Thanks to Norris

part 67- qualy

Qualifying started under the bright Dutch sun, the air buzzing with anticipation and the scent of burnt rubber. Max was on another level today—confident, flawless. Every lap he did was like clockwork, smooth and precise, and it was clear no one was going to challenge his dominance this weekend. His connection with the track was undeniable, like he was meant to be here.

For the rest of us, it was a high-stakes chess game, especially between Lando and me. We both knew how crucial this session was—not just for the race, but for our fragile relationship. Every lap was more than just speed; it was a battle for respect, pride, and maybe even a bit of closure.

Q1: I felt composed, dialing in clean laps without pushing too hard. The track felt just right under the tires. Lando was close behind, pushing the limits but steady. There was a quiet tension as we waited for the times to settle. Both of us comfortably made it through, but I caught the faintest flicker of competitiveness in his eyes as he glanced over.

Q2: This was where the pressure ramped up. The fight for the top ten was brutal. Lando and I both committed to aggressive lines, clipping apexes tighter than usual and brushing track limits more than once. My heart pounded as I glanced at the timing screens—every hundredth of a second mattered. I could feel Lando's presence, just a few tenths away, fueling my focus. He wasn't just a competitor on the track; he was the ghost of everything unsaid between us. The gap between us shrank as the session went on, each of us answering the other's lap times with determination.

Q3: The final showdown. Max's first flying lap set the bar impossibly high, a perfect 1:10.2 that echoed in the pits. Lando and I knew the fight was for P4 and P5. My pulse quickened as I went out for my first attempt. The car felt alive beneath me, every turn a blend of risk and precision. I pushed hard, crossing the finish line to see my time flash up—P4, just barely ahead.

Then Lando took his turn. He pushed aggressively, shaving off tenths everywhere, his lap a masterpiece of speed and control. But when the times settled, I was still ahead by a mere 0.03 seconds.

Max was beaming, soaking up the cheers from the crowd as he celebrated his pole position—well deserved after that flawless qualifying. Checo stood beside him, calm and collected with his P2, a tough weekend shaping up for the rest of us.

I made my way over to Max first, shaking his hand firmly. "Congrats, Max. That was impressive out there," I said, meaning it. He grinned back, eyes shining with confidence.

Next was Checo. I nodded at him, offering my congratulations too. "Great pace this weekend. Looking forward to the race."

Then I turned to Lando. The tension between us was thick, but I knew I had to be professional. I reached out for a handshake—no words, just akward smiles, just a simple gesture of respect. He took my hand, his grip firm but brief. Our eyes met for a second, unsaid feelings swirling beneath the surface.

That handshake said everything and nothing at once.

It was enough.

I turned away from Lando, the weight of the weekend settling heavy on my shoulders. Tomorrow was the real test—out on the track, no smiles, no half-hearted handshakes, just pure racing.

I needed to be ready. Focused. Every lap, every corner would count.

The battle wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

On Sunday morning, the team gathered in the motorhome, deep in strategy talks. Lewis and I were going through every detail, debating tire choices, fuel loads, and how to approach the first few corners. The air was thick with tension and anticipation — everyone knew this race would be a battle.

As the time for the drivers' parade approached, I noticed Lando was already waiting by the entrance, alone, looking calm but distant. My heart thumped, and I hesitated for a moment before walking over.

"Hey," I said softly, standing beside him.

He looked at me, eyes sharp but unreadable. "Hey," he replied, voice low.

There was an awkward pause. I struggled to find something to say that wouldn't sound rehearsed or fake. "So... ready for the race?"

He shrugged slightly, "As ready as I'll ever be."

Before things got too quiet or awkward, Carlos quickly stepped in. He grinned, like he was the peacekeeper everyone needed. "You two should lighten up. It's just a parade, not a contract negotiation."

Lando cracked a small smile, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Carlos leaned closer, "Remember in Monaco? You guys had some real laughs. Just be yourselves."

I glanced at Lando, who gave a faint nod. "Yeah, Monaco was different," he said.

"I'm hoping this weekend can be too," I replied quietly.

The cameras swirled around us, flashing incessantly. We kept our voices low, careful not to let the tension spill over, but the world was watching every little interaction.

Carlos laughed softly, "You both know what's at stake. Just don't let the cameras make you forget that."

I caught a quick glance from Lando — no longer cold, but not quite warm either. Maybe this was a start. Or maybe it was just the calm before the storm.

But for those few moments, as we stood side by side, trying to be normal, it felt like the racing world could wait just a little longer.

As the drivers parade rolled on, the crowd's energy buzzed around us, engines humming in the background and fans cheering from every corner. I stepped away from Lando for a moment, spotting Charles approaching with his usual easy smile.

"Hey," I greeted him, falling into step beside him.

"Hey," Charles replied, eyes glinting with mischief. "You look ready for the race."

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "As ready as I can be. You?"

"Always ready," he said with a wink. "Besides, this track suits you."

We shared a brief laugh before Mick Schumacher appeared, jogging over with a grin. "You two planning some secret strategy or just catching up?"

"Maybe a little of both," I said, glancing back toward Lando.

Mick smiled knowingly. "Good. We need more of that on the grid."

Just then George Russell came over, joining the little group. "Hey, don't leave me out. I need to hear the gossip too."

I chuckled, grateful for the distraction from the tension. "Just talking race tactics—and maybe trying not to look totally fake standing next to Lando."

George raised an eyebrow. "That sounds exhausting."

We all laughed, and for a moment, the pressure lifted. The cameras kept flashing, but in that small circle, surrounded by friends, it felt a little easier to breathe.

As the parade moved forward, I felt a brief sense of normalcy—something I hadn't quite felt all weekend. Maybe this race wasn't just about battling on track, but about trying to find a way back to something real off it too.