Redline | L.Norris

thirty two

The sun was already unforgiving by the time Isla stepped out of the motorhome, helmet in hand and race suit tied around her waist. The heat hit her like a wall, thick and relentless, pressing into her lungs with every breath.

She wasn't sure if it was her nerves or the humidity that made her palms sweat. Probably both.

She adjusted her sunglasses and started toward the Red Bull garage, head down, focused until she noticed a figure walking slowly beside her.

Max.

"Morning," he said without looking at her.

"You've been waiting out here?"

He shrugged. "Didn't feel like sitting inside."

She gave him a sideways glance. "You hate the heat more than I do."

"I hate watching you nearly pass out in FP2 more," he replied, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

Isla paused mid-step.

He stopped too, finally looking at her. "You didn't notice, but I did. Your hands were shaking when you got out of the car yesterday. You didn't tell the physio."

"I was fine."

"You were pale," he countered. "And slow getting out of the seat."

Isla pressed her lips together, gaze drifting toward the garage doors where mechanics were starting to buzz like bees.

"Max, I'm not fragile."

"I didn't say you were," he said quickly. Then added, quieter, "But you're stubborn."

There was something like a truce between them in that moment, neither ready to apologize for past words, but not willing to throw more punches either.

"You're hovering," Isla muttered, cracking a small grin.

"You're overheating," Max shot back, but it came with the ghost of a smile, too.

He handed her a chilled bottle of water, already unscrewed. She took it.

"Try to stay in the shade until Q1. They've bumped the tire pressures again, it's going to be slippery through Turns 3 and 6."

"Noted, Team Dad," she teased.

Max rolled his eyes. "If you bin it, Christian will make me do media."

That earned a real laugh from her, a short one, but it settled something in her chest.

The two of them reached the garage. She stopped just before the threshold, turning back slightly.

"Thanks, Max."

He gave a half-nod, already tugging on his balaclava. "Don't make me come over the radio to yell at you if you start fading."

***

Q1

The session had barely started and Isla was already soaked with sweat beneath her race suit. The track temps were hovering just under 50°C, and her visor fogged every time she took a shallow breath.

But the car felt better today. Predictable, agile. Her engineers were calm in her ear, and she settled into a rhythm by her third lap.

Still, the heat made her slower to react on corner exits. She had to fight for every tenth.

Max was fastest in Q1, Isla P6.

Q2

Isla clipped the apex of Turn 7 harder than she meant to. An echo of Max's critique from earlier in the week. She overcorrected on exit and lost a couple tenths, cursing into her helmet.