The Montreal rain had left everyone on edge. You’d made the call “gap’s there, go for it.” He did. And two orange cars later, one was in the wall. His.

Hours later, the celebrations in the hospitality suite felt muted. McLaren still bagged big points thanks to Oscar, but Lando? He was on his second whiskey, back turned, eyes fixed on the TV replay looping his crash on repeat.

You approached cautiously. “Lando—”

He spun, eyes flashing. “Don’t. Don’t you dare tell me it was the right call. I trusted you.”

Your throat tightened. “You had the pace, the space was there”

“And I ended up in the bloody wall!” His voice cracked, louder than he meant. A few team members glanced over. He dropped his tone, stepping closer until it was just for you. “Do you know what it feels like? To risk it all because you said so, and then have it blow up in my face?”

The weight of it hung between you long after the party wound down.