbling something on the tablet. "I'll get on it. But seriously, don't overthink it. You're crushing it out there."

I give him a nod, but inside, I'm already thinking about the next practice, the next lap, the next push. It's never enough.

As I walk towards the garage, I glance around at the other teams. I can feel the eyes on me, the whispers of other drivers and engineers. They know I'm here to win, that I'm not just another driver. And that's exactly what I want. To be feared. To be noticed.

Joe is nowhere to be seen, thankfully. His absence is a relief—I didn't need his presence throwing off my focus. Earlier today, he was buzzing around like a fly, irritating everyone, and I could see the tension in my team. They don't trust him, and neither do I.