Thanks to Norris

part 83- last chance

Thursday – Free Practice, Las Vegas Circuit

The track was fast. Unforgiving. Glittering under the Vegas lights like it wanted to chew someone up.

And I pushed. Hard.

Every corner, every straight, every braking point — I wasn't just chasing time, I was chasing him. Lando had been two-tenths up in FP1. I closed the gap in FP2. Not because I needed to prove anything to the team — or the media — but because it was him. The one person on the grid who knew exactly what I was willing to risk to win. Because he was willing to risk just as much.

We didn't speak. We didn't even look at each other. Not in the paddock, not in the garage, not when we passed each other at 300 km/h on the back straight.

But I felt him.

That intensity. That unspoken challenge in the way he dove into Turn 7 a little too late, or how he hugged the wall through Sector 3 like he had something to prove.

By the end of FP2, we were separated by three hundredths.

Three hundredths.

The engineers were buzzing. The garage tense. Everyone could feel it: this wasn't just a title fight. This was something personal.

Later – In the Drivers' Lounge

After the debriefs and cooldowns, I peeled off my fireproofs and headed to the lounge for some kind of breath that didn't taste like adrenaline and brake dust.

That's where I found Charles, sipping something that looked suspiciously like an energy drink disguised as iced tea.

He glanced up and smiled like he hadn't just watched me lock up going into Turn 11 twenty minutes ago.

"You're driving like your life depends on it," he said casually.

I sank into the seat across from him. "Feels like it does."

Charles gave a knowing hum, stretching his legs. "So... you and Lando. Two races left. Same points. Same fire in the eyes." He took a sip. "Are you sleeping at all?"

"Barely," I admitted. "Too much to think about."

He chuckled softly. "I'd wish you luck, but I'm selfish. I want both of you to push so hard you crash out and I win."

I smirked. "Sounds about right."

A second voice chimed in — Lewis, walking in with a towel slung over his shoulders, sweat still damp on his collar.

"Don't listen to Charles. He says that every season."

Charles raised his hands in mock innocence. "One of these years, it might work."

Lewis turned to me, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You looked good out there. Controlled. Angry, but focused."

I looked up at him. "Is that a compliment?"

He shrugged. "Just an observation. But yeah, you're driving like you want it. Lando is too. Neither of you are giving an inch."

I nodded, exhaling slowly. "We've come too far to lift now."

Lewis gave me a look that cut through all the noise — the kind that came from years of knowing exactly what this pressure does to a person. "Just don't lose yourself trying to prove something. You already belong here."

There was a silence after that. A grateful one.

Then Charles piped up, voice lighter. "Also, maybe don't murder each other on Sunday? Just... as a favor."