Redline | L.Norris

twenty three

Isla headed into the next leg of the season feeling renewed and supported. The weeks away from the track had been hard but healing, a much-needed reset after everything that had happened. She hadn't heard much more about Markus Steiner or the circumstances surrounding his sudden separation from Red Bull, but something in her gut told her he wouldn't go quietly. The silence surrounding his departure felt too curated, too neatly swept under the rug.

Still, she focused on what was ahead. Racing. Competing. Winning.

Having a rookie lead the Drivers' Championship was rare, nearly unheard of and the media ate it up like it was dessert after a dry spell. Isla's name was everywhere. Headlines compared her poise to that of her father in his prime. Cameras flocked to her in the paddock. Fans shouted her name. Reporters leaned in too close. It was a spotlight brighter than anything she'd experienced before.

Max and Lando both took notice. While neither said anything outright, Isla caught them exchanging glances whenever the crowding got a little too intense. Max often acted as her buffer, physically inserting himself between Isla and overeager media with his signature swagger and easy smile. Lando hovered in his own way, trailing just close enough to step in if needed. It wasn't discussed. It didn't have to be.

And yet, Isla held her own. Her steps into the paddock were measured. Her smile calm. Her interviews smooth. She looked like a champion-in-the-making.

The biggest surprise though, came from her father.

Kimi had never been a doting presence in her Formula career. He let her find her own way, pushed her toward independence, toward making decisions and learning the consequences. Usually, she got a message or two over the course of a race weekend, short, clipped words of encouragement or critique.

But since the break, since those quiet mornings in Italy and the conversation they'd finally had, something had changed.

She had already received three texts from him before even finishing media duties on Friday. One asking how the car felt during FP1, another reminding her not to overdrive into Turn 3, and a third that simply read, "Good. Proud of you. Keep it clean."

Isla didn't know what to do with that last one. So, she stared at it for a long moment in the back of the Red Bull garage, her phone held loosely in her hand, before finally smiling to herself.

Maybe the summer break was something they both needed.

Her weekend started well. P3 in first practice, P2 in the second. Max led the timesheets, but Isla was right there, keeping pace. She spent her downtime in the simulator and reviewing telemetry, keeping her mind sharp, her body calm.

Lando caught her in the Red Bull motorhome on Saturday morning, coffee mug in one hand, his hair still slightly damp from a rushed shower. "You ready to make even more headlines today?" he teased.

She raised a brow. "Pretty sure that's still you, Norris."

He bumped his shoulder lightly into hers. "Nah. I'm just the comic relief at this point. You're the headline, darling."

It was meant to be light. And it worked, for a moment. She smiled, nudged him back, and they sat together in an easy silence, watching the crew prep the garage from the large windows.

As qualifying rolled in, the tension ramped up. Isla went P2 again, just a breath behind Max. The commentators called it a Red Bull front-row lockout. The fans screamed for both of them. And through it all, Isla kept her hands steady and her gaze forward.

The attention didn't stop when she pulled into parc fermé. It was as if her presence had become magnetic. Interviewers. Fans. Photographers. They surged toward her like waves. And yet, Isla handled it all. Gracefully. Cool-headed. She even cracked a few jokes in the press pen.