Thorns

20

March 24th
Week Off

Lando Norris

The sun is barely up, casting a muted golden glow across the streets of Monaco as I finish the last stretch of my run. My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, but the feeling in my stomach didn't match the calm of my stride. It's familiar now. The tightness, the nausea, the constant knot in my gut that won't go away. What was new?

I slow to a walk, trying to steady my breath, but my body doesn't quite listen. The familiar burn in my legs feels like nothing compared to the way my stomach churns, twisting in torment. I feel that old, bitter taste of bile creeping up my throat again, and I try to swallow it down.

I've been here before. I know the drill. Push through. Run harder. Throw it all up.

I reach the edge of my building and stop, leaning forward with my hands on my knees, breathing deeply. The nausea doesn't go away, though. It lingers, just beneath the surface, like it's a part of me now. Like it's following me around, waiting for the right moment to hit. I force a deep breath, trying to ignore it, but the tightness in my chest is unmistakable. I've been running from this for months.

As I straighten up, I glance out across the city. Across the harbor where the yachts sit like floating monuments of wealth. I should feel at peace here. I should feel like I've got everything I could possibly want. The view, the luxury, the quiet mornings when I can finally step away from the noise of the paddock and the cameras.

But there's always something missing.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, snapping me out of the moment. I pull it out, the screen lighting up with a message from Max Fewtrell, a reminder about our Monday evening plans to distract me from the bullshit in the paddock. The bullshit in the team.

It's all part of the toil, right? But with every win, every race, the pressure builds, and it feels like I'm not even in control anymore. I'm just reacting. Just trying to keep up.

I try to shake it off, but the knot in my stomach doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. Maybe it's the pressure. Maybe it's everything weighing on me. But something about the last race, something about the way I really felt when I crossed that line, is still with me. The thrill of winning, sure. But the emptiness too. The emptiness that I can't seem to fill.

And then there's Lelia.

From the way she was there, at the club, to the way she was talking to Lance... flirting with him. Something about it sticks with me. Every time I try to push it out, it creeps back in. But I shake my head, trying to push it away. Yet, no matter how much I try to fight it, she's there, like a thorn in my side, digging at me every time I let my guard down even in the slightest.

I take another deep breath and start to jog again, trying to shake off the thoughts, the nausea, the weight of everything pressing down on me. With my circling thoughts still sitting in every inch of my brain, I knew I wasn't done running. What was one more kilometer? Or five? Or however many until the nausea truly threatened to spill?

Maybe just ten steps.

I push myself into a faster jog, trying to ignore the tightness in my stomach, but my body has a mind of its own. The second my feet hit the pavement again, the nausea rises, sharp and sudden, crawling up my throat in waves. I try to push through it, to keep going, keep moving, just shake it off. But my stomach has other plans.

Before I even have a chance to react, I veer off the path, ducking behind the building, my hands gripping my stomach. The world tilts as I stumble behind a corner, my legs suddenly unsteady beneath me.