Death of a Bachelor (COMPLETED)

#38 Home

As Lewis pulled into the pit lane, the roar of the crowd and the sound of his engine seemed distant, muted. His body was heavy, his hands numb as he loosened his grip on the steering wheel. Every muscle ached, his mind replaying each lap, each turn, each moment he could’ve done differently. It wasn’t the result he’d hoped for; it wasn’t even close.

He finished seventh. F*cking seventh place. The disappointment was sharp, raw. He could barely bring himself to look at the others waiting on the sidelines, their faces bright with encouragement he didn’t feel he deserved. But he knew he had to keep it together. Cameras, fans, and team members were watching his every move, and he couldn’t afford to let them see the weight he was carrying inside.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the cockpit and climbed out, forcing himself to straighten, to keep his head up. He pulled off his gloves and helmet, feeling the cool rush of air hit his face, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. Lewis felt the familiar ache in his legs as his feet touched the ground he straightened his posture, forcing his shoulders back and his head up, masking his turmoil with the carefully crafted composure he had mastered over years in the spotlight.

Jester approached him wquickly, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp with concern. “You alright?” he asked, holding out his hands to take Lewis’s helmet and gloves. But Jester wasn’t fooled. After years of working together, he could read Lewis like an open book, no matter how well he tried to hide his emotions. The tightness around Lewis’s eyes, the slight tremor in his voice—it all betrayed the truth.

“You sure?” Jester pressed gently, his tone careful not to push too hard.

Lewis met his gaze for a brief second, then looked away, exhaling slowly. “Yeah” he said, quieter this time. “I’m fine.”

One by one, his team members approached him, their words of encouragement soft but persistent. He nodded, offering small, polite smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. The weight of their well-meaning words pressed against him, every “Well done, Lewis” and “You did your best” feeling like a reminder of what he hadn’t achieved. He wanted to believe them, wanted to accept their comfort, but he couldn’t shake the crushing thought that his best wasn’t enough.

All he wanted was to disappear—to retreat to the quiet of his room, lay on the bed, hug Simone until he fall asleep but before he does that he has a lot to finish today he knew the media awaited him, questions ready to dig at every mistake, every missed opportunity. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Lewis squared his shoulders and continue to walked toward the team area.

Each step felt heavier, the weight of expectation pressing down on him. His practiced smile was back in place, the one that hid the exhaustion, the frustration, the pain. He was Lewis Hamilton—the resilient, unshakable champion. That’s who they expected to see, and that’s who he would be, no matter how much it cost him. 

As he walked, his eyes caught a familiar figure—Nico Rosberg. The former teammate stood off to the side, microphone in hand, waiting to interview the three drivers who had just secured podium finishes in Monaco. Lewis’s chest tightened at the sight. He hated the way Nico looked at him, the pity so plainly visible in his eyes. It was infuriating. Nico should’ve been smiling and laughing evilly, witnessing how his team treated him now, but instead, there it was—pity. 

Lewis clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He didn’t need Nico’s pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. All he wanted was to prove, to himself and to everyone else, that he was still the fighter, still the champion they knew him to be.

“Rough one, huh?” Lewis glanced at the person walked beside him, his gaze heavy with exhaustion. The Finnish driver was smiling—not mockingly, but with a quiet, understanding warmth.