Crush or crash

                                    

                                          
I left London without a word. No one wanted to see me, and I didn't want to see them. Social media was off. My phone was off. I hadn't spoken to my dad or Joe. I just wanted to feel like myself again, even if only for a moment. But deep down, I knew that wasn't going to happen.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but it felt distant. The tension in the paddock was thicker than usual, especially for me. I'd barely exchanged words with anyone. I had noticed the fans waving signs for me in the stands, young girls and boys wearing my number, calling my name. Normally, I'd stop and greet them, but not today. Today, I could barely muster a weak wave before walking away, head down. I was suffocating under the weight of everything: the media, my team, my dad's constant voice in my head.
Lando had tried to break the tension. He always knew how to get a laugh out of me, cracking jokes about the ridiculousness of F1 life, but this time nothing worked. I barely even acknowledged him. "Mate, you good?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice. I gave him a nod but avoided eye contact, just hoping he'd let it go.
Back in my garage, Kimi called. His voice was warm, but I could hear the worry behind his usual cool tone. "Don't push too hard out there today, Blair," he warned, his Italian accent cutting through the haze in my mind. I didn't answer, only giving him a curt "yeah." He didn't need to know how much his words stung because I knew what I was about to do.
The race started under clear skies, and from the moment the lights went out, I was a woman on a mission. I didn't just want to win—I needed to. The opening laps flew by in a blur, and I fought my way from P6 into the top five within a few laps, overtaking with aggressive precision. I could feel the car beneath me, everything humming in sync. The crowd's cheers were a distant hum in my ears, drowned out by the engine's roar and my own heartbeat.
By lap 40, I was P3, trailing behind Verstappen and Hamilton. I had climbed through the field with calculated moves, taking risks that were paying off. But I was pushing harder than I ever had, trying to drown out the voice in my head—the voice that sounded like my dad. "You're never good enough, Blair. You'll never be world champion. You're nothing without me." His words echoed in my mind, driving me to the edge, pushing me to take every inch of track I could.
Lap after lap, I clawed my way closer to Max. His Red Bull was fast, but I was faster. I knew I could take him. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I closed the gap. This was my chance. I was fighting for first place, and I wasn't going to let anyone take it from me.
Lap 47. I was right behind Max, breathing down his neck as we approached Copse Corner. The tension was unbearable, every second stretched out, the car shaking with speed. I saw a gap as we exited the corner, and I went for it, diving down the inside. It was risky—dangerous even—but I was too far gone to care. I had to pass him.
But then, in an instant, Max swerved—just enough to force me off my line, just enough to make me back out. It was a dirty move, deliberate and calculated, but I didn't have time to process it. My car jerked violently, the steering wheel shaking in my hands. I cursed under my breath. Max's move had cut me off completely, and I lost momentum.
My father's voice pounded in my head: "You see? You'll never beat him. You're not fast enough. You're not good enough. You're just wasting everyone's time, Blair."
"Shut up!" I screamed inside my helmet, shaking my head as if I could physically throw his voice out of my mind. But it wouldn't leave. I felt the pressure building inside me, the anger, the frustration. I couldn't let him win. I couldn't let Max or my dad be right.
With three laps to go, I was desperate. I threw caution to the wind, pushing my car beyond its limits. I didn't care anymore. I didn't care about the tires, about the risks. All I could hear were my dad's cruel words: "You suck. You'll never be enough. You'll always be second best." The words cut deeper than any crash ever could, but instead of breaking me, they fueled me.