Redline | L.Norris

thirty five

From the moment Isla stepped into the paddock, she felt it.

The buzz.

The cameras.

The tension so thick it practically hung from the skywalks above the garages.

Yas Marina was always a spectacle, but this year? This year it was a battlefield, and she hadn't even zipped up her suit yet.

Journalists swarmed like vultures. The media pen had doubled in size, extra lighting rigs and cables snaking across the ground. Every other word floating on the air was championship, teammates, rivalry, rookie, Red Bull.

And always her name next to his.

Isla Räikkönen vs. Max Verstappen. Red Bull's miracle rookie vs. their reigning lion.

She adjusted her sunglasses and tried not to roll her eyes when one reporter actually hissed "Gladiators" under his breath.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered.

Max, already surrounded by three microphones, gave her a look over the tops of heads as she arrived. His brow lifted, half warning, half amusement.

"Good luck," he mouthed.

"Coward," she mouthed back.

Their PR handler, clapped her hands once. "Alright, let's go. No punching anyone."

"Yet," Isla said under her breath, stepping into the chaos.

"ISLA! Over here! Isla, can we get a word?"

"How does it feel, being the rookie who may have just upended Verstappen's legacy?"

"Do you think Max feels threatened by your rise?"

"Would a Constructors' title mean less if you don't beat him in the points?"

Isla barely had time to nod before the next question came flying in. She held her smile, all cool professionalism on the surface.

"My focus is on the team. On Red Bull. We've had an incredible season, and we're here to finish strong."

"You're only a few points behind him."

"So I've heard." She tried not to roll her eyes at the statement.

"Are you saying you don't want to beat him?"

She turned, ever so slightly, to the camera. "I want to win. I always do. But I'm not here for a story, I'm here to drive."

A Few Stalls Down, Max was getting bombarded just the same.

"Max, is this your most heated title battle yet?"

"She's young, aggressive, confident. Is that hard to deal with?"

"Has the team shown favoritism this season?"

Max, ever the composed flame, barely twitched.

"Isla's had a great year. Fast, consistent. It's good for the team."

"So, you're not worried?"

He tilted his head. "If I was worried, I wouldn't say it here, would I?"

Isla slumped against a temporary wall between interviews, water bottle pressed to her cheek. Lando appeared like a mirage, sunglasses crooked, hair wild, laughing.

"They're going to run out of gladiator metaphors by Friday."

"I hope they run out of microphones first," Isla muttered.