Chapter Fifteen
Henri
I watched Ollie kiss her cheek, his hand lingering on hers a beat too long.
The easy affection between them, the way she smiled up at him—uncomplicated in a way we’d never been.
I hadn’t asked Lily about her relationship with Ollie.
Probably because I didn’t want to know. But as I watched them together, I knew there was something forming between them. Something we couldn’t have.
Lily gathered her things, said something to the makeup artist, and headed for the exit. She passed within feet of me but didn’t look my way.
I wanted to stop her. Ask if she was okay after that ridiculous interview. Tell her she’d handled it better than most would have.
But the words never appeared, and then she was gone.
The production assistant finished clipping the microphone to my collar and stepped back, giving Ollie a thumbs-up.
“We’re all set,” she said, then she disappeared behind the camera setup.
I’d done dozens of these interviews before.
Promotional content, documentary pieces, behind-the-scenes footage—it was all part of the job.
Usually, they were harmless. A few questions about racing philosophy, team dynamics, what I ate for breakfast. Easy content that made the sport feel accessible to fans.
But something about the way Ollie watched me made my shoulders tense. Or maybe it was just him in general.
I hated that the team had decided to use him in the upcoming Hermes documentary, but there was no getting out of this one.
Hermes was turning seventy-five this year, and F1 had agreed to air a special documentary on their streaming app about the team.
This interview would be one of those soundbite ones they’d spread in throughout the series as they talked about different races.
Of course, this segment was on the pressures of racing and how Hermes helped their drivers compete at a high level.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
The room they’d set up for the interview was smaller than I expected.
A conference room in the hospitality suite, chairs positioned at an angle to each other, a single camera on a tripod with a boom mic hanging overhead.
Intimate. That was what they always called these setups.
Like we were just two people having a conversation.
And not old teammates with a bitter past.
“Comfortable?” Ollie asked, settling into his chair across from me.
“Fine.”
“Great. This shouldn’t take too long.” He glanced at his notes then back at me. “Just want to get your perspective on a few things. The real Henri Dubois, you know?”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “Sure.”
The camera operator—a young guy with a beard and a vest over his button-down—counted down from three with his fingers. The production assistant stood behind him, tablet in hand, watching a monitor I couldn’t see.
The camera light blinked red, and Ollie flipped his notepad open. “Let’s start small. Australia, the first race of the season. That late safety car—what went through your head?”
“The tire temp.” I kept my hands folded in my lap, knuckles pale. Ollie perhaps didn’t appreciate my short answers, but he continued to roll through the past nine races.
“You’ve looked incredibly sharp this season.” His eyes stayed on my face, not the paper. “As an F1 veteran in their eighth season, how would you describe your growth as a driver since joining the team?”
“It’s been a good learning experience,” I said. “The team has given me strong machinery and great support. I’m focused on maximizing every opportunity.”
Ollie nodded, making a show of checking his notes. “So far, this season has had its ups and downs for you—some brilliant performances, some more challenging races. How do you maintain consistency at this level?”
“You learn from every race.” I shrugged. “Analyze what went right, what went wrong, and apply those lessons moving forward.”
“Interesting.” Ollie tapped his pen against his notepad. “Because looking at the data, your qualifying sessions have been particularly strong this year. You’ve had great qualifying, but the race results haven’t always matched that pace. What do you think accounts for that gap?”
I shifted in my seat slightly. “Racing is unpredictable. Strategy, tire degradation, pit stops—there are a lot of variables that affect the outcome.”
“Of course. But some might argue that there’s also a mental component.” He paused. “Would you say you’re better at the sprint—the single fast lap—than the marathon of a sixty-lap race?”
“I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”
“How would you characterize it then?”
“I’d say I’m working on being complete in all aspects of race craft.”
“Hm, that must add a lot of pressure,” Ollie nodded, leaning forward slightly. “Formula 1 is one of the most mentally demanding sports in the world. We’ve seen drivers over the years struggle with anxiety, burnout, the weight of expectations. How are you coping with that pressure this season?”
“I’m managing it well,” I said. “Every driver faces pressure. It’s part of the job.”
“Of course. But some might argue that there’s also a mental component to racing consistency.
” Ollie glanced at his notes. “The ability to perform under pressure for two hours straight, lap after lap, managing the car and the competition simultaneously. That’s a different challenge than a single qualifying lap, isn’t it? ”
“It is,” I agreed. “But that’s true for every driver on the grid.”
“Fair point.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But again, looking at your results during this season specifically, there does seem to be a gap between your one-lap pace and your race-day execution. Five front-row starts, but only two podiums. What do you attribute that to?”
“Like I said—strategy, tire management, race circumstances. There are a lot of factors.”
“Right, of course.” Ollie made a note on his pad. “Continuing on the mental side of that, though. How do you personally handle the pressure of a full race distance? The decision-making, the focus required over those two hours?”
“The same way every professional does,” I said. “You train for it, you prepare, you execute.”
“Do you work with anyone on that side of things? A sports psychologist? Mental performance coach?”
“I work with the team’s performance staff,” I said carefully.
The conversation Lily and I had in Monaco replayed in my head uninvited.
She’d told me to get help. Practically begged me to talk to someone, anyone.
And like the coward I was, I’d shut her down.
I stared at the camera operator, searching his impassive face for some kind of answer, some script to follow.
“But,” I added, “it’s… good that people talk about it.” The words came out thin, rehearsed.
“And you?” Ollie pressed. “How do you personally deal with the burnout, the mental fatigue, the constant pressure to perform?”
My throat felt tight. The lights seemed to pulse, too bright, exposing every lie I was about to tell.
“I focus on racing,” I heard myself say. “That’s my job, and I love it. You don’t burn out on something you love. It’s not a problem for me.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Wanted to swallow them down and say something—anything—else instead.
I could hear Lily’s voice now: “Of course you burn out on things you love, Henri.” She was right, of course. I’d learned that lesson before. Hell, even Georgia had to learn that lesson when she first joined F1. Racing couldn’t be the only thing I did—not if I wanted to stay sane.
Ollie looked genuinely incredulous. “You never struggle? Never feel the fatigue, the pressure, getting to you?”
“Like I said, I’m fine.”
He paused as if he was almost surprised by my flat-out lie. “What about Barcelona in F2? I remember there was some kind of incident—”
“No,” I said firmly. Now that wasn’t something I was willing to revisit. The microphone caught the edge in my voice, a snap I couldn’t quite hide.
Perfect. Now I sound defensive and dishonest.
Ollie tapped his foot in a slow rhythm, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen under glass. After a few more questions, he nodded towards the Director. “Right,” he said after a pause that lasted too long. “I think we have what we need.”
Ollie closed his notebook and gave the camera a subtle nod. The red light blinked off.
“Thanks for your time,” Ollie said, already gathering his things.
The quiet of the room that followed wasn’t relief.
It was the hollow, uncomfortable silence of a disaster barely contained.
I sat there for a moment, frozen, the weight of the microphone still clipped to my shirt.
Finally, I reached up and unclipped it with shaking fingers, setting it down on the chair with more force than necessary.
Back in the dressing room, the door opened without a knock. I didn’t turn around; kept shoving things into my bag with more force than necessary.
“Dubois.” Ollie’s voice startled me. “Wasn’t sure you’d bother showing up after Monaco.”
I turned slowly. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, blocking my exit with infuriating casualness.
“You’re not that lucky.” I focused on zipping my bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper.
Also, I was contractually obligated to show.
His laugh echoed off the cream walls, too loud for the small space. He picked up a makeup brush, twirled it between his fingers, then dropped it with a deliberate thump.
“You look tired, mate. Monaco take that much out of you?”
Everything takes that much out of me these days.
“Something like that.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, moving toward the door, toward him.
He didn’t budge, just stood there, that easy smile fixed in place, picking at his fingernails with studied nonchalance.
“Must’ve stung,” he continued, voice dripping false sympathy.
“Pole position, home race, wet conditions that should’ve played to your strengths.
And still…” He made a sympathetic clicking sound.
“You couldn’t do it. I mean, if you keep driving like that, you’ll have to get used to finishing behind her. ”
“You finished behind me for three seasons straight, Ollie. Didn’t see you getting used to it.”
His expression barely flickered. He pushed off the door, closing the distance between us, ignoring my last comment. “So, you and Lily in that hallway back in Montreal.”
I went still. “What about it?”
“Come on, Henri.” His tone was almost friendly. “You visited her late at night? The way you looked at her…” He gave me a disbelieving scoff. “What, did you tell your team you were just talking?”
Ollie’s smile was knowing. “Look, I get it. Lily is brilliant. She’s beautiful and a catch.”
I said nothing.
“Which is why we’ve been hanging out,” he continued, examining his nails casually. “Last night, we were at her hotel until past midnight, chatting away about old times. Tonight, I’m taking her out to dinner.”
My hands clenched at my sides, but I kept my face neutral.
“Something you can’t do.” His voice was light, conversational, even if the intent was anything but. “But me? I’m not a driver anymore. Lily and I can do whatever we want. So maybe step back. Let her be happy with someone who won’t tank her career.”
Ollie took advantage of my inability to speak, patting me on the back with mock sympathy. “Good luck this weekend, mate. Weather forecast says rain for qualifying. Hope you can keep it together out there.”
The blood drained from my face. He knew. Somehow, he knew about the fear, the hesitation, the way my hands shook every time the track got wet.
But I shouldn’t have been surprised; he’d watched me have an accident before.
“Get out.”
“Touchy.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. “Just trying to be supportive.”
“Get. Out.”
He left whistling, the door clicking shut behind him with infuriating softness.
I stood there in the silence, gripping my bag so tight the strap cut into my palm, before pulling out my phone, checking the weather app.
Rain for qualifying. My hands were already shaking.
I grabbed my jacket and left before anyone else could find me.