Thanks to Norris

part 44- crash

Sunday Morning

The sun was blazing overhead, the grandstands packed, the air electric. It was race day — the moment the entire weekend had been building toward.

All the drivers gathered near the classic cars lined up for the Drivers' Parade, waving to fans, chatting casually, trying to keep nerves in check. Everyone had their rituals, their people, their small moments of calm before the storm.

You were standing with Charles Leclerc, both of you leaning against the side of a vintage convertible, speaking casually in French.

You (in French): "Alors, t'as dormi un peu ? Ou tu pensais encore à ton freinage hier soir ?"
(So, did you sleep at all? Or were you still thinking about your braking last night?)

Charles laughed, brushing his hair back under his cap.

Charles: "J'y ai pensé, ouais. Mais t'as vu ta ligne ? Tu volais, mon gars."
(I did, yeah. But did you see your line? You were flying, man.)

A few feet away, Carlos Sainz stood near one of the other cars, scanning the paddock. You noticed his eyes dart over your shoulder.

Carlos: "Where is he? He said he'd be here by now..."

You glanced back just in time to see Lando walking up—head down, sunglasses on, not really in the mood for small talk.

As Lando approached Carlos, you leaned slightly toward Charles and muttered under your breath, just loud enough in Spanish:

You: "Mira quién llegó tarde otra vez. Como su ritmo este fin de semana."
(Look who's late again. Just like his pace this weekend.)

Charles immediately shot you a look. Carlos turned to you too, jaw tightening.

Carlos: "Come on, man. That's a bit much."

Charles (quietly): "C'était un peu dur, non?"
(That was a bit harsh, no?)

You blinked, the moment hitting you a beat too late. You hadn't expected them to call you out. You hadn't expected Lando to hear it.

But he had. He didn't say anything—just looked at you. Cold. Silent. Hurt? Maybe. Or maybe just... tired of it.

Feeling the weight in the air shift, you stepped forward a little, voice low but audible.

You: "Sorry."

He didn't say anything. Didn't nod. Just turned to Carlos and started talking about tire strategy, completely skipping over you like you weren't even there.

You stood there for a second, awkward silence clinging to your shoulders, before Charles patted your back lightly.

Charles: "You said it. That's something."

But it didn't feel like something. It felt like too little, too late.

The vintage cars started up, and you all climbed in for the parade lap, waving to the fans—each driver lost in their own thoughts, engines rumbling beneath the cheers.

You sat back, hands resting on the edge of the car, eyes scanning the crowd but mind somewhere else.

Today was about racing. But the cracks between teammates were starting to show—and you weren't sure if they were still small enough to seal.