Thanks to Norris

part 45- post race

You stood just off the paddock, the backdrop of sponsor logos towering behind you, the media pen alive with voices, microphones, and the flash of cameras. You still hadn't changed out of your suit — gloves off, helmet tucked under your arm, but race sweat clinging to your skin like static. Your hands, though steadier than before, were still cool.

The journalists came quickly — the usual suspects. You were used to the rhythm: one mic, one question, half a second to breathe.

Sky Sports.
Journalist: "P5 today, strong recovery after the red flag restart. Talk us through it."

You gave the mechanical answer. The lap numbers. The overtakes. The tire wear. You mentioned Lewis's win. Daniel's podium. Praised the team for a clean stop.

You smiled. Easy. Controlled. But behind your teeth, the tightness hadn't gone away.

DAZN.
Journalist: "We saw the moment with Lando earlier this weekend. You had words before the race, and then... the crash. You looked shaken after. Do you feel responsible?"

A pause.

Your eyes flicked downward for a split second, then back up.

You:
"Do I feel bad? Yes. Of course.
He's a rival, but also a person. No one wants to see anyone in the wall.
But responsibility for the crash? No — I wasn't involved. That's for the stewards, the data.
Emotionally? I've been carrying it. All day. Still am.
I hope he's okay. That's all I've really been thinking about."

It was the most you could give — the truth, or at least as much of it as you could say out loud without unraveling in front of the microphones.

They nodded. Jotted notes. Moved on.

But inside, your mind stayed fixed on that slow-motion image — Turn 8, that puff of dust, the sickening jolt of a car going sideways at speed. His car.

Later: In the McLaren Motorhome

You didn't mean to end up there. You'd been wandering post-debrief, your mind foggy, walking with no destination. But suddenly, there it was — the glass-and-orange facade, the McLaren hospitality unit, quiet now in the twilight.

Part of you wanted to turn back.

But your feet didn't.

You stepped in.

The lounge was mostly empty. No PRs. No engineers. Just a few scattered cups and team shirts, jackets draped over chairs. The hush after the storm.

And then — him.

Lando.

He was sitting at the far end, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, ice pack resting loosely on his knee, phone in one hand, unread messages lighting up the screen.

He looked up. Saw you. His face didn't change.

You stepped forward slowly. Not all the way — just enough to make sure you weren't a shadow. Just enough that he could look at you, if he wanted to.

You (quiet):
"Hey. They said you're okay. I just... wanted to see that for myself."

No response.

You:
"I know it doesn't mean much after everything but—what I said this morning... that dig about your pace... that wasn't fair. Not today. Maybe not ever. I was frustrated, and I aimed it at you. I'm sorry."

Lando stared at you for a moment longer. Then looked away. Then back.

Lando:
"Do you know what I remember most? Not the crash. Not the radio.
It's you — standing there with Charles, smirking. Like I was a joke."