On and Off the Track

N I N E T Y O N E.

Media day in Abu Dhabi was nothing short of chaos, as expected. The pressure was palpable, not just for Charles, but for the entire paddock, as the final race of the season loomed over them. From the moment we arrived at the track, the cameras were trained on Charles. Reporters and journalists from every corner of the globe lined up for a chance to speak with him. The paddock buzzed with speculation, everyone trying to predict what might happen on race day. This was the weekend where everything could change, and Charles was at the centre of it all. As we walked through the bustling paddock, I stayed close to him, though I kept a bit of distance, knowing this was his moment. I was more than comfortable navigating the media circus, but today was all about Charles, and all eyes were on him. We reached the media area, where a swarm of reporters immediately crowded around Charles. I caught his eye just before he was ushered into the press pen, offering him a small, encouraging smile. He returned it with a quick nod, but I could see the intensity behind his eyes, he was fully focused, ready to face whatever questions were thrown his way. The media sessions were relentless. Every reporter asked the same question, though in different ways:
"What do you think will happen this weekend? Can you win the championship?" Charles, as always, was measured in his responses. His calm demeanour never faltered, even when they pressed him harder for answers.
"I'm not thinking too far ahead," he said, his voice steady. "The goal is to focus on what I can control. We have a fast car this weekend, and I'll do my best. Whatever happens, happens." But the questions kept coming.
"Charles, you're so close to the championship. Do you feel the pressure building?"
"Of course, there's pressure," Charles admitted, his usual calmness still intact. "But that's part of the job. I'm trying not to let it get to me too much. Right now, it's all about executing the plan we've had all year."

As the interviews continued, I could tell the pressure was starting to wear on him. The questions became more pointed, reporters probing for any hint of anxiety or weakness. They wanted a story, a soundbite that could stir up drama. At one point, a reporter asked,
"With everything on the line, are you worried about Lando or Max catching up to you?" Charles gave a slight smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"They're great drivers, and it'll be a tough race. But I trust my team, and I trust myself. We'll see what happens on Sunday." By the time the media sessions ended, Charles looked exhausted, though he'd never admit it. He made his way over to me, and I greeted him with a soft smile, handing him a bottle of water.
"How'd it go?" I asked, though I could guess the answer. He took a long sip of water before sighing quietly.
"Same questions, over and over. They're all trying to predict the outcome before the race even starts." I nodded, walking with him back towards the garage.
"Well, they can't help themselves. This is the biggest weekend of the year."
"Yeah, I know," he said, his voice quiet. "I just want to get to Sunday. All this talking... it doesn't mean anything until the race." I slipped my hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"You've got this. Just focus on what you always do. Let the media say whatever they want." He squeezed my hand back, a grateful smile tugging at his lips.
"Thanks. I needed that." As we reached the garage, Charles was quickly pulled away by his team for briefings and preparations. I stayed in the background, watching him from afar, feeling the weight of the weekend on both of us. The world was waiting for the outcome, but for now, we could only take it one step at a time.

After media day wrapped up, the atmosphere around Charles seemed to lighten slightly. He had been through this routine before, being in the spotlight, answering the same questions, but this time, the stakes were undeniably higher. As we left the track and headed back to our hotel, I could tell he was still carrying the weight of the upcoming race, though he tried to hide it. Once we were back in our room, Charles collapsed onto the bed, throwing his arm over his eyes as if to block out the day. I sat down beside him, running a gentle hand through his hair.
"You handled it well," I said softly, knowing that even though he kept his cool, the constant questions about the championship were probably swirling in his mind. He let out a small laugh, uncovering his eyes and looking up at me.
"I don't know how you deal with it all the time. I just want to drive and not talk."
"You're not exactly known for being a chatterbox," I teased lightly, earning a smirk from him.
"True," he admitted, then turned serious again. "I just want the race to come. All this waiting—it's the worst part." I nodded, understanding the feeling well. I knew how it felt to have everything built up to a single moment, the pressure mounting with each passing day. But Charles had been in this position before, maybe not quite this intense, but close, and he had always found a way to rise above it. We spent the rest of the evening in quiet, comfortable silence, just enjoying the calm before the storm. Charles eventually fell asleep, and I stayed awake a bit longer, scrolling through my phone and catching up on news about the race weekend. The media was already buzzing about the championship battle, speculating on what could happen, but I knew better than to let any of that get to me. I had faith in Charles and his ability to perform under pressure.