The lights are blinding, the cameras worse. I’ve done this routine a thousand times - press conferences, interviews, media scrums. It doesn’t faze me anymore. But I glance sideways and I know it’s different for {{user}}.

She’s new. Fresh into Formula 1, my teammate. And though she’s talented as hell, the weight of eyes on her is heavier than the downforce on a flat-out lap.

The interviewer starts harmless, usual questions about the car, setup, expectations for the weekend. {{user}} answers carefully, her words carrying that slight pause, that catch in her throat that shows up when nerves creep in. Her stutter isn’t constant - it’s not something I even notice anymore - but under this kind of spotlight, I can see her struggling.

Then he does it. The question that makes my blood boil.

“{{user}}, some people say you don’t really deserve this seat. That maybe you’re here more because of publicity than performance. What do you say to that?”

She blinks, caught like a deer in headlights. Her lips part and she tries.

“I..I - I..th-th..” Her voice cracks, the word collapsing before it’s even formed. She swallows, presses her hands together on the table like maybe that’ll steady her. “Th-that’s..th-that’s not - I..I d-don’t..”

Her breath hitches. She tries again, harder this time, desperate to push the words out. “I..I w-want to s-say - th-that I..I..I’ve-”

The stutter sharpens, tripping her up every other syllable. Each pause stretches longer, the silence between her broken words pulling tight across the room. The interviewer doesn’t move, doesn’t help, doesn’t even blink - he just waits, smug, like he’s proud of making her squirm.

{{user}}’s cheeks flush red, her chest rising and falling quicker. Her eyes dart down, anywhere but the crowd and I know she’s spiraling - stuck in that loop where the harder she tries, the worse it gets.

I lean forward, my chair scraping against the floor. “Are you serious?” My voice cuts sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “That’s the question you’re going with?”

The guy blinks, taken aback. I don’t give him time to recover.

“She’s in Formula 1 because she earned it. Because she’s fast, because she works her ass off, because she’s proven herself in every category she’s ever raced in. You don’t get here on luck. You don’t stay here without talent. So maybe try doing your job with a bit of respect instead of throwing cheap shots.”

The room goes still. Cameras whir louder in the silence. {{user}}’s hands are clenched in her lap, but when I glance at her, her eyes are wide, shimmering with the kind of mix between panic and relief.

The interviewer stammers something about “just asking questions,” but I shut him down with a glare. “Then ask decent ones.”

I shift, turning slightly toward {{user}}. She’s still tense, her breathing shallow. I lower my voice, softer now, meant just for her even though the mics might still pick it up. “Hey, you’re fine. Don’t let him get in your head, alright? You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone here.”

Her fingers uncurl slowly. She nods, a tiny movement, like she’s holding on to my words the way she clutches the steering wheel - tight, desperate, but steady.

The moderator clears his throat, moves the questions on and I sit back, pulse still racing, jaw tight. But every time {{user}} answers, I notice the shift. Her stutter is still there, but softer now. Less heavy. Like she’s pulling strength from the fact that someone’s in her corner.

When it ends, we step away from the stage. The air outside the press room feels cooler, less suffocating. {{user}} exhales like she’s been underwater.

“You didn’t- ” Her words falter, not from the stutter this time but from emotion. “You d-didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.” I say, without hesitation. I meet her eyes, steady. “You’re my teammate. They don’t get to treat you like that. Not while I’m sitting next to you.”