Breaking the Grid

Dumb but in love

The early morning sun kissed my skin as I stepped off the plane, the soft warmth of the Spanish air wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. It wasn't scorching, not yet—it was that perfect balance, a promise of heat to come. I breathed it in, the scent of salt from the distant sea mingling with the crispness of the airport tarmac.

"Gracias, María," I said over my shoulder, offering a quick smile to the flight attendant. She nodded, her own smile bright despite the early hour, and I made my way down the ramp, my duffel bag hanging lazily off my shoulder.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and I squinted as the light poured in, vibrant and golden. A taxi idled at the curb, the driver leaning against the door with a practiced ease. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he straightened, his hands adjusting the brim of his worn baseball cap.

"Blair!" he called, his accent warm and familiar. "Bienvenido! Good to see you, amigo."

I grinned, picking up my pace. "Hey, thanks. Early morning, huh?"

He laughed, opening the car door for me. "For you? Always worth it."

But then, as I moved to step inside, I heard it—a low rumble, a murmur of voices rising into the morning air. I turned, and there they were. Fans. A surprising number of them, considering it was barely 6 a.m. Some had their phones held high, screens glowing, others clutched Sharpies and merchandise, the bright orange of McLaren gear dotting the crowd like wildflowers.

"How is this even possible?" I muttered under my breath, half in disbelief, half in amusement.

The driver chuckled. "You've still got it."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips. "Alright, just a minute."

I turned fully to face them, raising a hand. The small wave sent a ripple through the crowd—soft gasps, the shuffle of feet edging closer but not too close. Respectful, at least.

"Blair! Can you sign this?" a young girl called, her voice clear and bright.

"Sure," I said, making my way over.

The next few minutes were a blur of faces, smiles, and the feel of cool plastic and warm paper against my fingertips as I signed caps, notebooks, and even a couple of phone cases. The questions came rapid-fire—how was my training going, was I back with McLaren, did I see Piastri's latest race?

I dodged the tough ones with practiced ease, keeping my answers light, my smile in place. I felt the sting of the truth behind my lips, but this wasn't the place for it. Not here, not now.

"Alright, guys," I said finally, lifting my hands. "I've gotta go. But thank you—seriously."

The driver held the door open again, and I slid into the back seat, giving the crowd a final wave as the car pulled away.

The murmurs of the fans faded into the hum of the engine, and I slumped back into the seat, exhaling slowly. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, the screen lighting up with messages from Zak and the McLaren team.

My thumb hovered over the screen, but I tucked it away. Not yet. I needed a moment, just a few minutes of peace before everything started up again.

The city stretched out before us as we left the airport behind, the buildings bathed in the soft glow of dawn. I closed my eyes, letting the gentle sway of the car and the rhythmic roll of the tires on the pavement lull me.

Spain. Sun. A fresh start.

And maybe, just maybe, a chance to find the parts of myself I'd left behind.