Page 66 of Flat Out
We’d barely made it out of the car before the fans and the media were on us. Cameras flashed, microphones jabbed toward us, and the air buzzed with a mix of adrenaline and chaos. The frenzy of the paddock was always intense, but today, I felt it more keenly. Maybe it was the way Aurélie slipped her hand into mine as we walked toward the paddock entrance, her grip grounding me amidst the noise. Or maybe it was the way my head throbbed with every shout and camera click.
The headaches were the worst. Unforgiving and relentless. I’d told Aurélie as much on the drive over from the hotel, that the meds didn’t take awayallthe pain. She hadn’t said anything at first, but her hand on my arm when we arrived gave me some semblance of peace.
A camera flash went off inches from my face, sending a slicing pain through my skull. I barely resisted the urge to wince. Then, Aurélie’s fingers brushed against my wrist, light but steady, like she knew. And just like that, I could breathe again.
“Don’t overdo it,” she said softly now, her voice cutting through the noise with that sweet little French accent of hers. She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, her hand tightening briefly on mine before she let go. Her fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
I smirked, though the concern in her voice wasn’t lost on me. “You sound like my doctor.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll actually listen to one of us.” She grinned, her expression light, but her hazel gaze was probing. “Text me if it gets too much, okay?”
“Only if you promise to focus on driving instead of me,” I shot back, earning an eyeroll and a reluctant smile. But then she leaned in and gave me a quick kiss, her lips warm and soft against mine.
As she turned away, I watched her stride toward the Luminis garage. Her walk was confident, but I noticed the tension in her shoulders. Subtle, but I saw it. I always did. I wondered if it was the car, the pressure, or something else entirely. Once she disappeared from view, I turned toward the Vanguard garage. She wasn’t that far, maybe five or six garage doors down, but it still felt like an ocean between us.
For the first time in over a decade, I didn’t belong to the buzz of activity in the garage. The hum of drills, the scent of fuel, the engineers huddled over telemetry screens. All of it all moved around me like a world I was suddenly no longer part of. And for once, I wasn’t in my race suit, but in a team polo and jeans. Civilian clothes, as if I was a mere spectator in a place where I was supposed to be untouchable.
I hated it.
And yet—maybe it was the concussion fog, maybe the helplessness, maybe the fact that Aurélie was here now too—but I wanted to take a minute and justwatch. To really see what I’d never been able to before. Her car, her lines, her raw talent as a Formula 1 driver. The way she fought for every tenth in a machine that wanted to eat her alive.
She’d told me in Monaco that her body ached every night, that it worsened with each race. Back then, I’d half-listened, distracted by the fight in my heart when I didn’t want to let her go but knew I had to. Now, standing here sidelined, watching her shoulders stiffen as she disappeared into that garage, I wanted toknow why. Why it hurt, why she hid it so well, why no one else seemed to see it or even care.
The thought nagged at me, the same way that phone call with an old friend had two nights ago. A “life after racing” pitch. Investment, ownership, security–a future that sounded more and more like the inevitable the longer I sat with it. I’d brushed it off at first, but now the weight of it pressed in, heavy and inescapable. Was this what the rest of my life would look like? Standing outside the cockpit, watching someone else fight battles I used to call mine?
I clenched my jaw.No. Not yet. Not if I had anything to say about it.
I adjusted the sunglasses perched on my nose—not for style, but to dull the headache that had crept in since I arrived. The sounds of drills, engines roaring to life, and the constant chatter on the team radios were a far cry from the quiet I’d gotten used to since I left Montreal.
I glanced around the garage, watching it all unfold. Even after all this time, the amount of work that went into this sport was fascinating… and fear spiked through me at the thought of losing it.
If my recovery was far from over, or if there were lingering side effects from my injury, what did that mean for me? I’d spent years preparing for the inevitable—brand deals, investments, even exploratory talks about joining a team as an investor or consultant. Yet standing here now, the thought of stepping away felt unbearable.
I glanced around, watching it all unfold. Even after all this time, the amount of work that went into this sport was fascinating… and fear spiked through me at the thought of losing it.
“Fraser! There you are.” Marco’s voice cut through the noise as he approached, his race suit half-zipped and his helmetdangling from one hand. His grin was as infectious as ever. “I was starting to think you were ditching me for Luminis.”
“Just keeping an eye on the competition,” I replied, leaning casually against the workbench.
“Right, mate. Does that involve falling in love?”
I scoffed, taking my sunglasses off and wincing as I rubbed my temples. “Speaking like you’re jealous. Maybe try setting aside the threesomes sometime and look for something real.”
He laughed but didn’t push the subject, though his gaze flickered with something unreadable. Pity, maybe.
“Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get too comfortable without me.”
“Comfortable? Mate, I’m running circles around this grid with or without you,” he teased, though his smile faltered briefly. “You doing all right?”
I shrugged, gesturing to my sunglasses as I put them back on. “Living the dream. Headaches, light sensitivity, the works. You know how it is.”
Marco’s humor softened. “Well, don’t get used to this whole ‘watching from the sidelines’ thing. The reserve driver’s already whining about the car setup, and I can’t deal with him for more than one weekend.”
“Sounds like a you problem,” I quipped, though the idea of someone else in my car made my stomach flop. The reserve driver climbed into the cockpit just then—my car, my seat—and I forced myself to look away.
“Anyway,” Marco said, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “we’ve got this. You just focus on getting better. And if you get bored, feel free to throw some pointers my way.”
“Pointers? You? I thought you were running circles around the grid.”
