Redline | L.Norris

thirty six

The hum of the paddock was muffled by the thick glass walls of Christian Horner's office. Outside, media teams prowled with mics and cameras, Red Bull handlers flitted between sponsor tents, and FP1 loomed just over an hour away. But inside the air-conditioned silence of the office, Isla sat cross-legged on the leather couch with her cap pulled low over her eyes, half a protein bar in one hand.

Max stood beside the bookshelf, inspecting one of the old trophies Christian kept tucked on a shelf dusty, probably forgotten. He looked like someone avoiding something. Or maybe just waiting.

"Remind me again why we're hiding in here?" Isla asked, her voice low.

Max glanced at her, then back to the trophy. "Because it's the only room in the motorhome that doesn't have a camera or a PR intern lurking outside the door. And I'd rather risk Horner's wrath than be asked one more time if I think you're going to leave"

"Fair." She took another bite, chewed, then said around it, "Do you think he's going to re-sign me?"

That made him look over, properly this time. "Christian?"

She nodded, still pretending her tone was casual.

"You're leading half the metrics," Max said, like it was obvious. "You've been on the podium more times than most veterans. You survived Zandvoort, Qatar... me."

Isla snorted, but it didn't stick. Her expression slipped somewhere quieter, more uncertain.

"I know what the numbers say. I just..." she looked down at her hands, picking at the wrapper. "There are other teams who've reached out. Nothing official, but soft offers. Stuff passed through my manager. Aston Martin. Ferrari. Mercedes, though it was vague. No promises, just a conversation. About being a number one. About building a team around me."

Max blinked. "You're not going to Mercedes."

Isla gave a humorless laugh. "I haven't told Christian. I haven't told anyone, really. Because I don't want any of them."

"Then why bring it up?"

"Because I want Red Bull. But if they don't want me, I have to move on."

That last part came out thinner than she meant, like it physically hurt to say it. She didn't look up. Couldn't.

Max took a slow step away from the window, then another. "You think they don't want you?"

Isla shrugged, but her eyes were glassy with exhaustion. "I think... I've done everything I can. And it might still not be enough. Or maybe it is, but not enough for this seat. Not next to you."

Max crouched in front of her now, elbows resting on his knees. "You're wrong."

She met his eyes, reluctantly.

"You fit here," Max said. "And not just because of points or numbers or who you beat this season. Because this team works with you. Because you make it work."

Her throat tightened. "You don't think I'd be better off somewhere I'm not always in your shadow?"

Max's expression flickered. "What if I don't want you somewhere else?"

Silence stretched between them like a snapped cable.

Before either of them could speak, the door opened.

Christian stepped in, carrying a folder and a half-finished coffee. He froze when he saw them both, then slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Should I even ask?"

Max gestured toward the door. "Avoiding media."

Christian eyed them both, then sighed and took a sip of his coffee. "You know there's a perfectly good conference room downstairs that's equally off-limits to PR."