Chapter Two #3
I logged the sensation somewhere deep, where it couldn’t slip away when I needed it most. The lap connected cleanly, one corner folding into the next.
And then the second. Each turn was deliberate, mechanical at first, then instinctual.
By the time I reached the S-turn again, something inside me had steadied.
We repeated this over and over again, with each lap feeling better than the last.
“Great middle section, Henri. Exactly what I wanted to see. Box this lap.”
“But we’re not top—”
“Box,” he repeated, gentle but firm. Reluctantly, I complied, swinging the car into the pit entry.
Michael was waiting when I rolled to a stop, that near-grin he never quite committed to tugging at his mouth.
“That’s the template,” he said simply.
I nodded in appreciation, though it felt half-hearted. Fourth fastest. Which wasn’t bad, considering how I’d started the session. But it wasn’t good either. Not for what Hermes expected of me.
Michael looked quietly pleased, but I couldn’t bring myself to match his optimism. Someone handed me a towel, and I wiped the rain from the back of my neck before following Michael toward the debriefing room.
I collapsed into my seat while Michael set a bottle of water in front of me, his tablet glowing beside him. The walls of the briefing room seemed to inch closer with each passing second.
His eyes met mine, searching. “What happened out there?”
This was one of the reasons I’d always liked Michael. No bullshit. No empty praise or hollow reassurances designed to protect fragile egos. Just direct, honest communication. But right now, that directness felt like standing naked under a bright light, every flaw and weakness exposed.
“Nothing.” I reached for the water, taking a sip to buy myself time. “Just a bad run.”
“That’s not an answer.” His tone stayed even, but I suspected the patience underneath it was wearing thin. “Where did the anxiety start? First corner? The S-turn? The rain?”
“There was no anxiety.”
Michael’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
“The car just wasn’t working with me today.” I stared at the water bottle, unable to meet his eye. He was watching me, waiting for me to say something that wasn’t a deflection, but I didn’t have anything to give him.
Miami flashed through my mind. The car flipping, spinning through the air for just a few seconds before slamming into the barrier.
It’d only lasted a moment, but it’d felt like an eternity.
I could still feel it, that sickening helplessness from the lack of control.
In the moment, all you can do is wait and hope.
Hope the car holds itself together. Hope the barriers absorb the impact.
Hope you walk away with nothing more than bruises and wounded pride.
This wasn’t new territory for me. That paralyzing fear had found me once before, back in my junior F2 days. But I didn’t want to think back to that.
“Look, I recovered,” I said finally. “The rest of the session was fine.”
“Fine isn’t the standard.” Michael set the tablet down, folding his hands on the table. “This isn’t about one bad corner. It’s about how you’ve driven this whole weekend, and on the sim, since the crash.”
“I’m driving the same way I always have.”
Michael gave me a disbelieving snort. “You’re second-guessing yourself. Braking early. Overcorrecting. That’s not you, Henri.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck in my throat.
I took a long drink of water, buying myself whatever time I could find.
But this was Michael. He’d seen me in every condition: rain, dry, tired, injured, angry, happy.
He knew my driving as well as I did, probably better.
There would be no lying to Michael.
“What do you want me to say?” The question was loaded with defensiveness, but Michael’s expression only softened. “That I’m scared? That I flinched? That driving through that turn felt like—”
I stopped myself, turning my eyes back toward the empty TV screen. Michael studied me for a long moment, the only sound between us the frantic tapping of my fingers.
He thinks I’m broken. He thinks I can’t do this anymore. He’s going to tell Verhoeven, and they’re going to bench me, or worse. I tried to shove back all the self-doubt that was crowding my mind.
“Let’s take a break. This afternoon is FP2,” Michael continued, as if sensing he was about to hit the mental wall I’d put up. “It’s a fresh start. But Henri, I just have to say, if you’re dealing with any lingering effects from Miami, there’s help we can get you.”
“I said I’m fine!” The words exploded out of me. My neck burned hot—the kind of heat that wasn’t from effort but embarrassment.
Michael’s offer was genuine, well-meaning. I could see that in his expression; hear it in his voice. But all I felt was a surge of hot, defensive anger mixed with shame.
No. I’d been down this road before. No one wanted a weak driver. Formula 1 had come a long way in discussing anxiety and mental health, but were they ready for a driver who couldn’t do something as simple as drive in the rain?
What did Michael want me to admit? That something in me had gone hollow at the worst moment? That I’d felt something I hadn’t in years?
There wasn’t a clean sentence for any of that. And even if there were, I wasn’t about to hand it to him.