Tangled in Trophies- Lando Norris

38. frustrations

Lando closed the door to his London apartment, the sound of it clicking shut pulling him into a quiet solitude. The day felt long, but his mind refused to settle. He set his bag down on the couch, dropped his keys onto the table, and let out a tired breath.

But the moment he closed his eyes, there she was. Evangeline.

Her face appeared unbidden—her black outfit on the court, the sharp lines of her movements as she played, the confidence she radiated with every serve and return. The way she didn't just play tennis; she owned it. The raw, effortless power of her was mesmerizing, and Lando couldn't shake the image of her standing there, lit under the bright lights of the stadium.

His hand brushed his face, trying to shake the thoughts away, but they came back.

He thought about her smile as she kneeled down to sign autographs for the kids. The way her laughter filled the air, easy and genuine, as if she could light up any moment with just her presence. She hadn't hesitated, hadn't looked tired or distracted. She just connected, simple as that.

And then there was how she handled the reporters. Calm, sharp, and unflinching. She didn't give them the dramatic answers they probably wanted. She just spoke with honesty, strength, and control. She could've deflected, played the safe game, but instead, she stood her ground—and Lando admired that. He wondered how many other people could have done that with the same poise, the same confidence.

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, staring out the window at the city lights. His mind drifted again to the way she looked. The confidence of her movements, the toned lines of her body, her hair, the way the wind caught it just right when she came out of the tunnel after the match. She was radiating confidence, and it was stunning.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to focus on anything other than her. His mind was spinning, her presence pulling at him.

And then there was the way she was with the kids. She wasn't just signing autographs and taking photos. She was making moments for them. She was their hero for a few minutes, and Lando had seen how much that mattered. He could feel the quiet bond between her and the children, their laughter, their wide eyes, the way she gave them just a sliver of the magic she herself must have experienced as a child when she first started chasing tennis dreams.

And she'd done it with ease. No hesitation, no discomfort. She just knew how to connect.

He could still hear her voice as she spoke to them. Easy, light, and hopeful.

And yet, she was stern, too. Not aggressive, but controlled when the reporters came bombarding her. She had this way of balancing kindness and strength that Lando found admirable—so rare, so powerful, like a force in itself.

He groaned, frustrated with himself.

Why is this on my mind right now? he thought.

Lando paced the small space of his bedroom, then sat down at the desk. He could still see her in his head: standing near the court, looking effortlessly graceful, powerful, but approachable. Even now, just thinking about her made his chest ache.

He could hear her laugh again in his head, the way her eyes sparkled as she signed the final tennis ball.

His phone buzzed on the desk, and his hand shot out instinctively. His first thought was that it might be her. His heart leapt, but it wasn't her—it was just a group message from his management team. Lando let out a low sigh and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

"Okay," he said aloud to himself, trying to ground his thoughts. "Calm down, mate."

But he couldn't.

The truth was, Lando didn't want to calm down—not when her presence lingered like this, not when her smile, her laugh, the image of her performing so effortlessly on the tennis court replayed in his head, over and over again.

He could see her smile when she laughed at her own joke, hear her confidence in the way she told him about her life.

And damn it, it wasn't fair.

She was just... there. A tennis player. A professional. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Right?

But he wasn't so sure anymore.

He sighed again, throwing himself back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still in his throat, her image still fresh, her voice still replaying like a song.

You've got to focus on F1, he told himself. Focus on the next race. Not this.

But somehow, it didn't feel like focusing. His thoughts felt more like being pulled.

And Lando wasn't sure how to stop it.

_________________

Evangeline sat in her London apartment, the soft hum of her coffee machine the only sound breaking the stillness. She stared into her coffee cup, watching the light cream swirl into the dark liquid as her thoughts wandered. She wasn't thinking about tennis, or the next match, or her schedule.

She was thinking about him.

Lando.

She could still picture him there, at the edge of the arena before her match. His presence had caught her off guard, though she did her best to play it cool. His hair—those perfectly unruly curls—had caught the sunlight, framing his face in a way that looked far too natural for her to ignore. His green eyes had been sharp but warm, calm and steady, and for a moment, she found herself staring.

It wasn't just his appearance. It was the way he moved, the way he stood with this effortless confidence, his hands casually in his pockets as he looked at her. There was this sharpness to him, a mixture of athletic discipline and charm, and it made her heart do something stupid in her chest.

Even now, she could see him so clearly. The way his smile had come so naturally, how it didn't feel forced, just easy. And there was something about the way he had looked at her that stuck—steady, attentive, kind. He wasn't just watching the match as a fan; he was there as a friend. That familiarity, the quiet ease he had brought with him, lingered in her mind.

Her gaze drifted back to her coffee, her fingers swirling the liquid absently. She could still see his smile, hear the calm way his voice sounded when he spoke to her. He looked good, and not just "good" in an obvious way. His whole presence—his casual manner, the way his energy filled the space around him—had this magnetic pull. It made her forget herself for just a moment, forget how to keep her composure, forget everything but him.

He wasn't like anyone she'd met, and it was disorienting.

Her phone buzzed beside her on the table. She glanced down. No new message. Just her schedule and a reminder from her PR team. She put the phone back down and took another sip of her coffee, but his smile lingered.

She tried to shake it off.

But the more she thought about it—the way his hair looked as it caught the light, the way he stood there so effortlessly at the edge of the arena, the way his eyes focused on her when the reporters pressed in—the harder it became to ignore.

He wasn't trying to be a distraction, of course. She knew that. But he was.

You're ridiculous, she told herself, taking another sip of coffee.

She knew she had to focus, to get back into training, to think about her next match. But her thoughts kept pulling her back to him. His easy smile. His presence in the stands. His kind energy, the way he had been there for her without making it seem like a big deal.

He wasn't just attractive. He had a way of making her feel like she was seen without trying too hard, and that was somehow even more dangerous.

Her hand clutched the coffee mug tighter.

No, she told herself again.

But the thoughts wouldn't stop.