Faking it || Lando Norris LN

38

Lando Norris

Sunday. Monaco Grand Prix.

"P5, Lando. That's P5, sorry mate," William's voice echoed inside my ears as I did the cool-down lap.

Replying wasn't in my plans. My body was trembling with so much anger and my grip on the steering wheel was so tight I was surprised it hadn't burst into a million pieces. I couldn't bring my jaw to relax and mutter any words out. I couldn't even hear anything my engineer said after that; every sound was muffled into nothingness.

The crowd, the radio, the cheering, all of it sounded like a helpless scream from someone underwater.

I was leading the race and had been the last driver to box for my pit stop. I was already back to the second position and had only ten laps left when it happened: a fucking tire puncture. My race was done after that. I only managed to climb a few positions into P5 and couldn't overtake Leclerc for the fourth position —his race hadn't been the luckiest either.

Now I was only ahead of him in the championship for three fucking points.

I could feel my skin burning hotter than it had throughout the race. My body was dripping in cold sweat that I could feel nearly evaporating as the drops rolled down my skin.

Cold fury was rushing through me. I drove back to the garage, already knowing how it would all go down. The engineers and mechanics had learned to not bother "congratulating" me for a result other than P1 even if it's a podium. A result outside of the podium meant staying away from me before I burst into flames and tore everything around me apart.

And that's exactly what I wanted to do as I parked the car. My face was tight with anger and every muscle movement was littered with quivering rage. I wanted to tear things up. I wanted to break the steering wheel apart as I took it off and placed it over the car.

My entire body was a red-hot solar flare of rage. I'm supposed to be winning. I'm supposed to be leading this championship by so many points it's already mine before the season's over. I'm supposed to be on the top step of the podium every weekend.

I was seeing red. I didn't even dare to take my helmet off yet; already knowing I would smash it against the ground and make a scene Davies would put my head on a pike for. I'm supposed to be Lando-perfect-boyfriend-Norris. I'm supposed to put all my anger behind me. I'm supposed to—

Wait, where had Olivia finished?

I furrowed my brows as I looked at the cars behind mine in the parking area, trying to remember the order William had said on the radio once the race was over, but there were no Ferraris other than Charles' next to my car.

I turned around, and there she was.

She was throwing herself over the metal fence that divided the top-three cars from the rest of the people, landing on dozens of red-sleeved arms flung open to hug her. Every sound was still muffled in my ears as my eyes landed on her; on the wide smiles of her engineers and mechanics; on the dozens of photographers surrounding her and showering her with the white light of their camera flashes.

The Mercedes and RedBull crew were also behind the fence congratulating Lewis and Daniel, patting their backs as they celebrated them. My brows furrowed as I looked at their cars in the top-three parking spot. P1 — Lewis. P2 — Daniel.

P3 — Olivia.

My entire body was frozen in place.

A red uniform sprinted from next to me toward Olivia. Charles, pulling her from the arms of the Ferrari crew to embrace her. Lewis was next to hug her and then Daniel grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her with excitement before snapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.