Redline | L.Norris

thirty

The flight to Qatar was long but quiet.

Isla had taken the window seat, hoodie pulled up and headphones in, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind churned through replayed overtakes, tire strategies, and radio messages from the last race like they were stuck on a loop.

She'd beaten Max.

Not for the win, but in the way that mattered, outdriving him on his strategy, proving she wasn't just a rookie having a lucky season. The championship was still within reach, and the team had finally secured the Constructors' title. But now, everything that remained was about her.

And Max.

The flight crew dimmed the lights as they cruised over the Persian Gulf. Isla opened her laptop and pulled up the latest data packet from Red Bull. Sector times, track temperatures, tire compound projections, all tuned for Lusail. The circuit was brutal under the lights with high-speed corners, relentless braking zones, and desert heat that punished the tires mercilessly.

Lando leaned over from his seat next to her, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. "You're working again?"

She gave a half-smile without looking away from the screen. "You say that like I ever stopped."

"Remind me why I keep dating someone who studies telemetry on a red-eye flight?"

She nudged him with her elbow. "Because I bring dessert to your hotel room."

"Fair."

They landed just after sunset. Doha glittered in the distance, but Isla barely noticed. Her focus was already locked on the circuit, what it would feel like under the lights, how much grip they'd have at the end of FP2, where Max would try to gain on her.

***

The garage was already buzzing by the time she walked in the next morning. The desert air was warm and dry, and sand drifted in faint wisps across the outer service roads. Inside, the mechanics ran through setup prep. Isla took her seat for the sim session, strapping in as the crew chief rattled off system checks.

No cameras. No crowd. Just her and the hum of tech and adrenaline. It steadied her.

Later, in the team meeting room, she sat across from Max. They barely acknowledged each other. No sharp words, no jabs, just a heavy kind of silence.

Christian entered, dropping a stack of printouts onto the center of the table. "All right, team. Qatar's no joke. Tire degradation here is brutal, even with the repave. We need to be on top of cooling and timing every run just right."

He glanced between Isla and Max. "Constructors is done. That's the headline. Now it's about the Drivers' Championship."

Isla didn't blink.

Max leaned back in his chair with that infuriating calmness he always wore when the stakes got high.

Christian's voice sharpened. "Look, I know things got tense last weekend. You both want it. I get it. But this track punishes mistakes. I want clean racing. Push each other, but don't be stupid."

Neither of them said a word, but the air between them practically buzzed.

When the meeting ended, Isla lingered, pretending to reorganize her notes. Max walked past her on the way out and gave her a glance half a smirk, half a warning.

She didn't respond.

But inside, her pulse was already climbing.

Qatar wasn't going to be easy. The heat, the lights, the corners all of it would test them. But she'd come here to win. And if Max wanted a fight?