Redline | L.Norris

thirty eight

The garage buzzed like it always did before qualifying. Headsets clicked into place, tires were shuffled into heat blankets, cables coiled and uncoiled with rhythmic precision, but today, it all felt heavier. Tighter. Like something was waiting to snap.

Isla stood beside her car, zipping up her race suit slowly, eyes trained on the data screen above her garage slot. Her name sat just behind Max's on the predicted qualifying delta. Barely two-tenths. Not much. But enough to make all the difference.

Jack stood beside her, arms folded, watching the telemetry quietly. He didn't speak at first, just let the numbers scroll. Then,

"Max's side ran slightly lower rear wing this morning. Gave him a little more top-end down the straights."

Isla glanced sideways. "We're sticking with our setup?"

Jack nodded. "You were cleaner through the middle sector in FP3. The grip you're carrying out of Turn 7's better on this config."

She smirked faintly. "That's one way to say, 'don't let Max get in your head again.'"

"I wasn't going to say it," Jack replied. "But yeah."

He tapped the screen with the back of his knuckle. "You've got a better chance than you think. Just need to put it all together. Three clean laps. No panic. No heroics."

Isla nodded, but her eyes flicked toward the other side of the garage.

Max's crew was buzzing with quiet energy, more tense than usual. They weren't talking much to anyone from her side. The invisible wall between the two Red Bull pit boxes had never felt more real.

It was understood now: one of them was going to win the Drivers' Championship this weekend.

Max or Isla.

And both crews knew it.

Jack caught her hesitation. "Don't look at them. Look at me."

She blinked and turned back toward him.

"We run our race," he said firmly. "They can do what they want. If you focus on Max, you'll miss the track under your own tires."

Isla exhaled. "You've been reading those motivational Instagram quotes again, haven't you?"

Jack cracked a smile. "Guilty."

He reached over and checked the seal on her gloves. "We're going to be aggressive with the out-laps. Track temps are climbing faster than expected. We get one shot at the clean window in Q3. If Max tries to box late, we hold our line. We're not playing their game today."

She gave a sharp nod. "Copy."

He lowered his voice, serious now. "You've earned this seat, Isla. No one gave it to you. Don't let anyone rewrite your story for you. Not now."

Her throat tightened a little, but she nodded again. "I won't."

As she turned toward her car, strapping on her helmet, she caught Max looking across the garage.

He didn't smirk. Didn't nod. Just watched her.

And Isla, for once, didn't look away.

The Red Bull garage buzzed as Isla's car rolled out into the Abu Dhabi sun, its low growl echoing off the pit walls. The halo of heat shimmered above the asphalt as the field began to take shape, the early runners clearing rubber onto the racing line.

"Track clear ahead," Jack's voice came over her radio, calm and clipped. "Next car is Stroll, ten seconds up. Let's get a clean out-lap and reset your marks. Brakes look good."