Chapter Fourteen #2
“Right, but you must think about it more, surely? I mean, you’re always so stylish—”
“Ollie, the only thing I’m focused on during race weekends is lap times.
” The words came out frustrated, but I couldn’t stop the burning inside me.
“Fashion isn’t really on my mind when I’m preparing for a race weekend.
Getting the car set up properly, analyzing data, working with my engineers—that’s where my focus is. ”
Movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Someone entering the studio, probably another driver waiting for their slot with whatever unfortunate segment they’d been assigned to.
Then I saw who it was.
Henri.
He stood just inside the doorway, freshly emerged from makeup but still in his Hermes team shirt, hair artfully disheveled in that way that had probably taken someone twenty minutes to perfect.
His expression was carefully neutral, but his dark eyes were locked on the interview with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
Great. Just what I need, an audience for these terrible questions.
“Let’s talk about balance,” Ollie continued, mercifully unaware of Henri’s presence. “How do you balance the demands of racing with your personal life? Dating, friendships, self-care?”
“I don’t really think about it in terms of balance,” I said, aware of Henri watching this train wreck unfold. “During the season, racing is my life. Everything else has to fit around it in terms of priorities.”
“But surely you must have hobbies? Interests outside of motorsport?” Ollie’s smile was encouraging, like he was trying to coax a shy child into speaking. “What do you like to do to relax? Spa days? Shopping?”
I could see Henri’s eyebrow raise slightly. That subtle lift that I’d learned to recognize over three years of competing against him. He was absolutely judging this entire situation, and by extension, probably judging me for participating in it.
As if I have a choice. I couldn’t just walk out of a scheduled interview because the questions were patronizing and misogynistic.
“I sim-race on my computer,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “When I can, I race on a few different virtual teams.”
Henri shifted in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Even from across the room, I could see the arch of his eyebrow.
I stared at the card in Ollie’s hand—the one he’d just pulled from the stack the producer had handed him before the start. His apologetic wince told me everything before the words left his mouth. This one would be good.
“Walk us through your race-day makeup look. Do you go full glam or keep it natural under the helmet?”
The camera’s red light blinked as the crew watched. My mother stood behind the monitors with her arms folded, nodding encouragingly, probably hoping I’d drop a sponsor’s name.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Under the helmet,” I repeated slowly, “where no one can see my face. Where I’m pulling five lateral G’s and sweating through a fireproof balaclava.”
Ollie nodded.
“I wash my face in the morning. Then I put on my balaclava, which covers literally my entire face. And then I drive the car.”
Back in the corner, I could see Henri almost laugh at that one.
The studio had gone quiet except for the soft hum of equipment. Even the crew seemed to sense my frustration. My eyes met Henri’s, and I could see his finger lift slowly, pointing to the door. His face almost looked sympathetic to my plight.
But I couldn’t leave. Not now, with the cameras rolling and my mother watching.
Rennen’s sponsors expected me to be gracious and media-friendly, and all the other things that apparently mattered more than actual racing ability.
Plus, Ollie had warned me about this. I couldn’t walk out on his opportunity to host this segment.
Ollie cleared his throat, glancing at the producer, who made a subtle gesture.
“We’re almost out of time, but I want to ask one more question.
” His tone shifted, becoming slightly more serious.
“Now, there’s been a lot of conversation about mental health in motorsport this season—the pressure, the scrutiny, the constant travel.
What does taking care of yourself look like for you? ”
Finally. A real question.
I took a breath, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. “I think it’s easy for people to forget that we’re human. The helmets make us look bulletproof, invincible, but none of us are.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henri straighten up, his finger no longer pointing to the door.
“Everyone talks about physical fitness,” I continued, warming to the topic. “The diet, the simulator hours, the training regimen. But mental health is just as important. Your head is what drives the rest of you. If that falls apart, everything else follows.”
Ollie nodded encouragingly, and for once, his interest seemed genuine rather than performative.
“Honestly?” My mind raced back to what Henri had said in Monaco.
About his fears and his unwillingness to tell the team.
Or do something about it. “It’s important to have people around you who keep you grounded.
And more than anything,” I added, my voice firm now, confident, “it’s important to know when to ask for help.
To admit when you’re struggling instead of trying to power through alone. ”
The words hung in the air, and I couldn’t help it—my eyes flickered toward Henri. He looked away quickly, lips tight, and I wondered if my words had landed the way I’d meant them to.
If you won’t tell anyone what you’re going through, maybe this will at least make you think about it.
“During the season, I work with a sports psychologist,” I said, returning my attention to Ollie and the camera. “They help me stay focused when the noise gets too loud. After Miami, I made sure to book extra sessions, because I knew I needed support.”
Although, I strategically left out the part about the note—a thought that made me feel like a hypocrite.
“That’s really brave to admit,” Ollie said quietly, and this time there was no patronizing edge. Just genuine respect.
“I don’t think it should be something we hide,” I said firmly. “You can train your body endlessly, perfect every technical skill, but if you ignore your mind and pretend you don’t need help, you’re just running on borrowed time until everything collapses.”
The silence that followed felt different from the awkward tension earlier. More contemplative. More real.
“Well said, Lil,” Ollie said finally. “Really well said.”
After a few more questions, the director called, “And cut! Perfect, Lily. Beautiful.”
Applause rippled through the crew, and I managed to smile and nod, even though I felt wrung-out and exposed and angry about the whole situation.
Ollie pulled me into a quick hug. “That last bit was gold. Really powerful stuff.”
“Thanks,” I said awkwardly, pulling away from the hug, keeping my voice low. “Those questions, Ollie. They were—”
“I know.” He grimaced with a shrug. “Production really pushed for the beauty routine angle, the femininity stuff. I told them it was too much, but—”
“It was degrading at some points.”
His face fell. “Lily, I’m sorry. Really. I fought for better material, but for the pilot episode they wanted to play it safe, appeal to a broader audience, or whatever corporate nonsense they fed me.” He shook his head. “I hated every second of it.”
I studied his expression, the genuine regret there. He’d warned me the questions would be cheesy. And he did look uncomfortable asking some of them.
“Look,” he said, reaching for my hand, “let me make it up to you. Dinner tonight? Just us, no cameras, no producers telling me what to say. I’ll even let you pick the place.”
“Sure,” I heard myself say. “That sounds nice.”
Ollie took my hand, giving it a squeeze. “You handled that with so much grace. I mean it, you were incredible.”
Before I could respond, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Can’t wait to see you later.”
Warmth flooded my cheeks. I withdrew slightly, striving for what I hoped resembled an authentic smile instead of the awkwardness that I felt. “Yeah, same here.”
He released my hand, still beaming, and I resisted the urge to touch where his lips had been. Not because it felt particularly meaningful, but because the gesture had caught me off-guard.
“Such a gentleman,” I said, aiming for light and teasing but landing somewhere closer to strained.
Ollie’s smile widened, clearly taking it as a compliment rather than the observation it was. “My mother raised me right.”
He squeezed my shoulder once more before heading toward the producer, already launching into conversation about the next interview slot.
I stood there, suddenly aware of the studio chaos around me again. The crew packing up equipment. The bright lights that had made me sweat through my makeup.
And Henri, still watching from the doorway.
Ollie’s smile returned, bright and relieved. “Perfect. I’ll text you?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.”