Breaking the Grid

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The screen in front of me displayed Lando's smooth lines on track, his papaya car gliding through corners with precision. My eyes followed the telemetry, the tiny details that told the story of every lap, but then the feed switched, and suddenly, my own face stared back at me.

I caught the camera, offering a practiced smile, tugging my cap lower over my brow. My hand rose to cover my mouth, a subtle shield from the lip-readers and whispers that always circled the paddock. My conversation with Zak never faltered, his voice steady and calm as he discussed the weekend's plans. His presence always felt like a tether to reality, grounding me when my mind wandered.

"I was supposed to see Andrea," I said under my breath, my eyes not leaving the screen. "He should be here soon."

And as if summoned by my words, I saw him. Andrea appeared at the edge of the garage, weaving through the maze of engineers and equipment. His face lit up when he saw us, the kind of warm, genuine smile that always made people feel seen.

"There he is," Zak said, his voice lifting, and he gave Andrea a small wave.

Andrea approached, his hand landing on my back, a friendly squeeze that felt oddly heavy. "How are things, boys?" he asked, his voice a melody of professionalism and familiarity.

"Good," Zak answered first, launching into an update on the car and the testing data. I nodded along, but my focus drifted. I studied Andrea's face, searching for something. Anything.

We stood there for what felt like forever, ten minutes of forced smiles and casual talk, and the weight of my thoughts grew unbearable. My fingers dug into my own elbows, arms crossed tight against my chest.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "Andrea," I interrupted, my voice cutting through Zak's latest update. "Can we talk? Alone?"

Andrea's expression didn't falter. He simply nodded, the crease at the corner of his eyes softening with something that felt too much like pity. "Of course," he said, his voice gentle. "Come."

He led the way through the winding corridors of the paddock. I followed, my feet moving on instinct, my pulse thrumming in my ears. People moved around us, the hum of engines, the murmur of voices, but it all felt distant.

We reached his office, and Andrea held the door open for me, ushering me inside. I stepped into the small space, the air thick and stale. The walls were lined with schedules, strategy notes, a framed photo of a podium finish—one of ours from last season.

He closed the door behind us, and before he could even take a seat, the question tumbled out of me, sharp and unpolished. "Are you planning to keep Oscar in my place?"

Andrea froze, his hand still resting on the back of the chair. His brows knit together, genuine confusion shading his expression. "Blair—"

"Just tell me," I cut him off, the tremor in my voice betraying the calm façade I had tried to maintain.

He let out a slow breath, finally sitting down and gesturing for me to do the same. "I've always liked your direct approach," he said, his voice soft but measured.

I crossed my arms tighter, pressing my back against the cold plastic of the chair. He wasn't answering me. Not really.

"Are you talking about the video?"

I nodded, my lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah."

He nodded back, slow and deliberate, his expression caught somewhere between understanding and exhaustion. "Listen, Blair," he began, his voice slipping into that managerial rhythm, both comforting and unnerving. "You know how F1 works. No one can promise you a seat—not me, not Zak, not even the board. This sport is ruthless, and the market is always moving. Oscar is young, he's talented... He has good stats."