Page 30 of The Finish Line
Fuck.
Chapter Eight
Henri
I lost the race an hour ago, but the real punishment was just beginning.
Bright lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare across the cramped space packed with vultures who made their living picking apart every mistake you made on track.The weight of second place settled like lead in my chest, and now, an hour later, it had only gotten heavier.
Another second place.Another race where I’d done everything right except in the moment it mattered most.
My mind replayed that moment on a loop: that split second where I’d overcorrected, and Lily had slid past on the inside line.And I’d just watched her pull away.
Now I sat at a table, draped in sponsor logos and a fake smile, while Lily glowed beside me.We were only separated by a few points, but it felt like a mountain’s worth.
I reached for my purple water bottle, if only to give my hands something to do besides tap my knee repetitively.The cold plastic against my palm gave me something else to focus on.
“Lily, congratulations on a brilliant drive today.”The first journalist leaned forward.“That overtake on Henri was fearless.Can you walk us through it?”
“Honestly, I just saw the gap and went for it.”Lily’s genuine smile spread across her face—the one that had graced magazine covers and sponsorship ads for years.“Henri defended brilliantly, but in those conditions, you have to commit fully or not at all.”
A small jab from Lily and a reminder of why I’d lost this race.I couldn’t defend against her—not in those conditions.Not in therain.The part of me that knew how to drive in wet weather had disappeared.My driving hadn’t caused the accident in Miami, but my brain wouldn’t let me keep going today.Fear and anxiety were funny like that.
“And Henri.”The journalist turned to me.“That must have been frustrating, especially since you started on pole.You seemed to lose pace in the final stint.Were you finding it harder to push in today’s conditions?”
Yes.“No.Today was about execution, and Lily executed better.”
Another hand went up, and the moment I saw who it belonged to, I had to plant my feet on the floor just to stop myself from running.
Oliver Johnson.I guess they’re letting anyone into the post-race interviews now.
That smug face stared at me from across the conference room, pencil poised above his notebook.The memory of him at dinner with Lily burned through my chest as Ollie smiled at me from his seat.He looked different from our F2 days—taller, more refined, carrying himself like he belonged in rooms he used to sneak into.Apparently, a hundred thousand followers had transformed him from paddock hanger-on to front-row journalist with a laminated press badge.
Judging by the fact he was at dinner with her last night, I knew Lily’s mother at least approved of him.No way Lily would be allowed to attend a dinner like that without her mother’s approval.
“Henri, after watching you struggle in wet conditions twice now, do you think there’s a psychological component?”Ollie’s voice carried that same easy confidence he’d displayed last night.“Some drivers develop mental blocks after crashes.”
The blood drained from my face before rushing back twice as hot.My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack.
“There’s no mental block.”The words snapped out of me.“I made a mistake.Drivers make mistakes.That’s racing.”
“But given your Miami crash—”
“I didn’t crash in Miami.”My voice rose before I could stop it.“Lily crashed into me.Bigdifference.”Lily shifted beside me, her shoulder brushing mine for just a second before she pulled away.
“Of course,” Ollie continued, scribbling something in his notebook with deliberate slowness.“Though some might argue that developing caution after such a violent incident is natural.”
“I’m not cautious.”My hands found the table edge, gripping hard enough that my knuckles went white.“I led the race for almost all of it.That’s not cautious driving.”
“Until the hairpin.”
The room was dead silent, except for a few scribbles from various journalists, and the occasional cough.Every camera lens was pointed at me, waiting for me to break.My heart hammered against my ribs, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should smile and deflect like the media training taught us.But Ollie’s smug expression, the same one he wore last night when he’d deliberately touched Lily’s hand while looking straight at me, made something snap.
Something I couldn’t explain.
“You want to talk aboutthatcorner?”I leaned forward.“Fine.I pushed the limits in conditions that would make most drivers back off.You know, Ollie, if you want to write about psychological problems, maybe focus on why you’re asking questions designed to get a clickbait headline instead of doing actual journalism.”
The F1 moderator stood, hands raised.“Let’s keep this professional—”
