Redline | L.Norris

thirty one

Night had fully taken hold over the desert, but the heat refused to leave. The Lusail track shimmered under the lights, and though the asphalt was cooler than earlier, the humidity clung to Isla like a second skin.

She was halfway through a long run, medium compound, higher fuel, simulating race pace. Her visor was already streaked with sweat. The drink system in the car wasn't keeping up, and she could feel a subtle ringing in her ears as she took the long sweep of Turn 12.

"Box box, Isla. We've got the data. Let's bring it in."

She didn't respond right away, her mouth was dry, her body pulsing uncomfortably with heat. But she nodded, managing a clipped, "Understood."

As she rolled back into the garage, she kept her helmet on a moment longer than normal. The world felt slightly off-center. Her hands tingled. She told herself it was just adrenaline.

One of the mechanics came over and cracked her visor. The rush of cool air helped, but only barely. She exhaled sharply.

Max stood near his car, already out and speaking with Gianpiero. He glanced toward her, then did a double take. Isla had peeled her helmet off now, and she was clearly flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused.

He stepped over without thinking.

"You good?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest, his tone casual but edged with something firmer.

Isla didn't answer right away. She blinked a few times like she couldn't quite lock into the present. A crew member handed her a cold bottle of water, and she took a few sips, then wiped her mouth with the back of her glove.

"I'm fine," she said, though her voice was hoarse. "Just hot."

Max narrowed his eyes. "Everyone's hot. But you're cooked."

"I said I'm fine."

He crouched beside the car now, not buying it. His voice lowered, more private. "You're pushing too hard. I get it. You want to shut everyone up. But this isn't the way to do it."

"I'm not pulling out of a session," she snapped quietly.

"I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you not to faint in the car."

She looked at him then, really looked. There wasn't sarcasm in his tone this time. No edge of rivalry. Just concern. Annoyed concern, sure, but genuine.

"I'm not going to faint," she said finally, softer.

Max stood again, looking down at her. "Good. Because if I have to slow down to drag your overheated ass back to the paddock, I'm going to be pissed."

That made her smile. A little one, but it cracked through the fog she was in.

"Noted," she murmured.

Max gave her a curt nod and turned to walk away. But just before he disappeared behind the garage partition, he paused and glanced back.

"Drink more water," he called over his shoulder.

"Bossy," she muttered, but took another swig from the bottle anyway.

Christian had watched the exchange from the other side of the pit wall. He said nothing, but his eyes followed Isla as she finally climbed out of the car, shaky on her legs but still upright.

FP2 was done. The car had the data. But so did the team.

And they all saw the same thing, Isla Räikkönen wasn't just battling Max or her critics out there.

She was battling herself, too.

***