Until my Last Breath

68

Riyahd, Saudi Arabia

I should be asleep right now.

Instead, I'm dragging my carry-on through King Khalid International Airport, hoodie pulled over my head like some kind of weak disguise. The adrenaline that got me here is finally wearing off, and I can feel the weight of the past 48 hours settle into my spine.

I've never been to Saudi Arabia aside for race week. Never had a reason. But Pablo does. He's playing in one of the biggest matches of the season-El Clásico, but Supercopa final. Barcelona versus Real Madrid, on neutral ground in Riyadh. It's been hyped for weeks, the kind of game kids grow up dreaming about. The kind of game people measure careers by.

And he's starting.

I just wish I hadn't waited so long to realize I needed to be here.

Austria was a whirlwind. The post-race runs kept me in the Red Bull garage an extra day, pushing the limits of the new car, getting re-acclimated to the pace I'd missed like oxygen. The race itself had gone better than anyone could've hoped-Max took the win, Checo climbed back onto the podium, and the garage exploded in joy like a shaken can of Red Bull.

Everyone was smiling. Everyone but me.

Because Charles finished sixth.

I watched it happen from pit wall with Christian beside me, fingers clenched together, willing the timing screens to lie. I sent him a message after, something soft and congratulatory:

-P6 is still solid. Great driving, Cha.

But the read receipt never came.

And then the call from Pablo came that night. He was a storm.

Spinning. Panicked. Stressed in a way that had nothing to do with me-at least, not at first.

He told me he was drowning in pressure. That it wasn't just a final-it was a final against Madrid. That anything less than excellence would be crucified by press, fans, even teammates. He hated that he was stressed but couldn't stop the anxiety from taking up space in his chest. I sat on the hotel bed and listened, heart aching with every word, whispering the kind of comfort I'm usually too stubborn to accept for myself.

You've bled for that badge. You're ready. You always are.

I thought it would help. I thought it would calm him down. But when he asked me to be there-in the stands, with his family, where he could see me-I hesitated.

I told him I couldn't. That it was too risky. Too many photographers. Too many headlines I'm not ready to relive. And I watched the disappointment sink into his silence like ink on paper.

He didn't yell.

But the way his voice cracked when he said, "If it were you racing,if it were you needing me, I'd already be there without thinking ."

That was worse.

I don't even remember packing. I just remember the silence that followed after he hung up. The cold weight of it. The hollow space it left in my chest.

I booked the flight without thinking twice.

And now I'm here.

Still in my team hoodie, Red Bull stitched into the sleeve like some kind of stamp I can't scrub off even if I wanted to. My thighs are sore from yesterday's runs with the car, and my heart's sore from everything else.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

It's a reply from his sister.

-Of course! We're already inside. You're on the list. Gate 10, suite 4A. I won't say anything. But he'll be happy.