Chapter Eighteen
Lily
The compact gym tucked into the Rennen garage carried the subtle odor of rubber flooring and deodorant. Andy knelt next to me, murmuring numbers as I worked through my shoulder stretches.
“Five… six…” His thumb dug deeper, and I bit back a hiss. “You’re tighter than usual, Lil.”
“Long week.” I winced.
“Oh, I know.” He passed me the resistance band—the red latex one we used for shoulder mobility—settling back on his heels. “I watched yesterday’s press conference.”
This time, the wince had nothing to do with the knot in my back. Each time I replayed it in my head, guilt crawled a little bit deeper into my heart.
“Maybe it’s that you still see a ghost whenever there’s a hint of rain.” I shouldn’t have said it. Not like that. Not in front of everyone. I had so much regret that I’d felt physically sick all day.
That wasn’t me. I didn’t want to fight fire with fire, especially not with Henri.
“It’s all anyone in the paddock could talk about this morning,” Andy continued, watching me with those sharp eyes that missed absolutely nothing. “Well, that and speculation about whether you and Henri are going to actually come to blows during today’s Grand Prix.”
Andy grabbed the band from me, setting it down on the table. “Lil, what is going on here? That press conference yesterday, that wasn’t you. I know you and Henri have your differences—”
I stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to say it.”
“Then why did you?”
I pulled my right knee to my chest, feeling the familiar overstretched burn at the front of my hip. Physical discomfort, I could handle. This conversation? Less so.
“In the moment, all I could think about was Henri’s driving.
He was so erratic during free practice, nearly crashing into me.
He got lucky, but it was so out of character, even for this season.
” I pressed my forehead against my knee, taking a breath.
“It was like something snapped in him, and I was worried. So, I just… blurted it out. Thought maybe if I called him on it, he’d stop spiraling. ”
“And instead?” Andy prompted gently.
“Instead I made it worse.” The admission tasted bitter. “I hurt him in front of everyone.”
Andy stayed quiet, watching me with those patient eyes that’d seen me through countless bad days. Finally, he said, “Lil, what’s really going on between you two? Because this feels like more than just competition.”
I sighed. “I haven’t told anyone this. I guess mostly because…
I’m embarrassed? Or it makes me sad? I don’t know.
But last year, in Las Vegas, Henri and I…
” I stopped, sucking in a breath. “We slept together. It was like three years of dancing around the temptation was finally over, and afterward, I thought we’d be something. ”
I picked at the loose thread on my leggings, not looking up.
“And then, the next morning, he said he didn’t want a relationship. That we should just forget it happened.” The memory still stung. “And so, I tried to move on.”
Andy stayed quiet, his hands gently resting on mine as his soft eyes stared at me with sympathy.
The words came faster now. “Then, in Monaco last week, I went to his room…” I paused, thinking about why I’d gone to his room in the first place.
I hadn’t told Andy about the notes yet, because I knew he’d tell the team immediately.
So, I opted for the safer version. “I went to ask him about why he slowed down so much during the curves… and we kissed again. Well, again after Montreal.”
Andy looked incredibly surprised, which was usually hard to do.
“Wow. Lily. I had no idea. I wish you’d told me. You know, you don’t have to carry all this alone.”
I flashed him an appreciative smile.
“So, where does this leave you and Ollie? You’ve been hanging out; not sure how serious it all is.”
“Ah, now that’s had an interesting development.”
Andy’s face was a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “Oh?”
Ollie’s voice popped into my head. His story about F2, about Henri, delivered with that perfect blend of concern and reluctance that made it sound so goddamn believable.
“Back in F2, Ollie said Henri was burning out. Pushing too hard, not sleeping, the whole spiral. He’d apparently had an accident, and it was causing him to struggle. So, Ollie went to their team principal to try to help, suggested Henri might need support, like a sports psychologist or something.”
I paused, the next part sticking in my throat.
“Henri found out and turned it around on him. Told their team principal that Ollie was lying, and he was unstable and jealous. That Ollie was going to leak his private life to the press, make them think he couldn’t be trusted. The F2 team let him go, ending any hope of him having an F1 career.”
Andy turned to face me fully, the towel draped over his shoulder slipping slightly. His expression was carefully blank. “That’s quite a story.”
I nodded. “I know. It just… doesn’t feel like Henri.”
“You know,” Andy said, “I partly wonder if the truth is somewhere in the middle. Either way, you should ask Henri about it.”
“I know. I will. Probably should be after I apologize for yesterday…”
Andy’s expression softened. “Look, Lil, when you put the helmet on today,”—Andy gestured vaguely toward the garage door, toward the paddock beyond—“leave all this drama outside the car. It just needs to be you in there. Nothing else gets to come along for the ride.”
I nodded, and the door to the gym swung open. Andy motioned toward the exit. As he walked behind me, he called out, “You ready to go win something?”
“Always,” I said, stepping into the corridor, which was full of mechanics.
Andy squeezed my shoulder once before heading toward the garage. I watched him disappear into the chaos of race-day prep, then I turned toward my driver’s room.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out.
Unknown number. Again, with another thinly veiled threat.
The only thing that could make this day any worse.
“Last lap,” Mark said in my ear, voice calm. “Gap is under a second to Henri.”
This win in Austria was so close I could almost taste it.
For most of the race, Henri and I had traded places. But a perfectly timed pit stop from his team, and a few small mistakes from me, had handed him the lead. Now, with one lap left, he was still there. Right in front of me.
Untouchable.
I pressed the brake a little too late into Turn 3. The rear end shivered in protest, a warning tremor vibrating up through the seat. A message from the car that I was pushing too hard and asking too much.
Henri stayed where he always was. Just out of reach.
Don’t think about him. Just drive.
The track blurred by, then the grandstands became a large blur of color and noise. I was supposed to love this part. But my thoughts were too loud. I clipped the next apex tighter than I intended.
My radio crackled. “Careful, Lily. Keep it clean,” Mark said, a trace of warning now.
“Copy.”
Henri was a three-second lead ahead of me, and there was no way I could pass now. My car wobbled through the next corner, the balance just slightly off. Every movement felt sharper now, more desperate.
“Can you give us more?”
No, was the actual answer. The car just didn’t have the pace underneath. The steering wheel felt slick under my gloves despite the moisture-wicking material, sweat pooling in my palms from effort and frustration in equal measure.
Henri’s car flicked through the final corner, absolutely flawless. A machine in perfect harmony with its driver. Mine followed half a heartbeat later, desperately trying to catch up. The checkered flag waved from the marshal’s post.
Henri crossed the line first.
The silence on the radio said a lot about how we were all feeling, but then Mark’s voice burst through again, surprisingly cheerful. “P2! Great job, Lily! Fantastic drive!”
I didn’t answer right away. The words were stuck, refusing to come out as anything coherent or media-friendly.
I exhaled slowly, counting the beats like I would during a qualifying lap, trying to ground myself in something familiar and controlled.
When I finally spoke, I hoped to God my voice would sound normal, calm, professional, like this was just another Sunday afternoon.
“Copy.” My voice sounded flat, emotionless, like it belonged to someone else entirely. “Nice job, everyone. Good strategy today.”
I told myself second place was fine. The rational part of my brain, the part that remembered we had more than half the races to go this season, knew that P2 was excellent. The championship was by no means over—not that it was any consolation.
I watched his car slow ahead of me on the cooldown lap, the faint crimson flash of his brake lights visible through the tarmac’s reflection. He raised one hand in acknowledgment as he passed the marshal posts, that polite little wave of sportsmanship the cameras always loved.
I parked on my mark, killed the engine, and stepped out into a tidal wave of noise.
“Lily, over here!” the post-race interviewer called out. “Wow, what an incredible race! Walk us through Turn 1. Any regrets on the strategy? What did you make of Henri’s pace in sector two?”
I said all the right things. That the fans were incredible and the car was coming alive, that our upgrades were working, that Hermes had nailed it today, but we’d be ready to fight next race. The words tasted like artificial sweetener, but I kept that fake smile fixed in place.
Henri did the same, keeping his answers safe. After yesterday, we’d both been scolded to no end by our press teams, and we were under strict instructions to ignore each other. Even the journalists this morning avoided asking us any questions about the other.
We went up for the podium, and Henri held up his trophy—that massive, ornate thing that weighed more than it looked. He didn’t bother to look at me when he lifted the trophy, but I clapped anyway. Because cameras were recording every moment, analyzing every micro-expression for signs of drama.
And because maybe, despite everything, he’d earned it today.