Redline | L.Norris

twenty five

By the time Isla stepped onto the pit lane, the storm clouds over Zandvoort had started to pull back, giving way to sharp afternoon sunlight that gleamed off the garages and the cars like stage lights before a performance.

Everything was louder than usual, the chatter, the engines, the clicking cameras. She could feel it all vibrating beneath her skin.

But then she saw her car.

Her name printed on the halo. Her helmet already resting on the nose cone. Her race engineer giving her a nod from across the garage.

It grounded her. Centered her.

Kimi didn't follow her into the team zone. He peeled off and stood just outside the Red Bull bay with arms folded, sunglasses still on, unmoved by the bustle around him. He was easy to miss if you didn't know to look, but every mechanic, every journalist, every camera operator saw him. The Iceman. Back at a race weekend. Watching.

Someone from Sky Sports muttered into a hot mic, "If Kimi's here, something's up."

But Isla ignored the ripple of murmurs his presence caused. She stepped into her car like it was muscle memory. Because it was.

Straps. Gloves. Helmet. Engine fire-up. And then they released her.

She was first out for Q1.

The track was green and noisy as engines began to roar through the banking turns, but Isla found her rhythm quickly. Clean sector after clean sector. Her lines were sharp, her braking precise. The car felt glued to the circuit.

By the time Q2 rolled around, she'd gone fastest overall. Paddock whispers started to shift, less about scandal, more about performance.

By Q3, it wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a roar.

Her final flying lap was a masterpiece. The timing screens lit purple in all three sectors. Her Red Bull danced through the final corner and over the line, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

Pole position. Again.

Max had narrowly missed out on a clean lap in the final minute, sliding to P4. But Lando? He'd put his McLaren on the front row, just two-tenths behind Isla.

Cheers erupted from both garages. Her race engineer shouted into her earpiece, "You've done it! Pole position, Isla!"

She let out a long, shaking breath inside her helmet. Then smiled.

When she stepped out of the car in parc fermé, helmet off and hair stuck to her neck, the media flashes exploded like fireworks.

She raised both arms slightly, not in triumph, but in acknowledgment. Of everything. Of the noise, the chaos, the fear and her choice to push through it.

Lando was already there, grinning as he pulled off his own helmet. "Damn," he said as she approached. "Guess I've got some work to do tomorrow."

And then a little quieter he pulled her into a quick hug, "That was beautiful driving, darling."

Charles completed the trio at P3 and gave her a side hug, congratulating her.

The three of them lined up for post-qualifying interviews. And when it was Isla's turn, the questions started immediately, not just about her lap, but everything else.

"Pole position today, Isla and under enormous pressure. How are you staying focused?"

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the Red Bull garage.

Her dad was still there, just behind the crowd of photographers. Watching. Waiting.

She took a breath.