Chapter Seven
Henri
I should’ve been over the moon today. Pole position at Montreal was exactly what I needed. It was a chance to silence the doubters who’d been whispering that Henri Dubois had lost his edge. This track suited me, and I’d won here two years ago.
But as the rain began to fall, a knot tightened in my stomach.
Everything around me faded as I prepared for the race. Michael’s calm voice in my earpiece felt distant, like he was speaking from underwater.
“P1, Henri. Good grid position,” Michael said through my earpiece, his voice maddeningly calm. “Rain’s holding steady. Full wet tires to start, but we’ll keep an eye on the weather. Hoping it dries up soon.”
“Copy.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
I climbed into the car, rain drumming against my helmet as I settled into the cockpit. The familiar routine should’ve been comforting—harness clicks, wheel check, radio check—but my heart was already hammering too fast.
Behind me, Lily sat in P2. I could see her car in my mirrors, that distinctive Rennen livery that had haunted me all season. She’d be coming for me today. Whoever won this one would be the leader in the championship.
Just drive, I reminded myself. Like you’ve done a thousand times before.
Water pooled on the track, turning it into a minefield of standing water with limited visibility. My hands found their position on the wheel, muscle memory taking over even as my mind screamed warnings.
The lights began their sequence.
One red light. Then two lights. Rain hammered against my visor.
Three lights.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Four lights. Five lights.
Don’t think about Miami. Don’t think about the barriers. Just—
Lights out.
My start was perfect. Rear tires bit into the wet surface with just enough grip to not lose traction. Water sprayed around me, obscuring my vision as I maneuvered into the first turn, relying on instinct rather than clarity.
As lap after lap went by, I tried to ignore the ever-growing spiral of dread, but it was no use. Behind me, I heard the chaos, someone locked up, tires screeching, but I was already focused on Turn 1.
I pushed through the opening laps. There was a rhythm to my driving, a drive that should have felt like second nature. But today, the torrential rain transformed every corner into an uphill battle, and instead of exhilaration, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear.
“Lily’s P2, three-tenths back,” Michael confirmed.
Too close for my liking.
By lap ten, it became painfully clear that something was wrong. In the S-section, the momentum I usually embraced turned into a hesitation that nearly cost me.
Why couldn’t I just let go of this feeling?
“Lily’s pushing,” Michael said on lap fifteen. “She’s faster through the S-section.”
Of course she was.
We settled into a rhythm over the next several laps, me defending, Lily attacking, both of us locked in a private war while the rest of the field tried to keep up.
She tried moves I knew were coming because I’d studied her racing for three years.
But with every lap, I could feel the car starting to struggle.
The tires were giving up, losing grip incrementally.
And my corrections were getting larger, more desperate.
At lap thirty-one, Michael’s voice rang out, “Box, box.” We switched to intermediates, tires for slightly drying but wet weather, and for a fleeting moment, hope sparked inside me. With fresh tires, I could feel the grip returning. For the first time all race, I felt a glimmer of hope.
Then Lily pitted.
“Slow pit stop at Rennen,” Michael reported, satisfaction in his voice. “You’ve got some breathing room.”
I pushed hard on the new tires, trying to build space between us, trying to create enough cushion that even my hesitation in certain corners wouldn’t matter.
For five precious laps, I let myself believe.
The new tires gripped better, the car felt alive beneath me, and the gap between us held steady.
I could win this. I could actually win this.
Then Lily passed P3, and then P2.
I felt it before Michael said anything—that creeping uneasiness that started in my gut and spread through my chest. When his voice finally came through, it only confirmed what I already knew.
“Lily right behind,” Michael said, his tone shifting from confident to cautious. “One second faster than you that lap, Henri.”
Then came the moment I’d been dreading, the part of the track that just hadn’t worked for me all race. The part where I lost time to Lily.
The sharp hairpin stretched ahead of me, demanding everything—complete commitment and absolute trust. My brain knew exactly what to do. I’d taken this sequence a thousand times before.
But my body betrayed me.
My foot lifted without permission. A fraction of a second, nothing more. Just enough time for the panic to flood in: You’re going to crash, you’re going to crash, you’re going to—
The rear end stepped out. My hands moved on instinct, catching the slide, wrestling the car back into line. I kept it off the barriers; kept it pointing forward.
For a split second, relief washed through me.
Then I realized what I’d done.
That moment of fear had cost me everything. In my mirrors, I saw Lily commit where I’d hesitated. She dove inside, fearless and precise, and suddenly we were side by side. So close I could see her helmet, could almost feel the heat of her engine.
We hung there together—two cars, two drivers, one clean racing line.
Then she was ahead.
“Fuck!” The word exploded out of me.
“Stay calm,” Michael said, but I could hear the defeat in his voice. “Six laps left. You can still catch her.”
But I couldn’t, and we both knew it.
My tires were gone, shredded by my laps of desperation. Hers were newer, better, gripping where mine slid. And more than that, she wasn’t fighting herself. She was just driving.
I pushed anyway, because that’s what you do. You push until the checkered flag; until there’s nothing left to give. But with every new lap, she pulled further ahead.
By the time we came around for the final lap, the gap between our cars was four seconds and growing. I crossed the line in second place, the word “P2” tasting like failure.
Through my visor, blurred slightly by rain, I watched Lily climb from her car.
She stood on the chassis, fist punching skyward, screaming her triumph to the gray Canadian sky.
The entire Rennen garage erupted around her, jumping and hugging and celebrating the kind of victory I’d let slip through my fingers.
I couldn’t make myself move. The engine ticked as it cooled. Rain drummed against the car, and I just sat there, numb, trying to understand how I’d let this slip away.
When I finally forced myself out, my legs nearly gave out beneath me. I yanked off my helmet with shaking hands, rain immediately soaking through my hair, mixing with sweat and something that might have been tears. I kept my eyes down, looking anywhere except at her.
“Good drive,” Michael said through my earpiece, but it felt obligatory. We both knew it hadn’t been good enough.
The podium ceremony was torture. Standing one step down from Lily, watching her lift the trophy, listening to her anthem play while rain continued to fall.
She sprayed champagne with the kind of abandon that came from genuine joy, soaking the crowd, soaking me, not caring about anything except her win.
When we finally escaped the podium, when the cameras had stopped rolling and the post-race interviews had ended, I couldn’t get away fast enough. My team tried to follow, Michael calling my name, but I didn’t stop until I’d reached my driver’s room.
My phone buzzed; probably Michael checking in on me. Maybe to talk about what had gone wrong, but there was no point. No strategy could fix what had happened out there. No tweak to the setup could mend what felt broken inside me or erase the fear lodged in my chest.
I kept seeing it. That moment in the corners when my body refused to obey.
When panic seized my foot and lifted it just enough.
Just long enough for Lily to see the opening and take everything.
The rain continued outside, steady and relentless, drumming against the windows.
I sat in the dark, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of it all crushing down.
I was now second in the championship.
Fuck.