Thanks to Norris

part 84- no games

One Week Before the Final Race – England

The sky over England was grey, low-hanging clouds stretched out like a sigh. The kind of weather that always made you feel a little smaller, a little more honest.

You'd landed the night before, trying to tell yourself it was just to rest, to reset. But really, it was because everything was getting too loud — the press, the pressure, the quiet ache every time you looked at your phone and didn't message him.

Now, you were sitting cross-legged on the worn couch in Josi's flat, a mug of tea in your hands, untouched and long gone cold.

You didn't mean to cry.
But it happened anyway.

Slow at first — silent, angry tears you tried to blink away, but they just kept coming until they blurred everything out.

Josi sat down beside you without saying a word at first. Just slipped the mug from your hands and set it on the coffee table. Then she tucked her knees under her and waited.

You finally spoke, voice barely holding together.
"I don't know how to do this."

Josi looked at you carefully. "Do what?"

"Finish it," you said. "I either win and... and I lose him. Or he wins and I pretend it doesn't wreck me. Like we used to do when we were kids. Like I'm made of stone."

She didn't argue. Didn't tell you it wasn't that simple — because it was. It was exactly that simple, and that complicated.

"I used to think that if I made it here," you said, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, "if I actually had a shot at the title, I'd feel unstoppable. But all I feel is... scared. Not of the driving. Not even of losing the championship. Just... of what comes after."

Josi reached out and took your hand. Her grip was firm. Warm. Real.

"Okay," she said. "Let's break this down."

You gave a weak laugh. "You're going full coach mode, aren't you."

"You bet I am," she said. "You're one race away from a world championship. And yeah, maybe it ends messy, maybe it hurts. But I'll tell you what you don't get to do — you don't get to fall apart before it happens."

You looked at her, watery smile starting to break through.

"You're allowed to cry," she added. "Hell, cry now, get it out. But next weekend? You show up. You drive like hell. You remember who you are."

You exhaled, shaky but steadier. "What if he wins?"

Josi shrugged. "Then he wins. And you're allowed to be hurt. But you don't disappear into it. You don't fold."

You nodded slowly, eyes finding a fixed point on the wall. "And if I win?"

She smiled, soft but fierce. "Then you raise that trophy, and you let yourself have it. No shame. No guilt. If it creates tension, if he pulls away — that's his choice. Not your burden."

You didn't say anything for a while.

Then, voice small but honest:
"I miss him."

"I know," she said gently. "But right now, you don't need to chase him. You need to beat him. Just once more. Then you can figure out the rest."

Later, after Josi left you with a fresh mug of tea and some old race footage playing on the TV, you stared at the screen, your younger self in a kart flickering in and out of the frame — Lando just a few lengths behind you.