Chapter Seventeen #2
“Oh, please.” She waved Georgia off. “Look, Henri, I get that you’re a genius in a car, but out here?” She gestured around the lounge. “Out here, none of that matters. You can’t be a PR liability.”
I scratched my nails against my leg. “You done?”
Ruth took a measured breath, visibly reining in her frustration. “Fortunately, they’re going to let you redo the interview. As the documentary won’t air until after summer break, we have some time. I will prep some questions and get that redone. Understood?” Her tone left no room for negotiation.
I raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’ll do my best.”
“Lately, your best has left much to be desired.” Ruth closed her eyes as if reciting a prayer for patience.
“Now, we have your post-qualifying press conference. Henri, please, try not to dig your press hole any deeper between now and tomorrow. Your conference is in twenty minutes. Don’t make me chase you. ”
She straightened her lanyard, spared Georgia one last icy glance, and marched out without waiting for a response. The door shut behind her with a loud click.
Georgia let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to get on her shit list.”
“Too late for both of us,” I muttered.
“That interview with Ollie, though. What was that about?”
I rubbed my face with both hands. “What do you mean?”
“The burnout question. You told him you don’t burn out on things you love—that mental fatigue isn’t a problem for you.” She tilted her head, studying me. “Why would you say that?”
“I didn’t know what they wanted me to say.”
“Henri.” Her voice softened. “It’s not true. Nobody goes through what we go through and doesn’t struggle sometimes. You know that.”
I shrugged, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I thought it was what they wanted to hear.”
“Who? Ollie? The team?” She leaned forward. “Or are you trying to convince yourself?”
When I didn’t answer, she pressed on. “You’ve been off all season. Snapping at people, isolating yourself, and now you’re lying in interviews about how you’re handling the pressure. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“It was just a bad interview,” I said finally. “I’ll do better next time.”
Georgia studied me for another long moment, clearly unconvinced.
Then she sighed and leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. “You know what’s going to happen, right?
You keep acting like this, shutting people out, snapping at everyone, making scenes, and eventually, you’ll run out of people willing to put up with it. ”
She stood, brushing off her jeans with deliberate casualness. “You’ve got twenty minutes to pull yourself together and not piss off Ruth any further.” She headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. “Good luck with that press conference. Try not to make any more headlines.”
On Saturday, the post-qualifying press room was already hot. Rows of reporters leaned forward in their seats, phones raised, recorders blinking. The low hum of voices quieted the moment the moderator stepped up to the mic.
“Post-qualifying conference for the Austrian Grand Prix,” he announced, his voice the same neutral drone used for every circuit. “We have Henri Dubois for Hermes, Lily Blackwood for Rennen, and Luca Rossi for Rennen. Congratulations to our top three.”
I gave a half-smile. Next to me, Lily’s posture was perfect, hands folded neatly on the table. She didn’t bother to look at me, not even a glance. We hadn’t spoken since Monaco.
“Henri,” the moderator began, “another pole position. How are you feeling heading into tomorrow?”
After a long and arduous qualifying, I’d managed to secure P1. Thankfully, sunshine had finally arrived. Not five minutes after Q3 ended, the rain had started coming down.
“Confident,” I said. “The car’s been solid all weekend. The team executed perfectly.”
“And Lily, P2, your thoughts?”
“Rennen has really strong pace. The car’s been improving every week, and we’re in a great place for the race tomorrow.” She plastered her usual deflection-ready grin onto her face. The same one Luca often wore.
Wonder if they practiced it in the garage, I thought sarcastically.
The moderator adjusted his mic. “Next question, please.”
A hand shot up in the third row. “Question for Henri and Lily. In FP3 this morning, there was that close call in Turn 6. No penalties were given, but it looked tense. Care to comment?”
My stomach felt sick. Lily and I had another close call during qualifying, and while no one received a penalty, both teams had been screaming that we’d tried to block the other.
Before I could answer, Lily reached for her microphone.
“Closer than I would’ve liked.” Her knee bounced ever so slightly—that sign she was feeling uncomfortable. “But it’s a tight track. I know Henri was probably frustrated, but I left as much room as I could.”
As soon as she said that, the scripted answer Ruth had provided me immediately fled my brain. Lily had blocked me, plain and simple.
“I was on a flying lap. She was just starting hers. I had the right of way.”
Lily turned toward me, finally looking at me for the first time since we’d sat down. Her brows lifted slightly, like she couldn’t quite believe I’d decided to go there. “And I respected that and stayed off the racing line.”
“You nearly forced me off the track,” I said bluntly.
“I was six car lengths back.” That diplomatic tone was starting to thin, cracks showing beneath her polished tone. “You had room, Henri.”
“You know, Lily, there’s a difference between racing hard and creating unnecessary risk.”
Lily lightly scoffed. “Unnecessary risk? I just said that I was six car lengths back.” Her voice was restrained, but I could see I was poking the metaphorical bear.
I knew I should stop, just leave it as it was, but I couldn’t get myself to stop. The frustration from last weekend’s race loss, the interview with Ollie, and this morning’s practice had led me to this place. A place that I hated to be but could not escape.
“That’s plenty of distance, and you know it. Maybe—” She stopped herself, but frustration danced in her eyes.
“Maybe what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“No—say it.” I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. “Maybe what, Lily?”
The air all of a sudden felt thinner, and my throat began to swell. Breathing felt nearly impossible. Reporters leaned forward, phones and records in hand. The constant clicking of camera shutters intensified, a rapid-fire percussion that seemed to come from all directions at once.
Luca shot me a look from beside Lily, his brown eyes almost pleading with me: Stop, before this gets worse.
But I couldn’t seem to stop. Couldn’t pull back from whatever precipice I was standing on.
So much for not digging a deeper hole.