Breaking the Grid

Program

The second the car rolls into parc fermé, I slam the engine off and sit back, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and euphoria. My chest rises and falls under the weight of my harness, sweat dripping under every layer of fireproof. I hear the voice in my ear congratulate me, but all I can do is let my head fall back, eyes to the sky, mouth open, laughing.

P1.
My first of the season.
Only the second race.
I f*cking did it.

I rip off the wheel, unstrap, and climb out of the cockpit like my limbs are barely attached to me anymore. The crowd is already going wild. I wave toward the sea of fans in orange and navy and everything in between. The tricolor flag is waving in the background — not mine, technically, but the anthem will be, and that's enough for now.

I tug off my helmet, my balaclava soaked and clinging to my face as I peel it back. My hair's stuck to the back of my neck, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except this moment.

When I finally get both feet on the ground, I take the bottle of water handed to me and instead of pouring it on my face like I usually do, I pop the top and take a long, cold sip. It runs down my neck, and I welcome the chill.

Norris walks over with his usual crooked grin and lightly knocks his shoulder against mine.

"About time," he says, smirking. "Thought you were gonna let me have the season."

I snort and offer my knuckles. "Just needed a warm-up. It's cute you thought it was permanent."

He laughs, tired and bright-eyed. "See you in the cool room."

"Try not to cry," I add over my shoulder.

George Russell's already inside when we walk in, sitting on the bench with a bottle of water and that "I did my best" face he wears whenever he finishes behind both of us. I lean against the wall, pressing the cold water bottle to the back of my neck, letting the feeling soak in.

This room always feels like a time warp — five minutes between war and worship. Your body still buzzing with adrenaline, your mind catching up to the reality: you were fastest. Today, you were the best.

Not just fastest on the grid. Fastest in the world.

When we're called out, I let the roar of the crowd hit me like a wave.

The air smells like rubber and fireworks.

My name is flashing next to the number 1.

I walk up the steps to the top, the center, and look out — out at the grandstands, the flags, the flashes. My face splits into the biggest grin I've worn all year. I pump my fist into the air once as the French anthem begins to play, standing straight, chin lifted, but my hand over my heart.

I think of Kyra.
Of the last few days.
Of her face in my bed, her warmth against my chest, her lips whispering I love you.

This win is mine. But in a way, it's also hers.

The anthem ends, and the cameras are already closing in as we're handed the bottles.

I don't wait for the cue.

I pop the cork and spray — head tilted back, laughter spilling out of me as champagne flies in all directions. Lando yells something and spins away, trying to dodge me, and I chase him like we're kids at a party. George gets caught in the crossfire and yells "Blair!" through a smile he can't hold back.

I wipe my face, sticky and giddy, and lift the bottle in a cheers to the crowd.

Then to myself.

Then quietly, in my heart, to her.