Breaking the Grid

Stress

The race is on lap 39. Thirty-nine laps of adrenaline, pressure, and blood pounding in my ear. I started the weekend perfectly: pole position, engines roaring, strategy locked. Everything was aligned. I saw the trophy in my future.

And then... it slipped.

I asked for a stop. I knew it was the right moment. But the engineers delayed. "Hold station—keep position—cover Norris." The car behind me hadn't stopped yet—but I had the pace to win if I jumped at the right moment. But I pushed too long. The moment passed.

I emerged from the pits in sixth place. Two cars that hadn't stopped yet zipped past me before snapping into the service bay later. By the time I was clean, Lando was ahead, cruising with a twelve-second lead. His pace was impeccable—but so was mine. The gap from yesterday's pole was already gone.

My heart felt heavy with frustration. I was running HOT—engine redlining, beams glowing—this was my race. But the team... they trusted pace data, margin buffers. They held me out thinking they were saving me seconds. Instead, they cost them.

Norris remains P1. Russell stays ahead. I finished fourth, just off the podium.

I don't speak to anyone. I climb out of the car and go straight to the scales. Four kilograms lighter—maybe six with sweat. Good. At least I'm fit. My gloves drop to the floor.

Alicia joins me quietly. She slides a towel around my neck. We walk toward the garage together in the tunnel. Words fizz in my head—strategy, trust, how many more times before I stop hoping? Before I anger myself enough to demand change?

As I open the door to walk back to my driver room, my heart stops.

Kyra stands in the corner, coat draped over her arm — her eyes on me like she's been waiting for this moment from the moment I got home.

I turn back before I leave.

Helmet comes off. Head pulses with heat. My balaclava stuck in my sweaty ponytail pulls out chunks. My hair plastered to my head. My face heavy.

Kyra smiles. That's it. She walks to me and takes the helmet from my hands—so gently—her fingers brushing mine.

I run my fingers through her hair backwards, smoothing the curls. She watches, safe, grounded.

And then all the anger, the disappointment, the weight of strategy and wasted laps...

It disappears.

I lean in slowly and kiss her—quiet, quick, filled with every emotion I haven't yet stored words for.

Under that kiss, I remember what winning actually means.

I pull back from the kiss and press a soft hand to Kyra's cheek. "Hey... you okay?"

She nods, small and steady, the faintest glow of pride lighting her eyes. "Yeah," she whispers. "You looked good today—even if it wasn't first."

Her words—simple, true—make me smile. Despite the anger, the frustration, the wasted laps.

A team guy claps me on the shoulder: "Tough luck today, but solid drive."

I smile at him too—automatically—but the smirk is hollow. I should be proud. I should feel relief. Instead, I feel the weight of this place sinking into every muscle.

My eyes flick to the row of cameras waiting near the garage entrance—recording lights, tripods, reporters ready to capture this moment. And us.

I blow a little breath out through my lips and turn back to Kyra, giving her a playful shake of my head. Noise follows me always. But she just laughs, tilting her head as if daring the universe to try.