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Chapter Text

July 3, 2019

From the moment he stepped onto the Formula 3 scene, Capri Persson has stirred the waters of the racing world. With his unmistakable ART Grand Prix helmet—now a signature of his presence—Persson has built not only a reputation but an aura. He is fast, enigmatic, and utterly captivating. His helmet has become his identity, and the mystery it conceals only fuels the legend. To this day, no one truly knows who lies behind the visor of Capri Persson. But what is certain is this: he is a brilliant driver, destined for a place among Formula One's elite.

Persson's rise has been defined as much by his performance as by the enigma surrounding him. His thirst for victory is undeniable, his talent unmistakable. Those who have witnessed him race speak of a natural gift—raw, instinctive, and rare. Yet the question lingers: who is Capri Persson? There are almost no public records, no photographs, no face to match the name. It's a mystery that has followed him since his earliest karting days. While he raced alongside names like Lando Norris, Alex Albon, and George Russell, Persson was the only one who shielded his appearance from the public eye. And the theories have only multiplied.

The most widely circulated story begins long before Persson ever sat in a kart. It traces back to a tragic car crash in his home country—an accident that claimed the lives of a mother and her two-year-old child, left the father in a coma for four years, and left the surviving eight-year-old boy with severe burns. The tragedy made national headlines at the time. Some believe that child grew up to become Capri Persson. The dates align. The nationality matches. And the incident would explain the profound silence that surrounds his identity.

Real or not, the myth does not outweigh the man. Capri Persson has shown the world what truly defines him: the way he races. Clean. Calculated. Unrelenting. His performance in Formula 2 earned him the title of Driver of the Year, and his ascent shows no signs of slowing down. With rumors swirling and Red Bull's team principal increasingly attentive to his every move, the paddock can't help but wonder: will Red Bull be the ones to unveil the mystery and secure the victories of Capri Persson?

extract from Fox Sport, 2019

posts from twitter, 2019

official statement from F1, 2019

posts from twitter, 2019

October 29, 2019

It's official. ART Grand Prix driver Capri Persson is leaving Formula 2 to become the new driver for AlphaTauri in Formula 1. Why not Red Bull Racing?

AlphaTauri had already announced Pierre Gasly as part of their lineup, but one spot remained unconfirmed—until now. Yet even after the announcement, the identity behind the helmet remains largely unknown. Team Principal Franz Tost stated that the entire community is thrilled to have Capri joining the grid, but emphasized that the move does not mean the driver's identity will be revealed.

Persson's own teammate has already spoken about the excitement and the ongoing mystery surrounding him, but Capri Persson has yet to make a public statement. It has been well known since last F2 season that Persson only communicates with the media through written statements personally signed by him. So far, the young driver has remained firm in winning the F2 championship and appears ready to take on his next challenge.

The curious part? This year, Christian Horner has been spotted observing the young driver—though we assume we'll have to wait a bit longer to see them on the same team.

extract from ESPN website, 2019

Max Verstappen reply in twitter, 2019

Chapter Text

Faenza, Italy. July, 2019

Jean stood in the middle of the gleaming glass doors, blocking my way and covering both handles with her body. The white logo on the dark entrance glass, on the façade, forced me to look up over my nose. Jean took a deep breath—she definitely seemed much more nervous than I was.

"You know how this is," she tried to calm me.

"No, actually, I don't. This is the first time I'm signing with a Formula 1 team," I shrugged seriously, and Jean rolled her eyes in frustration. I hoped she'd never get tired of my unpleasant attitude—she was all I had.

"You know what I mean. If it's not here, it'll be somewhere else. And if it doesn't happen...?" She left the sentence hanging for me to finish.

"It will," I nodded, confident in my words. And when she focused on opening the door for me, I took a deep breath, nervous.

I won't deny it—I was terrified. But I hoped it was just part of the experience.

The Alpha Tauri factory was massive. I had visited automotive factories before, but this was a special occasion. One I hoped would go well.

Most people describe these moments as brilliant and fascinating. Their stories always come with a "I've always dreamed of this." And I wasn't the exception, but there was much more than just a dream in between. Dreaming isn't enough here—and probably anywhere.

Jean approached the receptionist with her English accent, and I wondered how she would manage to communicate with an Italian without knowing a word of the language.

"Good morning," she greeted, trying to express with her face what her words conveyed but she couldn't translate. "My name is Jean Henderson, I'm an F1 driver consultant, and I had a meeting with Mr. Franz Tost in his office at 11 AM."

The woman stared at her, astonished, while I watched the situation unfold without any expression.

"Scusate, sono Jean Henderson, lei è una consulente pilota e aveva un appuntamento con il signor Franz Tost nel suo ufficio oggi alle 11 del mattino," I intervened, and Jean frowned in my direction.

"Scusate, sono nuova nel settore dell'accoglienza. Il signor Tost ti riceverà tra un attimo al terzo piano. Lascia che ti accompagni," the young woman, probably in her twenties, responded from behind the counter and immediately stood up.

"What did she say?" Jean asked in a hurried whisper.

"She's new. She's going to take us to Tost's office now."

"When did you learn Italian?" she asked, confused, as we tried to keep up with the receptionist through the factory's minimalist hallways and staircases. Everything around us looked newly renovated, as if the building had just been finished a few hours ago. There wasn't a speck of dust, and the marble floors gleamed so much that I could feel my feet slipping with every step.

"If you're visiting the Italian headquarters of a company that wants to hire you, it's hard to get by with just English," I shrugged with feigned innocence.

"You do know Franz is Austrian, right?"

"Glaubst du, ich weiß es nicht?" I pronounced in rough and very unpolished German, making Jean laugh in surrender.

"Okay, I get it. You're a genius, and I can't argue with that," she admitted, draping her arm over my shoulders and pulling me closer.

This was a big moment in my life, yet I could barely feel it as such. It was important, and yet I could hardly feel worthy of it.

The receptionist showed us where to sit while we waited and informed Mr. Tost that we had arrived and were ready for the meeting. Jean rubbed her hands against her jeans while I admired the sleek design of the office and waiting area. Everything was modern, bright, monochromatic, mesmerizing. I couldn't help but stand up and examine the paintings and plaques on one of the walls. I skipped the cliché introduction about the team's history—I had obviously read that three hundred sixty-five times since Jean told me we had a meeting. I read about what seemed interesting and unique, but almost immediately, Mr. Tost's voice interrupted me.

"I assume you're here on behalf of Capri Persson," he smiled, rubbing his hands together in front of his chest. I smirked playfully before turning to look at him, waiting for Jean to take the lead in the conversation.

"Yes, my name is Jean Henderson, I'm her consultant. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Tost," Jean extended her hand to the team principal.

"The pleasure is all mine, Jean. Please, call me Franz. I'm quite certain that after this meeting, we'll all be partners and teammates," he smiled warmly and stepped aside to let us into his office, which matched the building's sleek aesthetic. His black desk was adorned with a few photographs facing him—carefully arranged pictures spread throughout the office, honorary titles, and a few other things that showcased his career.

"Well then..." Franz sighed once we were all seated. I had promised to stay quiet, letting Jean steer the conversation and cue me when to speak. She had made me swear that before we got out of the car. Tost rested his elbows on his desk, hands together as he asked, "Where is Capri Persson?"

I smiled. I extended my hand across his desk politely, and Mr. Tost looked at me in confusion.

"The pleasure is all mine."

His face contorted in surprise. Not many people had had the pleasure, but I liked the idea of prestige surrounding my identity. It was thrilling, captivating, and also addictive.

"No... no, no, no," he stammered, laughing. "This is a joke, right?"

Jean swallowed hard, opening her mouth to say something, but I intervened, breaking my promise.

"Yes," I laughed—a dry, sarcastic chuckle, though as genuine as it was misleading. "Yes, I'm sorry. It's a terrible joke to think that a woman could actually be the one and only Capri Persson," I joked. "In fact, I think he's outside. He's already here," I announced, standing up. I grabbed the doorknob and waited two seconds before stepping back in as if I were someone else.

I returned, opening the door, while Jean hid her face in embarrassment, curling into her seat.

"Sorry for the delay, Mr. Tost. It's an honor to be called upon to be part of your team. I am Capri Persson," I smiled sincerely this time, approaching the desk. Franz studied me, deep in thought. Jean wished the ground would swallow her whole.

The office plunged into a silence I relished like a fresh breeze. Mr. Franz Tost stood up, still stunned by the revelation, and shook my hand. Jean watched him rise with surprise and confusion.

"It's an absolute honor, Miss Persson," he nodded, gripping my hand firmly.

Franz was the first and only one to accept it. I knew he would be. And in my opinion, I preferred a delayed surprise over constant rejection—no matter how "unfeminist" that made me, according to my mother.

"I owe you an apology. I acknowledge my mistake in assuming, but I believe this is something we need to discuss urgently before any agreement is made."

"Everything has been settled with the federation," Jean interjected.

"The fact that a driver has a secret identity under their helmet and is actually a woman, without anyone knowing?" he questioned. "I don't want to be misunderstood, but the conditions under which men and women race are different."

"They're only different socially," I stated firmly and loudly. "There is no additional cost for the team, no fine print for a case like this. It shouldn't be a problem for anyone now, because it never was before."

"I want you to understand that, as the team principal..."

"Mr. Tost, with all due respect," Jean interrupted, "there's nothing we need to discuss about this. When you requested this meeting for an agreement, you knew what came with the name Capri Persson, assuming it was a man. Capri is one of the best drivers right now..."

"I don't deny that."

"That's why you called us," Jean continued. "You called us because of how efficient she is in any car. You called us because she's fast, strategic, and effective on the track. And you assumed what the mystery of Capri Persson might cost you. So if the fact that Capri Persson is a female driver and not a male one is a problem in moving forward with the deal, I regret to inform you that we have nothing else to discuss here."

At that, I had to look away from the center of the conversation because I couldn't help but smile with pride at Jean's words. I might drive her crazy most of the time, but she never fails to make me proud when she defends me as many times as necessary.

As we walked out of the AlphaTauri factory, carrying a bag of team merchandise after a long tour led by Franz—who had spent much of it apologizing—neither of us said a word. We were still in shock. I heard her take a breath, then felt her arm drape over my shoulders, pulling me closer. I smiled. I rested my head on her shoulder, and she rested her chin on my head. We both breathed out in relief.

"You did it," she whispered, rubbing my arm.

"We did it," I corrected.

"It's time to kick some ass." I pulled away to look at her, and her eyes were glassy.

"Are you crying?"

"Oh, please. Of course not," she scoffed, turning away just enough to hide as she wiped her tears. I laughed. We both laughed, because deep down, we knew this was probably the last moment in my career when laughter would be one of life's simple joys. We laughed because we knew we had a long road ahead. And we smiled because, quietly and carefully, Capri Persson was about to become the first woman in Formula 1—and no one knew it yet.

Chapter Text

(This section is an official excerpt from the book "F1: stories and anecdotes" by the renowed Jeremy Clarke, who has kindly offered his perspective on the narrative)

Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Spain.  February, 2020

There were quite a lot of people, as usual during pre-season testing. The garages were once again full, and people were back in action. There was always a warm atmosphere at the track around that time of year. It felt like going back to school when everyone was in primary.

Charles was the first to approach Pierre when he saw him alone in a corner of the garage while everyone else was busy with their tasks and teammates.

"Beautiful day to race, isn't it?" he smiled at the Frenchman, placing a hand on his shoulder. Gasly stood up immediately.

"It's good to see you again, brother."

"Same here. How was the break?" Leclerc asked, and soon they struck up a lively conversation, which Carlos, Daniel, Lando, George, and Alex joined. They all chatted about their winter break until Carlos asked the question that had been on everyone's mind since Alpha Tauri's big announcement. The one nobody had dared to ask Pierre via text.

"So? How did it go with Persson?" Sainz Jr. threw out the question, and Gasly scoffed, rolling his eyes, making everyone laugh. Pierre had likely had such a rough week getting used to Alpha Tauri's new car that he could easily rank it as the worst of his career.

"Have you met him? Have you seen his face?" Daniel insisted, crossing his arms.

"I swear I have a suspicion he's a ghost," Pierre confessed. "We haven't spoken since I met him. Not a word, nothing. It's really weird."

"I saw he communicates using sign language. Is he deaf?" Lando frowned.

"No. How do you think he communicates over the radio, then?" Carlos shot back, and the younger driver just shrugged.

"When we did the tests, he didn't say a single word. I didn't see his face, his hands, his ankles, or his neck."

"Well, take it for granted. He's a ghost," Russell commented.

"When he came into the garage, he was already suited up with his helmet on. We fist-bumped as a greeting, and that was it. Honestly, I'm a little terrified about how this might affect things on track," Pierre admitted to his teammates. If anyone would understand, it was them—though even they were puzzled. Capri Persson's arrival in F1 was intriguing, but even more so were his methods of avoiding any kind of interaction with the world around him. "According to Franz, he does it to avoid the circus. The guy shows up, analyzes, races, wins, and leaves. That's it."

"You have a long season ahead," Alex lamented, voicing what the rest of the group didn't want to admit. It would not only be a long season but one of the loneliest and most uncomfortable for the driver.

"I'm willing to keep the secret as long as it doesn't turn into a terrible year."

"You'll see, it'll all work out, and you'll end up talking somehow. It'll be fun, I promise," Charles tried to cheer him up, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Easy for you to say, your teammate is Vettel," Gasly laughed before a photographer called them to the track. It was time for the season photo, and the 19 drivers started gathering—except for one.

All the teams stood with their teammates, looking comfortable with each other, even the rookies just starting out or the veterans with years of experience. Everyone chatted as Gasly walked across the track, helmet in hand, suit on, glancing around. The photographer counted them again with a frown, and the issue resolved itself when Capri Persson finally emerged from the Alpha Tauri garage, helmet on, with a tall woman with short, wavy dark hair following closely behind, seemingly giving him instructions. Definitely not deaf.

"Alright, gentlemen. Your positions are marked on the ground. They're labeled—find yours and stand with your teammate," they were instructed, with numerous cameras aimed at them. Netflix was capturing every move for the third season of Drive to Survive, and Pierre could only hope his discomfort didn't show.

Capri approached the group as cautiously as a spy, but being the only one missing, everyone noticed him instantly, unable to look away. Daniel nudged Pierre, who stood in front of him, as Persson joined them. His teammate looked at him, swearing he saw his eyes through the visor. Capri simply nodded slightly as a greeting and gave a thumbs-up.

No one could take their eyes off Persson. Every movement, every breath, every second mattered. Everyone was searching for the slightest sign that there was truly a person behind that helmet and not just a machine built to dominate every competitor.

For some, Capri Persson's image demanded respect, curiosity, and mystery. For others, he was just another idiot who thought he could win something just because he had a bit of luck in F2. And that group was already set—those with the most experience in the sport.

When the man with the megaphone began explaining the camera movements and how the drivers should pose, they exchanged glances, sharing amused, knowing looks. Gasly wanted to do the same, but when he turned to his teammate, he barely seemed present in that moment.

"Excuse me, the driver with the helmet—could you take it off? It disrupts the shot's consistency," the man with the megaphone announced, and the entire place fell silent.

Jean looked up, and Capri looked only at her. Jean understood.

"He's not serious, is he?" Capri signed. Jean understood him perfectly.

"I don't think that's possible," his advisor stepped forward. "He won't take it off," she stated, and another crew member approached the director to inform him about the issue.

"Alright, whatever. Are you all ready? Action!" the director shouted, and the camera in front of the drivers, arranged in a V-formation, started rolling. After that shot, there were more, and if it wasn't already clear how unusual Capri Persson's addition to Formula 1 was, the upcoming test race would make it undeniable.

Surprisingly, Persson remained in the top five during the first stage and in the top three during the second. And while it didn't mean much yet, Capri Persson's first pre-season in Formula 1 foreshadowed what would be a remarkable year for the unconventional rookie. The world was witnessing a driver with immense talent—but who was the driver facing?

Chapter Text

FORMULA 1: DRIVE TO SURVIVE

— SEASON 3, EPISODE 6 —
❝ THE GHOST ❞

Will Buxton, F1 Journalist:

"All the helmets on the track look the same, but there's one you can recognize instantly. One that moves faster than the rest. One that stands out. One that holds one of the brightest minds in motorsport. One, in particular, is completely different from the others. And when given the choice between making friends or building enemies, he didn't even hesitate. Capri Persson is probably one of the most disliked drivers among teammates and competitors, but that's the least of his concerns.

He started karting at four or five years old. The minimum age is six. By fifteen, he was racing in F3; by eighteen, in F2; and at twenty-one, he was behind the wheel of an AlphaTauri car. Persson did everything at the right time, making the most of every moment to reach his full potential. He could have raced in F3 at twelve, F2 at sixteen, and entered F1 a year older than Max Verstappen was when he debuted. And those are just the facts.

Capri Persson could have made history much earlier than expected. Christian Horner had him on his radar during Persson's final F2 season. Sauber did everything possible to sign him as a reserve driver this season. Even Mercedes took an interest when he was competing in F3, considering him for the junior program. But Persson refused.

'What do you mean by that?'

Toto Wolff, Team Principal, Mercedes-AMG Petronas:

"I asked his advisor in 2015 if we could have a conversation about Persson joining our junior program. F3 was one thing, but if Persson joined Mercedes' junior team, it would be a whole different story. And in some way, I think he knew that perfectly well. He always had something beyond 'potential.'

'What happened next?'

"I remember his advisor approached me at an event and, right in front of everyone, told me that Persson had declined. Capri Persson had said no to Mercedes."

Will Buxton, F1 Journalist:

"Capri literally said, 'No, thanks' to Toto Wolff—who knew exactly what he was missing out on. Just like that. And just like that, he made a name for himself in motorsport. He simply declined when he felt it wasn't his time yet. And that is something crucial—probably the foundation of all his victories.

Persson knew when he was ready to move from F3 to F2 and from F2 to F1. He knew, and never took the risk without first being sure he could secure a seat year after year. Some rookies rush into it, letting excitement ruin golden opportunities. Capri Persson did the opposite. And this is only his first season.

'What about his teammate?'

"Pierre Gasly was hoping this season would prove to Red Bull that he deserved the seat they took from him last year. But then Capri Persson arrived—and took with him not just Pierre's hopes but those of many other drivers. It's terrifying because, being such a private person, you never know what his next move will be. You don't know how much longer he'll stay with the team. So when the silly season arrives, every driver is wondering: Where will Capri Persson go next season? Will Red Bull take him, or will they choose Gasly? Should we be worried about Persson's next move?

Pierre had a strong season compared to the last, but all of that was overshadowed by Persson's arrival on the grid. Christian knows Gasly is very talented, but there's something Capri has that he doesn't: the ability to handle any kind of pressure."

Christian Horner, Team Principal, Aston Martin Red Bull Racing:

"I know that one day Capri Persson will be in Red Bull. Let's hope that day comes soon."

'If you had to choose between Gasly and Persson, who would it be?'

"(...) The one who proves that have what it takes to be part of the team. Even if that means going head-to-head with Max."

Pierre Gasly, Driver, AlphaTauri:

"I improved a lot this season. I know I'll return to Red Bull—that's my goal. As long as I stay competitive and keep that mindset, I know I have a chance, and the opportunity will come."

'What can you tell us about your teammate?'

"The real question is: what can you tell me? I know absolutely nothing about him. I met him during the AT01 test week, but it was just a fist bump, and that was it. We presented the car together at the launch event, but he never takes off his helmet. He answered a few questions using sign language. Have you even interviewed him?"

'He won't be participating in the series.'

"Of course. Should've figured. He doesn't participate in anything."

'How do you feel about that?'

"In what sense?"

'How do you feel about having Capri Persson as your teammate, given that Red Bull is now watching both of you?'

"I like to stay positive. I like to think that, despite Persson's arrival, Christian recognizes how much I've improved. Capri and I haven't spoken, but I'd like to believe he understands the situation I'm in. And I don't see him being interested in any team other than ours. But I can't speak for him. He's a ghost—literally."

Alexander Albon, Driver, Aston Martin Red Bull Racing:

"I heard they call him 'The Ghost.' No one knows if there's really someone inside that helmet and suit or just a spirit. They've also called him a machine, a robot, and many other things I can't remember. It's intriguing."

'Do you think Capri Persson could take your seat at Red Bull?'

"Well... I... Honestly? Yeah, I do. I know I should probably act confident about my place in the team and say that I deserve it. But I haven't performed well in Christian's eyes this season. I already know my seat isn't guaranteed for next year. And for this to be Persson's first season... I think I'm not the only one who feels intimidated. Even Sebastian could sense the rookie's presence."

Will Buxton, F1 Journalist:

"When Vettel, Hamilton, and Räikkönen saw him walk into preseason testing, we all thought the same thing. They were practically devouring him with their eyes—it was obvious. Years of dealing with the press after every race, with paparazzi everywhere, with the double-edged sword of being a celebrity in this sport... and then Persson arrives, untouched by any of it. We all knew that sooner or later, being a ghost would come with consequences. Otherwise, Capri Persson might have had one of the best rookie seasons in history.

Vettel was the only one who dared approach him after practice. I think he complimented one of his late-lap maneuvers. Sebastian recognizes a great driver when he sees one, so it wasn't surprising that he reached out. What surprised us was the way Persson responded. I mean, it's Sebastian Vettel—he probably deserved at least a handshake or a private conversation off-track. But that didn't happen.

Capri Persson didn't bow to anyone. But that didn't mean he didn't respect them.

They stood in silence for a few minutes. Persson looked at him through his visor and simply offered a fist bump to the four-time world champion. Sebastian hesitated but accepted, though not entirely convinced. Everyone saw it. And everyone stayed silent about it.

They don't call him 'The Ghost' for nothing. He is one—literally. It's like there's nothing inside the helmet, the suit, the gloves. No driver, no person, no emotions getting in the way. Just a ghost. A brilliant, hardworking, incredibly talented one. A complete mystery."

Christian Horner, Team Principal, Aston Martin Red Bull Racing:

'Do you think Capri Persson will go far?'

"I think Capri Persson will be great and will go very far. The real question is: how much?"

Chapter Text

Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates. November 2022

Breathe, four seconds.

Hold, four seconds.

Exhale, four seconds.

Endure, four seconds.

Repeat.

I closed my eyes, feeling the process run through my entire system. The white noise blasting in my headphones helped drown out any nervousness. The breathing and focus forced me not to think about anything else. I couldn't afford to think about anything else and ruin it.

I had to be fast. I had to prove I had what it took. I had to beat Max Verstappen for the first time in my life. And that would be enough to establish myself as the best driver. That would be enough to restore my confidence.

I knew this track. The weekend had been brilliant—I knew exactly what I had to do. I had a strategy. I just had to let it happen.

I couldn't lose.

I didn't want to win. I'm going to win.

When I heard a knock on the door, I knew it was time. I opened my eyes, took off my headphones, and grabbed my helmet, the number 9 displayed prominently. It was time to show the world that Capri Persson was truly a winner and not just a joke. This was my moment. This was everything I had fought for all these years.

Maybe I could even take off my helmet to celebrate.

I had to do it.

Don't fail.

FORMULA 1: DRIVE TO SURVIVE

— SEASON 5, EPISODE 10 —

❝ NO VICTORY ❞

Will Buxton, F1 Journalist:

"I don't recall a season like this for two rivals such as Max Verstappen and Capri Persson. And even less so for teams like Red Bull and AlphaTauri. It's definitely something we see once every fifty years, and it's happening right now.

The 2022 Formula 1 season started off strong for both rivals—exquisite race weekends where it was just the two of them. It was either Persson or Verstappen, AlphaTauri or Red Bull Racing. No one else mattered.

It was a tough season, especially since it marked Sebastian Vettel's final year in F1, but what these two delivered managed to distract everyone from everything else going on around them.

Max had already been champion in 2021. At the time, Capri was still paying his dues in the paddock after a rookie season in 2020, even though his achievements proved he could be the next champion. But Max was never going to allow that.

2021 had been a difficult year for Persson. He was no longer a rookie—he had to prove himself beyond just that title, which had surprised everyone since his pre-season debut in 2020. And while not everyone agreed, Capri had delivered a performance comparable only to Vettel's or Schumacher's in their golden eras. He knew what he was there for—he knew he was going to win, to rise, and that was his sole focus. It had been tough, but there was no doubt that Capri Persson's rise had been phenomenal, even driving an AlphaTauri.

And let's not forget how shocking his entry into F1 was—not just because of his talent but also because of his attitude. Perhaps what should have truly frightened everyone was that a rookie, in his very first steps, was already calling drivers like Carlos Sainz Jr., Daniel Ricciardo, and even Kevin Magnussen 'mediocre.' No one saw that coming. But the real concern was what he was capable of doing behind the wheel of an AlphaTauri—because if he could achieve all of this in a midfield car, what would he do with a much faster one? And why was he still with the team after two years? What was keeping him there?

To be honest, the AT01 was not a car that matched Capri Persson's level. But after that, AlphaTauri understood they needed much better cars to suit their star driver—something that became evident with the AT03, the first car from the team built to comply with the major technical regulation changes introduced in 2022.

But that wouldn't last long.

After winning the 2021 championship, Max Verstappen entered the new season with more confidence than ever. Everything he had worked for paid off that year, even with Persson breathing down his neck. But it still wasn't enough. Capri needed something more to reach Max's level, and that became clear as the 2022 season unfolded.

Pre-season testing was a preview—just like in 2020—of what the rest of the season would look like. And that meant the start of one of the most anticipated rivalries in Formula 1 in recent years. Silent yet calculated, the Persson-Verstappen showdown didn't fully take shape until 2022, paving the way for what I would personally call one of the best seasons of the last twenty years.

Bahrain was extraordinary—that first race where everyone tries to show their commitment for the rest of the season. But if we compare it to what followed, nothing from that race reflected what was to come.

Everything changed in Saudi Arabia—a brilliant Grand Prix for the season's two stars. This was where we first saw them closing in on each other. Persson reached Verstappen's level, and Verstappen fought with everything he had to shake him off—but it wasn't possible. Persson was right there, relentlessly chasing him. And two laps before the end, the podium was his. It was a spectacular start for Capri Persson.

Out of the 23 races that season, Max Verstappen won 10, and Capri Persson won another 10, leaving one victory each for Vettel and Hamilton. Their tie was what set the stage for the Abu Dhabi finale.

The tension had been there from the start. But the real question was—who didn't have tension with Capri Persson? Nobody liked the fact that he refused to take off his helmet, didn't give interviews, and avoided events involving the rest of the drivers. Persson was living a dream that many on the grid wished for—just showing up, racing, and winning. And the fact that the FIA had allowed it didn't sit well with anyone."

Christian Horner, Team Principal, Aston Martin Red Bull Racing:

"It was... terrible."

'Would you describe how you experienced it? What was it like?'

"Uff, I don't think I ever want to relive that. Let's just leave it where it belongs... I don't remember experiencing a race the way I lived through Abu Dhabi 2022. Simply put... It never happened."

Will Buxton, F1 Journalist:

"By that point, there was no doubt that Christian could already see it. If Capri Persson won Abu Dhabi... it could mean the end for Red Bull. It was that simple. It also wouldn't be healthy for either team to have their two best drivers not just tied but igniting a rivalry with no foreseeable end.

Everyone expected it—Capri Persson winning Abu Dhabi. It would have been unprecedented. It would have been something revolutionary. And I'd even go as far as to say that Christian Horner himself saw it coming. His expression changed completely when Turn 16 of the final lap arrived.

'What happened?'

Abu Dhabi would determine the tie that Max Verstappen and Capri Persson had carried up to that point—that was clear. But at the same time, Abu Dhabi would place one at the top of the championship and the other far below, crashing hard from the fall. The 57 laps leading up to the final one were unbelievable. Neither was willing to give up their position once they overtook the other, but at the same time, they overtook each other repeatedly—57 times. Fifty-seven! The rest of the drivers seemed like mere decorations. Checo Pérez and Pierre Gasly did a magnificent job, considering how little their teams seemed to care about them. All of Red Bull was focused on Max Verstappen, while all of AlphaTauri had its eyes on Capri Persson. It could have even been dangerous, but it was a competitive spectacle. You could feel the chills and tension in the garages.

One lap was led by Red Bull, the next by AlphaTauri. The wheel-to-wheel battles were so intense that entire teams stood up, feeling just how badly things could go. No one ever mentioned the danger between these two drivers because both seemed committed to pushing the limit, fully prepared to accept the consequences. Otherwise, there would have been an uproar when Persson boxed Verstappen in on one of the mid-race corners. But no one said a word because both were playing right on the edge between legal and illegal, and both Christian and Franz knew it perfectly well.

Becoming champion was the least of their concerns. Finishing as runner-up, however, was a completely different story. Neither of them would ever allow themselves to be second place, and that was the real issue. Winning didn't matter—it was about not losing to the other.

The race was one of the most-watched in the last fifteen years. By lap 58, everyone understood what the season had been for both drivers, as it had been fully reflected in the previous 57 laps. Lap 58 marked a before and after in both careers. They seemed perfectly synchronized in their battle, making contact, pulling apart but never separating. Until Max took turn 14 too aggressively, leaving an open path for Capri Persson. That must have earned Horner a few muttered curses, but just when they thought it was all over, with Persson barely ahead for a second, Capri completely lost control of his car on the final turn of the final lap.

The AT03 crashed straight into the barrier, and before anyone expected it, flames started to rise. Capri got out in time—the fire in the car was the least of the worries. What truly mattered was coming to terms with losing a victory that should have been his. How would Capri Persson take it personally?

No one ever knew, and probably no one ever will.

Max became a two-time world champion, but that wasn't really the focus of attention. The world fixated on a headline that was released that very morning, perfectly capturing everyone's reaction to what had arguably been one of the greatest season finales in recent history.

The article was titled 'Capri Persson: No Victory'—and it set the stage for the rest of his story."

Chapter Text

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❝ 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵

𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳 ❞

▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

"The male ego created drivers full of rage and ambition, ready to destroy every piece of their race car if they lost. But feminine disappointment—my feminine disappointment—watched my car burn in the flames as the man crossed the finish line. This feminine disappointment observed and cultivated in silence; it was stealthy, never aggressive or noticeable. This kind of disappointment killed you slowly and painfully, only to force you to rise again from the ashes. There was no rage, no ambition—only the crack, and the mourning, of my disappointment."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

▬▬▬▬ INDEX ▬▬▬▬

07 ..................... BACK ON TRACK

08 ..................... I DON'T WANNA TALK

09 ..................... ABOUT THE TEAM

10 ..................... MY BIGGEST FEAR

11 ..................... FEMALE DISAPPOINTMENT

12 ..................... I KNOW HOW IT FEELS LIKE

13 ..................... ALONE AT HOME

14 ..................... YOU CAME

15 ..................... WHY ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF HIM?

16 ..................... YOUR WORST TRAITOR

17 ..................... SKI SLOPE

18 ..................... WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR MIND FOR YOUR FUTURE?

19 ..................... OBSESSION

20 ..................... THE ACCIDENT

21 ..................... I DON'T WANNA GO

22 ..................... THIS IS LIFE

23 ..................... THE BLONDE LIAR

24 ..................... NEVER A 10

25 .....................WE ARE THE SAME

26 ..................... I JUST FEEL IT

27 ..................... OUR ETERNAL MOMENT

28 ..................... THE WORLD IS UNFAIR

29 ..................... THE MEETING

30 ..................... DO YOU WANT IT?

31 ..................... TAKE THE RISK

32 ..................... AN ITALIAN EVENING

33 ..................... I CARE ABOUT YOU

34 ..................... I'M SORRY

35 ..................... WHAT IF HE LOVES ME?

36 ..................... SILVERSTONE

37 ..................... HISTORIC DAY

38 ..................... PLAY DIRTY

39 ..................... HEAL AND HELP

40 ..................... WHY NOT?

41 ..................... IT FEELS LIKE HOME

42 ..................... GHOST EYES

 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧.TWO..............soon

Posters

Chapter Text

Bahrain GP, Middle East. March, 2023

The first years are always a mess, no matter how well your career has gone. People will try to prove that you don't have what it takes to be among the top 20. They'll do whatever it takes to weaken you, even if it means bombarding you with hundreds of cameras as if you were Britney Spears herself. The difference is, I was more like Hannah Montana.

People did everything they could to test how much you could endure, what you were capable of, how far they could push. When I came out of my first F1 race to check in with the other drivers, I had agreed with the FIA and my team on everything necessary to never have to take off my helmet, for any reason. And yet, the officials weighing us started an argument with Jean, insisting that I had to remove my helmet even if the FIA allowed me to keep it on, since they could subtract the weight of the helmet, considering that the rest of the drivers were still holding theirs while stepping on the scale.

A lot was said. They pressured the other drivers to speak badly about me, conspiring with the press. They left them on the edge of a cliff in a dirty and unpleasant game that only media people could scheme up. I ended up being Rookie of the Year and winning Action of the Year for the overtake I made on Albon in the last lap of the Abu Dhabi GP at the FIA awards during my first year. Clearly, I didn't go to collect the trophies. Partly for obvious identity reasons, and secondly, as a protest against how badly the FIA handled my first year, despite our agreement. In my second year, I won Action of the Year again for a move on Leclerc in Monza. And by the third year, I was already a runner-up—but that's another story, probably the worst of my career.

Being a runner-up is even worse than not scoring a single point all season. In fact, there was an episode in the Netflix series that went to great lengths to explain that event. They titled it "No Victory", and I replayed it eighteen times during the winter break so that when I returned to Abu Dhabi this year, I would understand what would happen if I lost again.

Runner-up felt like a joke when I crashed my car on the last lap, just moments away from winning. I just wanted to collect the trophy so I could go home and smash it against the floor. It would have been different if I hadn't scored any points, if my car had caught fire, if something else had happened. But instead, I sat on the couch in my apartment, watching the FIA hand Max that trophy for the second year in a row.

And since then, I haven't stopped replaying it in my head—until now. First race of the 2023 season. Capri Persson is ready to win. Capri Persson will win. That's what sets him apart from the rest.

I could no longer allow myself to trail behind Verstappen and Red Bull. Not anymore.

"Capri?" Jean called from the other side of the door, knocking twice as a warning before stepping in. That pulled me completely out of my thoughts. "Alright," she sighed. I stood up in my suit, my helmet resting on a table in the corner of the workshop room. "Ready?"

"What if I don't make it?" I whispered, consumed by my worry.

"No, no, no," Jean immediately shook her head, stepping closer to me. "Don't say that. Don't even think about it."

"Jean..."

"Look at me." She held my jaw in her hand, tilting my face so I was looking straight at her. "You're going to go out there, you're going to race, and you're going to thrive because you're the damn Capri Fucking Persson. Do you hear me?"

"Yes..." I mumbled.

"I can't hear you. What was that? A little bird chirping?" she exaggerated her motivational speech. "Did you hear me?!" she raised her voice, trying to hype me up aggressively, but I hid my laughter and raised my voice.

"Yes, Jean!" I shouted firmly, and she smiled, satisfied.

"You're already on the ground, Capri. There's nowhere lower to fall. The only thing left is to get up." She winked, placing a hand on my arm. "I know you only see bad things ahead because you feel surrounded by them... but why don't we look at the good opportunities that could come out of this instead?" I sighed at her words. "Instead of asking yourself, 'What if it doesn't happen?' ask yourself, 'What will I do if it does?'"

Go home and train for the next one. That's how things were, how it had always been, and how it always will be.

Winning is great, but nobody ever tells you what happens when you don't. Everything that comes with mourning what you thought you had in the palm of your hand.

Shit.

I could have been champion if it weren't for that mistake on the last corner—THE LAST! I should have lifted Verstappen's trophy, I should have taken that recognition. But I crashed. I got out and saw my car wrecked against the wall while the rest of the competitors drove past me.

While the world spent the winter break talking about Capri Persson's defeat, I was mourning the fact that what I had longed for hadn't happened. I had to carry the grief of that emptiness I felt when I turned on the TV to watch the FIA awards, where I had already imagined myself receiving the trophy and showing the world who Capri Persson really was.

When things don't happen, the focus is on getting back up and trying again. But no one ever tells you how to handle the pain of watching life go on, just not how you wanted it to.

Jean helped me with my helmet, and we left the room, entering the garage to see the new AlphaTauri car I had tested during the break. Nyck was talking to the mechanics, getting ready to step into his car when he saw me arrive. With a small nod in his direction, I greeted him briefly, and he smiled tightly, a little uneasy. It was no surprise how difficult it was for the rest of the drivers to share a space with Capri Persson.

Pierre Gasly had been my first teammate, and even though I knew he wouldn't always be, I think I had grown fond of the idea of seeing him in the garage often, testing cars together in the off-season. We never really talked, but I always had the idea that, after all, he could be the first to know the truth about Capri Persson—mainly because he had been my teammate since I started. But Pierre announced he was leaving AlphaTauri for the 2023 season, meaning I had to change teammates.

Nyck hadn't been too bad—decent, overall. He neither got in the way nor stood out too much, which worked. But it was clear he had an exaggerated respect, almost bordering on fear, for his teammate. That meant I had to get used to having him on track in a very different way than I was used to with Pierre.

2023 meant a big fresh start. A complete reset.

New teammate, new car, new reputation. New season.

We all got into our cars for the free practice lap, and at that moment, I knew that keeping my foot on the accelerator was like planting a great garden. Keeping my foot down meant believing in tomorrow; it meant still having faith that one day, what Turn 16 on the last lap in Abu Dhabi had taken from me would finally be mine.

It was just me, this single-seater, and John, my engineer, whom I could silence if I wanted to. So I gripped the steering wheel tightly, took a deep breath, and watched the lights change.

The circuit starts with a straight, followed by a tight right-hand turn that connects to a wider left-hand turn. Exiting that corner, you accelerate fully, avoiding the outer curb and keeping the car centered on the track to slightly attack the next apex. I had to keep the wheel straight for a fraction of a second and then change direction to the left while still accelerating and shifting gears. The next small right-hand bend is practically straight, but it's crucial to position yourself on the outside at the exit to attack the next corner. Verstappen was leading, for obvious reasons, followed by Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, and me. Sixth place.

There was a theory about qualifying in P6. Jean called it "the devil's position theory," and although I wasn't convinced, I couldn't deny that it never failed. Starting the first race of the season in "the devil's position" meant a guaranteed podium—unless the tradition changed this season or betrayed me.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Jean had said, sitting in my team's hospitality café during the French GP last season. "You started sixth this year in Australia, Miami, Spain, Canada, and Silverstone. And guess what..."

"I don't need to guess."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, lowering her voice when she realized she had spoken too loudly. "You won every single one of those GPs in a way that was torturous for the other drivers. France won't be an exception. Six is the devil's number."

"Actually, it's 666."

"Oh, come on," she looked at me in frustration. "The devil's position is already a fact. You can't deny it."

And she was right. France confirmed it, and then Monza did too. I couldn't deny it, so now I was expecting the same.

"Turn 10 in less than two seconds, Capri. I'll let you know when you can activate DRS," John notified me over the radio. Just as I was ready to take the corner, Carlos made one of the worst overtaking maneuvers I had ever seen.

"What the hell did he just do?" I asked. "Someone give that idiot an extra prize from me for ignoring every other driver so spectacularly while passing. I want to hear you all applaud when I smash his nose against the steering wheel," I spat, completely lost in my anger. John burst out laughing—I knew deep down he was grateful that my radio messages couldn't be shared with anyone else. It was just me and John, though sometimes Franz chimed in too.

"Copy that. But I'm going to ask you to calm down; you can pass him with DRS."

"I know, I know," I muttered. "I can pass him with my eyes closed. Want me to try?" I teased.

"Focus, Capri," John scolded.

I passed Carlos before the next corner, and I think I even heard him curse. The long curve leading into a fast, sweeping left-hander gave me the chance to overtake Lewis for fourth place and steal third from Russell on lap 43/57. I was doing well—I was making it happen.

"Capri, push. If you keep it up, you have a guaranteed podium," John said over the radio.

I didn't want a guaranteed third place. Who the hell did he think I was?

I wasn't going to maintain the pace—it wasn't about that.

"A guaranteed podium?" I laughed. "John, I started in 'the devil's position.' Of course, I have the podium secured."

"Capri, don't push the engine too hard. This is just the first GP; you should—"

"Goodbye, John. Should I call you when I win?" I grinned, though I knew he didn't fully appreciate it.

If there was something I loved on the track, it was knowing what each driver was willing to give in the competition. I believe years of experience mean nothing in relation to the car, which changes every season. Instead, experience matters when it comes to learning how to read the races of others. When you know each driver's blind spots, how they think, what they do—that's when you win. And this season, I was willing to do everything to build that knowledge.

You have to know whether they feel the car or just think about strategy. Or, on the contrary, if they have a perfect and absolutely necessary balance. If they did, they were great drivers. If not, they failed. The balance between feeling the car and thinking about your next move while knowing everything could change drastically in an instant—that was probably the key to driving an F1 car.

That was my formula. Know your competitors and find the balance between reason and instinct.

"Capri, box. We need to box," John notified me, his voice urgent over the radio.

"No, we don't, John. Not on the penultimate lap, and not when I just passed Leclerc for second place."

"Persson, I'm sorry."

"No, John. I'm even more sorry. I'm not pitting—I won't start the season on the wrong foot," I shouted, caught between anger and exhaustion.

"Capri Per—" I heard Franz jump in immediately, and my first instinct was to turn off the radio. I knew this would cost me, but it wouldn't be so bad if I got first place at the end of the day.

Max was ahead. And I felt like we had some unfinished business. Starting the season by taking him out of the lead would be the best way to boost my confidence. But Charles was on my heels, and that was driving me crazy.

"Verstappen is losing power. You need to overtake." said John five seconds after I turned the radio again.

"Is this a joke?" I felt deeply disappointed.

"This is your chance, Capri. Max won't be able to fight back. Pass him!"

I frowned. How was this possible?

"Come on, accelerate," I thought bitterly as I looked at the Red Bull car. My front wheels were approaching his rear ones, and all I wanted was for him to speed up. I wasn't going to win just because he couldn't accelerate. I wasn't going to win because he lost. I was going to win because I beat him fair and square. "Come on, come on, come on," I muttered, and suddenly, I was leading the race. Even Charles had passed him.

"That's it, Capri! You're leading! Keep pushing!" John shouted excitedly. Reaching the finish line, I could see the entire AlphaTauri team climbing the fence, cheering for me.

The checkered flag waved over me, but I said nothing. Reluctantly, I raised my hand to the crowd as if everything was fine—but it wasn't.

The good thing about always having a helmet covering my face was that I didn't have to fake a smile, a grimace, or anything. I just had to raise my hands, wave, and pretend everything was fine—just with my hands.

I parked the car and got out, moving confidently and greeting the roaring crowd. I saw signs with my name, team colors, and the iconic white AlphaTauri helmet. I watched Leclerc arrive in red and Verstappen pull up behind him, getting out in frustration.

"Great race, brother. Congrats," Charles said, fist-bumping me, which I returned. Max turned away and headed straight for the garage.

I watched him, thinking how ridiculous it felt to win almost by default because your rival had a failure. That's not winning—that's surviving. And I wasn't fully satisfied with that.

The team was waiting for me to celebrate, so I did everything I was supposed to do—act like the man of the grid.

If there's one thing I have to highlight, it's the feeling that filled me when I had to act like the man as soon as I won my first F1 race. It's strange, but in the small details, you deeply know that a woman would never be allowed to celebrate like that—because of the comments, the opinions, everything. It feels terrible, but... I couldn't deny that, in a way, it was amazing to enjoy the good parts of all this. Though I don't know how long it will last.

"You have to go to the cooldown room," Jean said, licking her lips uncomfortably.

"What?" I replied in sign language, frowning even though she couldn't see me.

"They demanded that you have to go to the cooldown room this time. Let's not make things more difficult."

"Difficult? Who the hell said that, Jean? What exactly am I supposed to do there with my helmet on?" I keep moving my hands angry and aggressively offended.

"Just go and show them it's pointless, that there's a reason we never did it. Go" she ordered, and with nothing more to say, I followed her instructions.

The team accompanied me to the cooldown room, and as soon as I entered, still with my helmet on, everyone went silent. The camera pointed straight at me as if it could pierce through my visor, and I stepped onto the device that would measure my weight. Max and Charles kept murmuring while watching my back.

I sat in one of the chairs and felt the drops of sweat tickling my face. The areas where the helmet pressed against me felt hotter than usual, and I could feel every bit of its texture. I was supposed to take it off like the rest of my teammates, drink water, put on the Pirelli cap, talk about the race, and watch the screen.

I simply sat there, staring at a fixed point through my visor, thinking about how disappointing the start of the season had been. Yes, the mark said that I won that race, but no for me. I didn't win, he gave up. It's different, and painful to start like this.

"Piastri is pretty good, don't you think, Persson?" Max asked, turning to me. Charles took a sip from his bottle, visibly uncomfortable.

"Yes, he's very good," I answered curtly with my hands, and both of them went silent, discreetly glancing around to see if anyone had understood what I had said in sign language.

It was my first time in a cooldown room. It had been discontinued in 2020, and in 2021 and 2022, the FIA agreed that, for obvious reasons, it was better to handle things like the rest of the drivers outside the podium. I didn't know what had changed now, but if this was good for anything, it was for thinking about the statement I had to write before leaving the paddock. Since I don't give interviews, the federation required me to write a statement after each race, answering certain questions and discussing the event. It was a good moment for me—while the others were doing live interviews, I had no pressure inside the motorhome, typing away on my computer.

But now, I just hoped things wouldn't keep changing like they just had.

Chapter Text

Saudi Arabian GP, Middle East. March, 2023

"Shit," I muttered. "Shit, shit, shit," I repeated and ran to grab my bag from a couch in the motorhome. I frantically rummaged through my backpack, pulling everything out, looking for what I needed. I opened the smallest pockets and searched, entering a full-blown crisis. This shouldn't be happening to me. Why couldn't I just be regular?

I hurried to look for something in the bathroom, but there was no sign of tampons or pads either. I couldn't just use toilet paper, and my pants were already stained. How could I expect the bathroom to be stocked with basic women's products if it was supposed to be used by a man? Who would even think that a woman from the team might need pads? Right?

"Fuck!" I screamed through clenched teeth, frustrated, glancing at the clock on my phone. I was running late for Saturday's qualifying. Jean was in a meeting, and I wasn't going to call Franz about this. I had to fix it on my own.

I looked at my pants once more in the mirror and checked every surface I had leaned against to make sure I hadn't stained anything else. At a glance, I didn't see any mess, so that was good — meanwhile, I still had a red stain on my butt. I had started putting on my uniform when I noticed, and I hated that feeling. I hadn't brought any pads because, clearly, I must have a sign on my forehead that says "idiot." How was that even possible?

I thought about my options. The nearest bathroom was in the paddock, among all the spectators, across the alley. But I didn't trust that it would have pads available either. Of course, this could only happen to me, and right when I was most in a rush.

I hadn't brought any jacket either, so I grabbed a notebook I found in the motorhome and ran toward the paddock alley. I was desperate. I couldn't be late for qualifying over something like this — I couldn't allow it.

Holding the notebook behind me, covering my backside, I almost ran across the large dining hall we all shared and hurried into the bathrooms, grateful that no one was there since qualifying was about to begin. But to my disappointment, the women's bathroom didn't have any pad or tampon dispensers. I wanted to die right there. Toilet paper just wouldn't be enough — I couldn't race like that.

"Oh," I heard someone murmur behind me in a pitying tone, and I realized I hadn't kept the notebook covering the stain on my pants. When I turned around, it was a girl with chocolate-colored hair and tanned skin. Her hair was long and beautiful, and the way she stood showed a certain elegance, clearly reflected in her outfit.

"Sorry," I apologized as if I had done something wrong. The girl looked back at me after turning away. I didn't know what to do, and somehow, I felt extremely embarrassed.

"You don't have to apologize. It happens to all of us," she smiled kindly, but I was starting to feel the cramps in my body. "I don't know if I should ask, but... do you need help? Do you have pads or tampons? These places don't even bother to have good hand soap."

"You would save my life if you did," I confessed, lowering my gaze and holding onto the sink.

"No need to say it twice," she smiled and placed her bag on the sink, approaching me and searching inside it. "My name's Carmen. Yours?"

"America," I answered.

"Beautiful name. I can totally picture having a daughter named America," she smiled as she searched. "America Russell-Mundt," she murmured very quietly with a playful smile. I frowned.

"Russell?" I asked, and she looked up.

"Pads or tampons?"

"Whatever you have."

"I'll give you both, just in case. Take them," she offered, and I slipped into one of the stalls. "Do you want me to see if I can find you another pair of pants or something?" she asked from outside, and I thought about it for a second.

"Would you do that for me?"

"Oh, honey. Don't even doubt it. I'll be back as soon as I can, alright? It'll be quick."

And so it was. Carmen showed up just as fast as I was beating myself up over the situation and passed a pair of black Mercedes track pants under the stall door.

"Hope you're not a Red Bull fan," she laughed, and I smiled, taking them. So she was Carmen Mundt. Jean had a bit of an obsession with Carmen's style, although I always ended up dressing like a French philosophy student.

I changed as quickly as I could and came out to wash my hands. Carmen was still there.

"Better?" she asked.

"Way better. I don't know how to thank you, if you hadn't walked in, I probably would've stayed there forever. I didn't even bring my phone from the desperation," I shook my head, frustrated.

"Don't worry, Am. This happens to all of us; you don't have to be embarrassed. Plus, those pants look fantastic on you. I think I should give you more merch."

"Oh no, don't even try," I laughed. "Mercedes is having a bit of an underwhelming season."

"Are you a fan or do you work here?" she asked, half-curious and half-amused.

"Kind of both," I dried my hands and glanced at the wall clock in the bathroom. "Well, Carmen, I should go. I don't know how to thank you enough for what you did for me."

"Don't mention it. We're women — that's what we do."

"I'll make sure to send you something to thank you, don't doubt it," I squeezed her hand before leaving. "Bye!" I waved and ran back to my motorhome to change and head to qualifying.

***

"You have no idea what happened to me today," I told Jean as we left the motorhome.

"I leave you alone for two seconds, and you get your period? What kind of attention-seeking technique is that?" she joked, and I couldn't help laughing as I proceeded to tell her about Carmen.

"You told her your name was America?" Jean frowned, questioning exactly what I had just told her.

"Yes. What's wrong with that? Technically, I didn't lie. And for your information, the Russell-Mundt heiress could have my middle name."

"Ridiculous," Jean rolled her eyes playfully as we walked toward the press area to deliver the statement about the quals — by the way, I got P3.

"How did your meeting go?" I asked her.

"Well, Am..." she bit her lip, thinking about how to word what had happened minutes before qualifying started. "It's obvious Nyck's not doing too well, but the team still has faith."

"They have faith?" I frowned, puzzled. "Jean, it's barely been three races."

"I know, but you know who's in charge here. Christian wants upgrades for De Vries as soon as possible. He can't blame the car because you're doing fine. But all Nyck has done is finish among the last two since preseason. Horner and Franz are discussing it."

In a way, they were right. Nyck had been eliminated in the first GP and hadn't made it past Q1 today, same as the previous race. The car was fine, so obviously, the problem was the driver, meaning the whole garage would be pressuring him tomorrow to at least finish fifteenth.

"I hope they don't kick him out," I sighed. "It would be the second teammate change in less than four months."

"Do you miss him?" Jean asked out of nowhere after a silence, and I turned to look at her.

"What?"

"Sorry. Franz should be asking you this, but he sent me instead," she explained as we entered the press office hallways. "Do you miss Pierre?"

"We didn't even talk, Jean. What kind of question is that? Are you working for ESPN now?"

"I should be. They don't pay me extra for this nonsense," she joked. "But seriously, we never talked about it. After everything that happened, you never talk to anyone..."

"He was a good teammate, okay? But just another teammate. I'll have hundreds throughout my career. I don't want to talk about it anymore," I answered firmly.

"You don't want to talk about Pierre, or you don't want to talk because it brings...?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Period," I said, picking up the pace. "I don't want to bring it up. I don't want to dwell on it. I can't stay stuck on that ending. I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It. Alright?" I snapped, and the topic came crashing into me even though I didn't want it to.

In the middle of the hallway, without even noticing, we bumped into someone, and I turned around, annoyed — without realizing it was the very topic I didn't want to talk about.

Maybe I did miss Pierre a little. Or rather, I missed the idea that one day, I'd be brave enough to tell him the truth because he was my teammate. Racing is an incredibly lonely place — very few people truly understand what it feels like. Exactly 20 people. And the closest to you is your teammate, no matter the competition. They're the ones you should rely on. You can have friends outside the team, but there are contracts preventing you from sharing information — so your best ally is your teammate. As much as your worst enemy.

Since the beginning, I had the idea Pierre would be the first to know. I grew attached to the idealized version of the situation, carrying it with me for a long time. Maybe one day I would ask him to follow me to the motorhome after a race and take off my helmet in front of him. It was significant because he was my teammate, and sometimes seeing him isolated or awkwardly joining other people's conversations broke my heart. But when Franz told me he was leaving the team for this season like it was nothing to me, it actually felt strange. We hadn't even talked about it. Nothing. But I couldn't deny he had been an incredible teammate despite everything on track.

It was strange because I hadn't realized how much it would affect me until now. I hadn't given it importance because I had a tie to break with Max — and suddenly, I found myself in a moment when I needed someone who truly understood, not someone who pretended to. That's when you realize you need your teammate. I even thought about calling him, but it was absurd. Three years as teammates, and I was going to call him now that everything was over? What would be the point? We weren't close — there was no reason to stay in touch. And then you realize just how lonely you really are — in a hotel room, rubbing ice from the bucket you asked for along with vodka over the area that hurts after crashing at the final corner, losing your whole season, while watching the news about the new world champion.

That's why I didn't want to bring it up now. But I kept crashing into the problem over and over again — and there it was again.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"And you drive like this?" I muttered grumpily, turning my back to him. I could feel Max's gaze lingering on me, confused. Jean said nothing, and the people with him kept talking.

With the memory of his eyes spinning around in my head, I glanced at him once more — and stupidly panicked when we made eye contact.

How could I be scared to look at him when I had just beaten him at the first race of the season?

Probably because I had engraved his victorious stare in my mind all winter as the most torturous reminder of what it meant to lose.

"What just happened?" Jean whispered as we turned the corner.

"You just summoned the topic I didn't want to talk about. That's what happened," I huffed, hundreds of memories breathing down my neck, hunting me like predators.

"Maybe you should do something about it," she said as if it were that easy, and I looked her straight in the eyes, making it clear she had no idea what she was talking about.

"You're literally traumatized, Capri," she whispered very quietly. "You need to talk about it."

"I need to drop this off at the office, bring Carmen something to thank her, then get to the hotel, take off these ridiculous pants with the rival's logo and name, and get to training after changing my tampon. That's what I need. So if you don't mind, I'm too rushed and bleeding out to keep talking about this."

Chapter Text

Melbourne, Australia. March, 2023

The Australian GP was always fun. Sunny days, 5.303 kilometers in length, 58 laps, and a total of 307.574 kilometers. The fastest lap was held by Charles Leclerc with 1:20.260 in 2022, and I liked to keep that in mind because there was always a chance to break another record. The circuit was located around Albert Park Lake, south of the city, and it was pretty cool to do the track walk on Thursday as soon as we arrived, with John, Jean, and a couple more people from the team—two of them unaware they were walking with Capri Persson.

For anyone who had seen me in the garage or hanging around Jean, Franz, and the others, I was a tiny part of the team. When I wasn't wearing my helmet and uniform, I was just another girl in an AlphaTauri t-shirt, listening to conversations about driver Persson. The first few times I had to analyze races with the engineering team, I did it from another room with a direct connection to Jean so she could express what I was thinking. Later, I preferred to join the meetings as Capri Persson's "assistant," pretending to speak for him when, in reality, I was speaking for myself. By 2022, Franz, Jean, and I decided to have three of the team's main engineers sign a confidentiality agreement to hold deeper and more private analysis meetings. These three engineers were Louisa, William, and John. So the five of us, plus two more engineers, walked along the track asphalt, talking about it, while Nyck and the rest of the team followed a few meters behind.

"Hamilton once said these track walks were pointless before the race," John commented as we crossed Turn 9, the Clark Chicane, for no particular reason.

"What do you think?" Louisa asked me directly, and I looked at my feet on the asphalt.

"It's Hamilton; I can't go against that," I smiled, shrugging.

"Oh, yes, you can," Jean laughed, knowing how much I loved challenging the greats.

"I respect Lewis, no doubt about that. But you can tell he's a driver who thinks completely and totally about strategy on track. Otherwise, he would understand what it means to come and step on the circuit, to feel it somehow, to visualize it, to connect with it..."

"And here begins the spirituality class," Jean joked, and we all laughed. A part of me did believe in a kind of spirituality to connect with the track, something beyond us that fully intertwines with what happens in the here and now that no strategy, weather, or feeling could change. But I wasn't a religious person.

"I'd love to see headlines saying 'Capri Persson contradicts Lewis Hamilton and his techniques,'" John added, jotting things down in his notebook.

"Don't say it twice; you know I'm capable of doing it."

On Friday mornings, I used to go for a run early before breakfast. It's an extremely common habit since I started racing, and every year it gets more fun. I usually look for places in the cities where I stay to run outdoors—parks, downtown areas, beaches, quiet neighborhoods, anything. Melbourne had beautiful spots to enjoy, and since I was staying with the whole team at the Quest St Kilda Road, very close to the circuit, I decided to walk to the Royal Botanic Gardens of Melbourne to run there, surrounded by fresh air, colorful flowers, and incredibly satisfying green grass.

Last time I stayed here, the previous season, I ran from Middle Park Beach to Sandbridge Beach, which is about 4.5 km, and then directly back to the hotel, another 6.7 km. It was great to see the sunrise every morning and take amazing photos. I'm a huge fan of sunrise photography, so I wasn't going to miss it. But running in the botanical garden didn't work at sunrise, so I trained early in the gym and then went running once the sun was already bright above us.

When I returned, I saw Franz having breakfast in the hotel garden, which I had to cross to get to the rooms, and I didn't hesitate to approach him. It was a wonderful day for practice sessions.

"God, I'm starving," I said, stealing a piece of apple from his plate after taking off my headphones, and Franz laughed at me.

"You look good. How much did you run?"

"Have you been to the botanical garden yet? It's 38 hectares of pure landscaping," I said, sitting across from him in the empty seat while I told him about my run and how much I had enjoyed it, and that I couldn't wait to cover the parts I had missed during the rest of the weekend. Franz listened to me like a grandfather listens to a child talking about the things that fascinate them.

Since we met, Franz had always occupied a place in my life that I had never allowed anyone else to take. He was my boss, my friend, my guru, my guide, and my family, although the respect I had for him limited me from talking about certain things. He had always been open to talking about anything I needed, just like he did with Pierre at the time and now Nyck.

"And how about you? How's it been going?" I asked before taking a long final sip from my bottle.

"Well, I've had a couple of meetings..."

"Agh," I exclaimed in exaggerated disgust, and he lowered his gaze, smiling. "Can I know with whom?"

"Horner, we needed to talk about Nyck."

"Ooh, now I'm interested," I settled into my seat.

"I can't tell you much," he said, taking a sip of his coffee, shrugging, and I laughed. I knew he'd end up talking.

"But you can't deny that Nyck isn't what you expected him to be."

"Yes, you're absolutely right about that. But changing teammates is part of the game, so we have to get used to it," he crossed his arms on the table, letting out a heavy sigh that showed how tired he was of the subject. It seemed serious for the third race of the season. It was obvious that silly season was looming over all of us; I had no doubt about it, but maybe Nyck did.

"Jean already asked me—why didn't you?" I threw out without warning, and Franz looked at me for a few seconds, thoughtfully breathing. He knew what I was talking about.

"I never had the chance to seriously talk about those kinds of things with you," he answered simply, and my amused expression completely changed. "I assumed you talked about deeper things with Jean, and I needed to know. Pierre and you didn't talk the entire time you were together, not even outside of this Capri Persson role-playing game..."

"It's not a game, Franz."

"I know, kid. I just needed to know how you were about it. I know that a teammate change can seem like a silly topic, but I also know it can clash with other things that have happened, and the mental health of my team is also part of the game. A very essential part," he explained.

"Do you miss him?" I diverted the conversation.

"Yes, of course I do. I got used to having both of you under control; I knew what you were doing, what you wanted, and what you needed. Although when Pierre left, I realized how little I actually knew about the private lives of both of you. And that made me ask myself hundreds of questions."

"You never really know people, Franz," I sighed, leaning back against the chair and looking away from the conversation.

"We both know what I'm talking about," he replied, fixing his gaze on me, and neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

"So, are you going to ask if my dad took me to my first kart races?" I said with some amusement.

"What about your mother?"

Franz's question now felt like playing chess with someone who knew my weak points, my holes in the game, but never knew how deep they were.

"She's fine, at home," I replied casually, and Franz shook his head, amused.

"How did you learn sign language? No detours this time," he smiled at the end like it was checkmate.

"My mother is deaf-mute. I had to learn it practically from birth."

"Do you have siblings?" he continued.

"No, I'm an only child of a practically single mother."

"Practically?"

"That's a lot for a start, Franz, don't you think? Or is this a second job interview?" I laughed, and he smiled at the joke. "I'm going to take a shower before breakfast, or I'll be late. See you at the circuit?" I stood up, and Franz nodded, finishing his plate of fruit. I waved goodbye, and before I walked away, he asked:

"Would you change teams?"

I stopped after taking two steps away from Franz and looked down, wondering if he was serious or just wanted to make sure I was comfortable where I was. I turned to look at him, confused, but since he didn't say anything else, I had to speak.

"I have no plans to leave, Franz. Unless you want to fire me."

"Are you afraid you won't find another team?"

"I'm afraid you will, that you'll make the biggest mistake of your career, because you would know too much about me to let me go without guilt. That's why team directors usually don't ask about the lives of their drivers. But you already did, and if I keep talking about how sad my life was, you'll feel pity and never let me go," I joked, and he sighed. "See you later, Franz."

He didn't answer.

Chapter Text

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

I was beginning to believe that it wasn’t necessary to arrive just in time for Grand Prix weekends. I could arrive early, wander aimlessly through the paddocks, watch others endure the weight of the press, the photos, and the cheap questions thrown at them by the worst journalists in the industry. I liked drinking coffee in the hospitality area, sitting near the windows to watch everything others had to suffer and I was lucky enough to avoid. I hadn’t noticed how many things they had to do that I had negotiated with the federation not to. The Netflix cameras harassed anyone they came across, and even though I was part of the group of drivers who entered F1 after Netflix and its whole production, I was grateful not to have a camera on my shoulder 24/7.

I hadn’t seen Carmen again since the Saudi Arabian GP, but I had made sure to send her a new pair of pants to replace the ones she gave me to help me out of a jam, along with a thank-you card. She had been very kind and warm to me, and I felt a strong need to return the gesture, even in the smallest way. If she hadn’t given me a nudge to ask for feminine hygiene products, I might not have even been able to race due to the discomfort. I could handle a flooded track, but menstruation was another matter.

I returned to the motorhome when I got a message from Sarah—my masseuse, trainer, and companion since I started racing. Sarah and I weren’t the closest people in the world, but along with Jean, she was one of the only people I’d known since the beginning, and she had always done an excellent job with me. So we were like a strange, long-term, open marriage.

"Did you miss me in Saudi Arabia?" she smiled when she saw me, and I gave her a welcoming hug.

"You can’t imagine what happened to me."

"Having kids sucks. Don’t do it," she joked, and I laughed as we started warming up. Sarah had become a mother two years ago, but Sid—her son—had gotten sick a few weeks back, and if she wasn’t the one helping me train, it wasn’t going to be anyone else. So when I couldn’t have her around, I just did what I could on my own.

"... and since we started, Nyck hasn’t stopped crashing the car. I don’t know what’s going on, he’s good. He has a lot of potential, and now he can’t even blame the car because it’s obvious it works with me," I explained to Sarah what she had missed so far. "I don’t want to think about it, but I don’t know how much of a future he has if this continues."

"Haven’t you thought about talking to him?" she asked from behind me while helping me stretch.

"In three years of sharing with Gasly, I’ve never said a single word to him. What makes you think I should talk to Nyck?"

"The fact that you’re scared of having to change teammates again. I don’t know, think about it. Maybe it’s time to start telling everyone the truth—as a sign. You could even encourage him, you’ve been in his shoes too."

"No, no. I was a rookie too, but I never had to retire from more than two races in less than half a season," I explained.

"Is it really that bad?"

"He’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, he managed to finish Saudi Arabia. But for how the season’s going, it doesn’t look good, and Franz has already hinted that the team bosses are starting to move pieces."

I stared at a fixed spot in my motorhome room while Sarah gently massaged my shoulder blade as I sat. I was deeply worried, not just about Nyck but about the constructors’ championship. At this rate, it didn’t matter how much I won if he kept causing problems.

"I barely talk to my teammates, and when I see they’re at risk of being replaced, I grow fond of them. I don’t know if I can get used to someone new all over again," I shook my head, and then I heard the door open without warning, making my whole body tense—until my eyes met those bright, playful blue eyes laughing at my reaction and that ridiculously blond hair.

"You’d die to have me as your next teammate, wouldn’t you?" he laughed teasingly, but with his usual innocence, and I jumped off the massage table to hug him tightly, bumping into his chest.

"Finally, you show up! Has being part of Mercedes gone to your head?" I punched his shoulder, and he laughed loudly.

"You’re dying of jealousy, that’s what’s happening."

"At least I’m a full-time driver, not a reserve," I teased, and he laughed even though it stung.

"Low blow, Persson. Extremely low blow," he shook his head.

"I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Capri," Sarah said, picking up her things and leaving the room, closing the door behind her. Mick sat down with his characteristic shyness on one of the couches, and I handed him a water bottle.

"I waited for you all winter. Do I need to send you a formal invitation to remind you we’re friends, Schumacher?" I pulled my suit out from where I had it stored and laid it over my leggings and T-shirt.

"Sorry, I know I should’ve called, but you know… Dad," he sighed.

"I know, Mick. You don’t have to explain anything to me," I turned to him, giving him my full attention, and he smiled wistfully.

My friendship with Mick wasn’t something I had planned; in fact, it was a strange accident back when we used to race together in F3. Before the Baku race in 2017, I had to use the restroom and, to avoid holding things up, I ran into the nearest one. I took off my helmet to go into the stall and came out to wash my hands without it, thinking no one would come in since everyone was already getting ready for the race—but I was wrong. A rushed Mick came into the bathroom, and his already big eyes seemed to take up half his forehead in shock.

"I can explain after the race," I said first.

"Okay..." he replied, still stunned by the news. After a great race, we met again at one of the paddock cafés.

"So..." he took a few seconds to say something once he sat in front of me, but even trying, no words came out of his mouth.

"I thought it’d be easier, but there’s not much to explain," I swallowed hard from nerves, and Mick slowly nodded, still amazed.

"How did it happen?"

"When I realized I didn’t want to be seen as the only woman on the track but as a driver like the rest of the guys," I explained, confused by my own words. I had never told anyone that and never planned to—except Mick at that moment. "It doesn’t affect anyone, and I race under the same conditions as the others."

"Then why don’t you tell everyone that you’re... a woman?" he asked, the echo of his surprise present in each word and his hesitant tone.

"Because I’ve already accepted that no matter how much inclusion and equality they promote, if they find out Capri Persson is a woman, they won’t see Capri Persson anymore. They’ll see ‘the girl on the grid,’" I explained without looking him in the eyes, fixing my gaze on the coffee I had ordered but wasn’t drinking.

"Aren’t you proud of being the girl on the grid?" he kept asking, innocently.

I thought about it for a few seconds, looking out the window at the rest of the paddock.

"No," I shook my head. "I want to be Capri Persson."

Mick sighed and nodded, never taking his eyes off me, as if still processing everything. He was the first to make me understand how heavy it was for the world to accept certain truths about Capri Persson. But Capri wasn’t an alter ego—it wasn’t a game to me. My real name is Capri América Persson, and I wanted to be recognized as such. Not as the only woman on the grid, because no one recognizes Ayrton Senna for being a man on the grid. Everyone recognizes the name, the legacy, the story—not just a label.

"I guess now that I know, I’ll have to sign a few things, right?" he asked, a little worried.

"You know too much now," I narrowed my eyes at him, jokingly threatening, and he laughed. "We can be friends, and that’s enough. Let’s not make it bigger."

"Okay, sounds good," he smiled, placing his hands on the table to get up.

"Mick," I called, and he turned to see me holding my pinky up toward him. "Do you solemnly swear not to disclose anything discussed in this private meeting of two premature friends?"

Mick smiled, showing all his teeth with that contagious grin.

"I swear on my family," he said, linking our pinkies.

"You’d better. Now you know too much. It’s our friendship or your death," I joked, and he laughed so loudly that everyone in the café turned to look at him, and he quickly covered his mouth.

"You’ve got a great sense of humor when you’re not trying to kill us on the track."

After that, Mick was the only person I could lean on, but then I moved to F2 and then F1, and he stayed in F2. We couldn’t see each other often, and I accepted that making friends in the paddock was tough. We didn’t have time to meet outside races, and when everything happened at the end of last season, Mick checked in on me, but his father was going through health issues he didn’t want to talk about. Then he moved from Haas to Mercedes, and we lost touch. It was like realizing your high school friends now had completely different lives from yours, and despite the friendship, they were strangers. It was accepting that we’d grown up, that we weren’t 17 or 18 anymore, and that we didn’t race together anymore.

"Don’t you want to talk about it?" he asked as I zipped up my suit.

"No, I don’t want to talk about it."

"It wasn’t a bad season, anyway. You were runner-up," he crossed his arms.

"Are you going to keep talking about what I said I didn’t want to talk about?"

"Sorry, I forgot you’re a trust-issues character written by Taylor Swift," he raised his hands in defense as he began to pace the room.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Too much time with Laila," he muttered, and I laughed.

"I love Taylor Swift, but this isn’t about my trust issues. How would you feel if, in the last lap, the last corner of the entire race, of the entire season, you crashed into the wall when you were just seconds—milliseconds—from the finish line and becoming champion?" I challenged, getting worked up. Mick handed me my helmet. "I was so close, Mick. So damn close..."

"Things happen for a reason. God must’ve wanted it that way..."

"I don’t believe there’s a God out there, Mick. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the perfect comfort for other drivers, for you, for everyone. But not for me. God was never there for me, and I stopped believing in that a long time ago," I took the helmet and put it on while Mick watched me and adjusted the cables.

"You must believe in something when you go out there," he suggested.

"No," I shook my head simply. "Ordinary people need to believe in something to keep from being afraid."

"Let me guess—you’re not ordinary?"

"No, Mick," I laughed, knowing exactly what I’d say. "I’m not afraid."

"Whatever you say," he chuckled, and I took a deep breath, getting ready to leave. "There’s a party on Sunday, just a regular thing. Everyone’s going," he said.

"Okay, sounds fun. I hope you have a good time."

"Yeah, I hope so too—because you’re coming," he replied, adjusting the collar of my suit.

"No, I don’t think so."

"That wasn’t a question, Capri."

"I don’t have anything decent to wear." That was partly true. If I knew there wouldn’t be any important events that weekend I had to attend, all the clothes packed in my suitcase were either sportswear or team-branded outfits. Not much else.

"Well, I’ll take care of that with Laila, because I’m sure you'll tell me you don’t have time to shop for anything. You're going to that party whether you like it or not."

"Reasons?" I stopped him before he could cross the door convinced the conversation was over. No way. Mick looked at me, confused. "What are the reasons I should go?"

"There are plenty of reasons."

"Then pick the best one to convince me."

"That you start seeing the other drivers as your teammates, not your enemies," he crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.

"Good thing I told you to use the best one."

That Friday's practice went pretty well, we had done a great job and Nyck had managed to escape his streak of bad luck, setting a record for the fastest lap count of his season so far. It was a big achievement for my teammate, so when I got back to the garage, I didn’t hesitate to give him a thumbs-up. That was as far as I’d go. Franz and the team looked happy and confident, and we were all excited about the results since the cars didn’t have any issues requiring major changes. Saturday's qualifying session was perfect — I placed behind Alonso and ahead of Max, securing third position. The race atmosphere already felt as close as victory, but everything went to hell in the pits on Sunday.

When you're going 375 km/h, you never imagine that your worst enemy will be the moment when everything stops. Pit stops are one of the most normal things in F1 — necessary and part of the strategy — but your car refusing to move? Not normal.

"What’s happening?" I almost screamed inside the car in the pits with the entire crew around me waiting for me to go. I changed gears, hit the accelerator, but nothing happened. I could hear the cars passing on track and mentally counted the positions I was losing. Your mind splits into hundreds of pieces to think separately and form conclusions while trying to get the machine working.

"What the fuck is going on?!" I shouted over the radio and exchanged glances with Franz and John from their spot across the pit lane.

"Keep trying, we’re working on it," John said over the comms.

"Well, it doesn’t look like it, because this shit isn’t working!" I cried out in frustration, pressing every button I could to get the car started.

I couldn’t lose my position — and I already had. I couldn’t drop below fifth — and I was already tenth. I hadn’t worked so hard all weekend just to end up here. I wasn’t getting out of that car until I crossed the finish line in first place. I wasn’t going to give up.

I had never retired from a race in my entire F1 career until... that day.

I had a flashback — one of those no driver should have in the middle of a race, especially not while trying to revive a dead car. But seconds felt like years in that moment, and I hadn’t felt anything like it since Abu Dhabi. The sound of the cars flying by, the panic in my chest, the heat on my neck and ears, the pounding heartbeat, the wildfire growing silently inside. I had never retired until Abu Dhabi. I had never given up until then, and now... now everything came rushing back like it was the first time.

But unlike back then, I didn’t step out of the car defeated. Somehow, I found the solution buried in those bad memories and that overwhelming desperation that clouded my ability to process the present. Without saying a word and in less time than a regular pit stop, I was back on track.

If I had been just any other driver with 26 laps to go and a massive disadvantage from last place, I would’ve started praying. But I didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense, so I started racing.

Even Nyck was four positions ahead of me. In moments like that, you can’t think about failure. You can’t dwell on the frustration spreading through your system like bad medicine administered in the pits. You can’t focus on the rage flowing through your body like fuel in the car. You can’t overthink.

"Distances," I asked over the radio, and John replied immediately. I had already passed Magnussen and Albon was ahead, with 25 more laps and a goal to chase.

"Don’t mess this up," I whispered to myself. "Don’t you dare, Persson. Not again."

"Good, Capri! Good!" John shouted over the line when I pulled off a double overtake on Sargeant and Leclerc. "Nyck is ahead of you, we’ll tell him to let you pass."

"No. I’ve got 25 laps ahead of me, I can waste one on him."

"Capri..."

"Let him build his confidence, okay? He needs it." I concluded, and I wasn’t lying. I wasted half a lap battling Nyck, and although it meant nothing for the competition, I knew he needed that. How would he feel after seeing I couldn’t take down the rest of the grid, and now the two of us were fighting for position? It’s not the same comparison — I don’t even know if Lewis had the same intention back then — but I remember the first time I felt like a giant for fighting Hamilton for a position. I gave it everything, and I wasn’t going to back down — and neither was he — and although he passed me and I ended up third... I had made things hard for Hamilton, and no rookie gets to enjoy that. But I sure did.

Ahead were Ocon and Gasly — another double overtake — before I reached Carlos Sainz Jr. Son of a bitch. He was good, I wouldn’t deny it — extremely good. But not good enough. When I passed him, he tried to take the position back from the outside, and that’s when his confidence crumbled. If you’re going to break the rules, at least do it right.

Twenty laps to go. Ten places to steal. I couldn’t fail.

"Capri," John called. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Your heart rate, Capri."

"That’s what happens when you actually race, John. If you don’t have anything important to say, we’ll talk later."

I hated those unnecessary interruptions, but he was right. The moment he mentioned it, I became aware of the sensation — like my heart was about to burst out of my chest, like I didn’t have full control of my head, and while I raced, I fought my thoughts, my memories, that memory. I passed Zhou and had a flashback, overtook Piastri and another memory came rushing in.

It felt like I was driving straight and brakeless back in time, to that moment, that pain, that disappointment, that irrational force I couldn’t fight. It was bigger than me. Stronger than a race car at nearly 400 km/h.

"That was brilliant, Capri! Keep it up!" John exclaimed with excitement, and I didn’t even understand what had happened until I checked one of the mirrors. Triple overtake on Hulkenberg, Norris, and Pérez. Impossible. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to focus on the race, on the data John was relaying, on feeling the car as an extension of myself.

"P5, Capri, that’s amazing. Six laps left. Stroll is 0.132 ahead. If you pass him, it’s enough. You’ve done an incredible job in 20 laps."

"It wouldn’t be incredible if I finish fifth," I replied, and I could picture John shaking his head. "Positions?" I asked.

"Verstappen leads, followed by Hamilton, Alonso, and Stroll."

"Come on, Capri. Do it," I told myself, holding back tears. I couldn’t control it anymore. I gripped the wheel tighter so no one would see my hands shaking. Sometimes I couldn’t breathe, and I found comfort in the strategy John and the team had prepared for me. I passed Lance quickly, then Fernando. Just 3 laps left. Lewis and Max. My tears mixed with sweat as I fought sentimental thoughts pulling Abu Dhabi back into my mind like a magnet.

"Capri, you’re doing an excellent job," I heard John say again and again between race data. It was the final lap, and once again it was Max and me, at war for first place. There was far more at stake than anyone could see. Would these tormenting memories help me understand how much it hurt to lose against Max? Would everything I had endured over the past 26 laps help me learn I couldn’t keep coming second to Max Verstappen? Did I need anything more to pressure myself?

Apparently, I did. And that "more" was about to show up. The gap between our cars was almost nonexistent, but Max wouldn’t let me through for anything. He made aggressive moves, and I tried attacking with equal aggression, but nothing worked. I could hear the crowd’s screams getting closer, and I tried. I gave it everything I had to overtake him, but our tires made contact, forcing me to fall back by a few hundredths — giving Max a quarter of a second lead over me. And as we reached the finish line, I saw him cross it first.

This time, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I didn’t wave as I got out, I didn’t even celebrate. I ran to the motorhome and ripped off my helmet, struggling to breathe. The look of panic on Jean’s face burned into my memory as he called the medical team. It would have been less ridiculous if they had diagnosed me with a terminal illness right there, but my soul sank when, in less time than my pit stop had taken, the team doctor said I had suffered a panic attack.

There I was again. Me and my worst enemy, living in the same body. Me and my greatest fear.

Chapter Text

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

"I know there's a good chance I'll get this back because you refuse to go, but either way, I'd like you to keep it. I also know what you're thinking—don't worry about the money, although I stand by the fact that women's clothing should be cheaper and equivalent to men's. Think of it as a nice gift from me and Laila, who took over two hours to decide which one would suit you best. If only she knew the only thing you wear are pants and a uniform with that helmet. I hope to see you there and good luck with the race.

—Mick."

That's what the card said—the one that came with the elegant white designer bag left in my room while I was out. I reread it a couple of times while watching the sunset through the hotel window, overlooking the track, biting my nails. I took out the dress the friendly couple had given me, folded perfectly and meticulously in a box with special paper. It was a black strappy dress with rounded edges at the neckline and small, neat sequins that gave it a special shimmer, almost invisible in the dark. Not bad, I suppose. I didn't usually wear dresses; when I had to dress up, it was always two-piece suits—comfortable outfits that didn't show too much. The one Laila had picked for me fell below the knees and was fitted at the torso. When I tried it on, I complimented her good taste, but I felt incredibly strange. Deep down, though, I knew it wasn't because of the dress.

A damn panic attack in the car had cost me the first place.

As soon as the team's medical staff left the motorhome room that evening, having concluded from what I told them that it had just been a panic attack, Jean stared at me in silence, her face pale. I knew she was dying to say "I told you so" for all the times she'd told me to see a psychologist after last season's finale. But I always brushed it off, even if that didn't mean I didn't care. It was extremely and stupidly important to me, and that's why it felt ridiculous. What am I supposed to say when I sit in front of a psychologist and they ask why I think I'm there? "I lost an important race and came in second"? Seriously? It seemed too absurd to consult someone else over something I knew I could fix myself. And the only way to fix it on my own was to face it and overcome it. The only way was to win, no matter how much I lost in the process. Because the thing is... I had already lost everything in that last corner, so everything I was risking was just the ghost of what I'd already lost and still believed I had.

"John was calling you over the radio seconds before the end, and you didn't respond," Jean said, leaning back against one of the walls in front of me, arms crossed. Someone knocked on the door.

"Persson, it's me, Franz," came a voice from the other side. Jean didn't give me time to answer.

"Give us a moment, Franz," she replied, still by the closed door and unmoving. She paused, and the silence allowed me to hear how hard my heart was trying to calm down. "Is this how it's going to be all season? Or are you going to take responsibility and admit you need help?"

All I could do was look her in the eyes. No words would come out.

Jean shook her head and left the room, giving Franz space to enter, followed by John. I hadn't even taken off my race suit.

"What happened?" Franz asked, pulling up a chair to sit across from me, elbows resting on his knees.

"It's nothing. It won't happen again," I downplayed it. "We made up for it in the pits anyway, we should be celebrating," I pretended everything was fine, because it's weird when your boss and your engineer look at you confused, completely baffled. How was it possible that I had overtaken 19 positions in 26 laps and ended up like this? I was sure both had been informed about the verdict on what had happened, but I didn't know how serious they thought it was.

"We'll review what happened and talk to the team, okay? Other than that... I only have congratulations for you, Capri. Big and heartfelt congratulations. What you did out there today was priceless," Franz smiled, trying to cheer me up. I smiled back with tight lips, knowing I had a long write-up about my perspective on the race waiting for the press.

"It would've been way better if I had just overtaken Max and hadn't frozen up like that," I thought while smiling. And a few hours later, that's all I could think about, sitting on the bed in my hotel room, wearing the dress Laila and Mick had bought me for the after-race party. My hair was a mess and my face was hiding a bitter mix of guilt, disappointment, and pain.

I didn't want to sleep that night. If the memories came while I was wide awake and lucid, I couldn't imagine how they'd hit me in my dreams. But I also couldn't bring myself to sit in a corner of the room in silence and relive that moment over and over again involuntarily. Training all night would kill me, not to mention I doubted they'd let me use the hotel gym all night. Walking until dawn wasn't an option either, so I looked at the champagne bottle that had been brought to my room as a congratulatory gift and opened it, still in the dress, hair undone. I took a long gulp, holding my breath, until I felt it was enough. Half the bottle was already in my system.

I turned on my phone and called Mick.

"The dress is beautiful," I said when he answered. "But I won't be able to wear it if you don't send me the party address."

"Are you serious? I'll send it right now. Want us to pick you up?" he asked excitedly.

"I'll let you know when I get there. See you soon," I hung up and took off the dress to shower. I wasn't ready to face this night alone.

If there was one thing that made me feel like I didn't belong in the world of racing drivers, it was the excessive, grotesque luxury they all lived in. The watches, the brands, the outfits, the attitude, the houses, the apartments, the parties, the cars. Insanely fast machines that spent most of their time locked away in garages because they were too expensive to drive, waiting for extravagant parties to make their grand appearances.

When Mick sent me the address, I didn't hesitate to look it up first. It wasn't a nightclub, nor an event hall—something in between. It was the top floor of one of the most luxurious buildings in the city, with a view of everything and a huge rooftop. After my shower, I called a cab, and when I arrived, the street was overflowing with luxury and high-end cars.

A racing driver's salary depended on performance and team, and ranged in the high six or seven figures. Most blew it all on extravagance, and while I wasn't exactly an exception, I still wasn't fully aware of how much I earned—partly because I preferred to donate to charity, and partly because I didn't manage my accounts. After a long debate, Jean and I agreed on hiring a financial advisor to handle that. I did have a lifestyle to maintain alongside my career, but I didn't need the other things most drivers relied on—like their carefully crafted image.

I couldn't deny it felt weird getting out of a taxi on a street corner while everyone entering the building stepped out of absurdly expensive sports cars. But I had nothing to prove—I was just one of the crowd tonight, and my goal was to keep the tormenting thoughts at bay. As long as I kept them away, I could handle this.

Lewis Hamilton stepped out of his iconic Ferrari and handed the keys to the valet while discreetly smiling at a few cameras. I could tell he thought I was a fan trying to get a picture with him as we entered, but when I didn't follow the expected script, the moment turned awkward. At the reception, Mick was waiting to hand me my VIP pass. There wasn't a word strong enough to express how much I hated all of this.

"Laila's upstairs," he warned me as he put the wristband on and greeted Lewis, who waited for him to go up in the elevator. I got through security quickly and followed the two drivers. "Lewis, this is..."

"America," I jumped in, seeing the uncertainty in Mick's eyes.

"Pleasure," said Lewis with a smile, shaking my hand. "Have we met before?" he asked, frowning as he studied my face in the elevator.

"I've worked for AlphaTauri for a few years," I admitted.

"Oh, cool. They're having quite a season. Congrats on today, by the way. Persson never ceases to impress," he praised, and Mick had to hide his smile by looking ahead.

"Yeah, he's really good," I nodded. "But he could've finished first today."

"I don't know if my contract allows me to say this, but between us, I think Capri Persson is one of the best drivers out there right now," Mick added warmly, and Lewis laughed like it was a joke. I glanced at Mick, a bit confused, and he winked at me. Sometimes Mick's warmth and innocence were exactly what this harsh world needed.

The three of us walked down a hallway to the party, and we could hear the music from three floors down in the elevator. Greetings and praise came quickly for both drivers. Today's podium had been special—after the photo with the trophies (Max first, me second, Lewis third), an outlet had published an article titled: "Capri Persson and the End of the Verstappen-Hamilton Dispute." In short, it talked about how my presence in AlphaTauri was widening the gap between the two drivers and teams, even leading to alliances to stop Persson's meteoric rise. It was funny to read the circus that was sports and media journalism—how harsh they were on everyone and how dramatic their headlines were for mostly mediocre, often false stories. But I couldn't deny that I'd read it again just to boost my mood and confidence after this rough streak.

Mick led me to Laila, and I was genuinely happy to see her. Even though it killed me that Mick had to lie to her about all this, he had accepted it was something he had to do and promised to keep the secret from the moment he agreed. That was probably the heaviest burden of all—that those who knew the truth had to lie so shamelessly to the rest of the world. But he kept saying it was something everyone agreed to for Capri.

"God, you look stunning in that dress," Laila said, taking my hand to admire me.

"Me? Have you looked in a mirror? Laila, you look absolutely gorgeous," I replied.

"Oh, don't say that twice, you'll boost my ego."

"I'll say it as many times as needed, babe. If Mick doesn't treat you right, you know my number," I joked, and Mick widened his eyes in mock surprise as we laughed.

"Could you two stop flirting in front of me?"

"Micky!" we heard someone yell through the crowd and music. With his iconic smile—better known as "the grid smile"—Daniel appeared, greeting people on his way to us.

"Danny!" Mick hugged him as soon as the Aussie reached us. "You know Laila," he pointed to his girlfriend, and she greeted him. "This is America, she works for AlphaTauri."

"I'm Daniel, but call me Danny," he said, smiling as he looked at me, and when I offered my hand, he pulled me into a hug—or more like an awkward shoulder bump. Someone else called for Mick, stealing his attention, and Laila told me to find her later to dance as she walked away with him. Danny leaned toward me.

"How have I never seen you around? There are always engineers, mechanics, drivers, assistants... Are you new?"

"Sort of," I replied. "I've worked with the team for a while, but I don't usually come to places like this."

"What's your role?" he asked, nearly shouting over the music.

"Assistant."

"To...?" Daniel frowned.

"Capri Persson," I answered confidently. That was the story the world believed about America, and that was the story I had to maintain—at least for now. Daniel made a funny face, sympathizing with me before laughing.

"Rough day?" he asked, amused.

"Horrible," I confessed, and somehow it was extremely easy to talk to Daniel.

"Let me take care of that," he licked his lips and smiled mischievously. "May I?" he asked, taking my hand, and for a moment, I panicked about what might happen next. Half a bottle of champagne had brought me here, and now I was questioning whether it was a good idea to mix my low alcohol tolerance with my blind obsession with bad decisions. But Daniel was a gentleman when he asked if he could take my hand and pull me to the bar.

"For an assistant, you still have a lot of hair—and very beautiful hair, by the way" he joked, and I nodded. I had indeed suffered major hair loss that winter.

"It's not as bad as you think."

"No?" he raised an eyebrow. "Order whatever you want, it's on the house," he offered, and though I hesitated, I couldn't resist.

"Something strong," I told the bartender, raising my voice over the music, and turned back to Daniel. "Capri's not a monster," I added.

"You know him?"

"I guess," he smiled without showing his teeth, and our drinks were placed on the bar. Thinking about Capri made me think of Abu Dhabi, of that afternoon. Thinking of Capri meant thinking of the second after Verstappen. It meant thinking about everything I had lost—and was still losing. It meant remembering the pain of the lonely winter and the anxiety in the car.

After a big gulp of whatever I had ordered, I didn't want to think about Capri anymore. I didn't want to think about racing, or drivers, or second place finishes, or panic attacks.

"Uhh, I love this song," Danny exclaimed, moving his shoulders with joy, and I smiled.

"What are you waiting for?" I held out my hand, and Daniel smiled playfully as I pulled us to the dance floor, under the colorful lights and shiny disco balls. I didn't recognize the song, but America didn't need to recognize the song to dance. America didn't hesitate to dance with strangers in public. America was fun, sarcastic, and outgoing. America didn't think about racing or failure. America didn't look much like Capri. And instead of thinking about the problems that created, I let go on a dance floor full of strangers—people I probably worked with every weekend—in a Melbourne club.

I don't know how long we stayed in that time warp, dancing freely, face to face, without any physical or eye contact. We were both in our own little bubbles, feeling the effect of that first drink, yet never straying far from each other, like we had silently agreed to some unspoken deal. When the music softened, I gathered my hair in my hands to get it off my face and let my neck breathe.

"Come on, I'll introduce you to the group," Daniel whispered in my ear, and I froze. I wasn't very interested in talking to anyone I competed with, and although Daniel was the exception—being Red Bull's reserve driver this season—I didn't plan to take things further. But I was slightly tipsy and needed air, so I didn't mind taking his hand and letting him lead me to the big rooftop.

Outside, a fresh, soothing breeze wrapped around me like a blanket in bed, and I breathed deeply, following Daniel toward a more private area of the venue—couches arranged in circles, a VIP bar, and a space full of drivers, mechanics, and people from the business.

"Danny!" someone called out excitedly—and I immediately recognized the voice.

It was Pierre.

"Pierre Gasly!" Daniel exclaimed with a laugh, and everyone turned to look at us. Daniel was still holding my hand over his, and when Pierre approached us, he gave me a curious and confused look.

"I know I know you," he said, squinting at me.

"That was fast," Carlos laughed, pointing at our joined hands. He immediately held out his open hand to Checo Pérez, who shook his head and pulled out a few bills to hand over. "Ricciardo first to fall. You never disappoint, Danny. You just made me a few bucks."

"No, no. It's not like that—this is América," he said, unlinking our hands and placing his on my back. Now it was Checo who held his hand out to Carlos to get his money back. "She's Persson's assistant."

"Of course!" Pierre said with a smile. "Sorry, must be the alcohol—I didn't recognize you," he said, stepping forward to greet me.

"Persson?" Lando frowned, seated next to Carlos.

"Can you believe it?" Danny laughed.

"There are some bad jobs out there, but choosing to be Capri Persson's assistant... that takes guts," Charles admitted, leaning toward us to offer me his hand. "Charles, nice to meet you."

"Hard not to know," I smiled back. "You were pretty easy today."

"Oh, she knows her stuff," Carlos joked. "Carlos, but you can call me whatever you like. I already like you a lot," he added, also reaching out to shake my hand. I pressed my lips together with a smile. "Come, sit with us. We need to interrogate you about Persson."

"Leave her alone. Can't you see she needs a break?" I heard from behind me and quickly turned around at the sound of her voice. Carmen smiled at me and came over to hug me in greeting. "It's good to see you, Am."

"Thanks, again," I sighed, and she waved it off with a flick of her hand.

"Well then..." Daniel interrupted. "Where's the champ?!" he exclaimed, and a change in the lights signaled his arrival. Everything happened quickly, and seconds later Max stepped onto the rooftop with the trophy in hand, and everyone clapped and praised him.

I stood frozen right there. América couldn't help it. Nothing and no one could stop it. Because there was a bitter feeling in my chest and the memory of my hands tingling in the cockpit and that night in Abu Dhabi watching the car burn in front of my eyes, just meters from the finish line, watching the streamers fall on the track and the fireworks explode in the dark sky over the champion.

Male ego was one thing. It completely thrived in a competition like this. They would all yell, stomp, and complain if necessary. That male ego was so shallow and praised that no one would ever dare to crush it. But female disappointment was something far more powerful.

Male ego created drivers filled with rage and ambition, ready to destroy every piece of their car if they lost. But female disappointment—my female disappointment—watched my car burn in flames while the man crossed the finish line. This female disappointment observed and brewed in silence; it was stealthy, not aggressive nor obvious. This disappointment killed you slowly and painfully, only to leave you dying in the ashes from which it forced you to rise again. There was no rage or ambition—only the crack and grief of my disappointment.

And there I was. Feeling the flames of that female disappointment burning inside me. That winter had completely consumed me, and I had gathered every ash with what was left of my soul to rebuild myself in solitude and coldness. But now I could feel the phoenix flames of my disappointment stretching out as I watched him walk past me with that smile, that trophy, and that... male ego.

I don't know what I would do if I don't win this championship. But that night, I knew exactly what I would do, because I didn't want to return alone to that hotel room, sunk in memories and disappointment from a grief I thought I had already overcome.

Chapter Text

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

My gaze was lost, listening to conversations that didn't concern me. I had no idea how many drinks I'd had, or how long I'd been drinking and listening to the drivers talk about trivial things. I only remember one of the girls—I think her name was Isa—got all of us up to dance together before Carmen, George, Checo, and Carola headed back to their hotels. I remember going with them and enjoying dancing with Carmen, but not much else. There were gaps in my memory that night, but when I realized it, I was on one of the couches staring at a fixed point on the table, listening to the rest talk. Only Carlos, Isa, Max, Pierre, Kika, Lando, Alex, Lily, Esteban, Lance, Danny, Charles, Lewis, and I were left. I don't remember when I lost track of Mick and Laila—or maybe they left and I just didn't notice.

"How does it feel?" I heard Daniel ask. It was that point in the night when the rooftop had turned into a bar and the interior of the club into an electronic dance floor. Out here we could hear the breeze and the low music blasting inside the club while we drank and chatted, overlooking the city from above.

"How does what feel?" Lewis smiled, confused, taking a sip of his beer.

"I mean, it must be great... But what's so bad about winning?"

"You're saying that so Max stops doing it?" Hamilton joked, and everyone laughed. "I don't know, man. After seven years, it sounds stupid, but you get used to it, and when you don't manage it, it feels like..."

"Everything's over," I whispered beside him, and Lewis turned to look at me. "Yeah, it's stupid. And you know it, which makes it feel even worse. But you can't fight it because you know you didn't just lose a race—you lost all your confidence and that desire that kept you alive until then."

"Someone's got a melancholy hangover," Carlos sang playfully.

"Jokes aside, the girl's absolutely right," Lewis pointed out.

"You go so high that the only risk you run is dying from the fall," I looked him in the eyes, feeling that melancholy, nostalgia, as if I had once won something.

"Okay..." Daniel added, ending the topic because the conversation had gotten so painfully deep. "What do you think, Max? You're the reigning champion."

"Well... It's not that hard. I always say the same thing..."

"This time, no beating around the bush, okay? We're friends, not the press," Charles clarified, giving him his full attention, and I turned to stare at him. I suppose he noticed because we made eye contact. My stomach turned, and his face was dangerously addictive to the masochistic side of me that remembered all the times I watched him step onto the podium this winter.

"Last season was inexplicable. I had completely given up before those last seconds. Until Persson crashed into the wall and I felt... It's horrible, but I felt relieved. Not even like I had won, just... relief."

"But you didn't win, so it doesn't count," I interrupted, cracking my neck without moving my hands. The whole group looked at me, my eyelids drooping—I was dying of sleep.

"What?" Max asked, confused.

"Last season doesn't count. Danny asked what's wrong with winning... You didn't win Abu Dhabi."

I no longer had full control of my words.

"Didn't I?" he raised his eyebrows.

"Persson crashed, America. And the points went to Max for finishing the race because they were tied..."

"I know how points work, Lando," I snapped. "But Max didn't win."

"Want to explain your point of view?" Charles adjusted in his seat, clearly impressed by the little argument that had sparked and giving me his full attention.

"If Capri hadn't crashed, she would've won. And Max would've been second. But she crashed because there was an issue with her car. Otherwise... the world champion would have been Capri Persson," I shrugged.

"You win when you cross the finish line first," Max replied, eyes locked and brows furrowed.

"Yeah, you did. Good for you. But you didn't win because you crossed first. You won because Persson had an accident..."

"Well, if we're thinking that way, then Persson didn't win Bahrain either," he insisted. In minutes, the friendly conversation had turned into a heated argument between Max and me.

"Okay... So you admit you're not the world champion?" I squinted, and everyone fell silent. Max looked at me strangely, as if he didn't understand the purpose of this argument, although deep down we could've gone all night. "Just like the 2021 championship belonged to Hamilton."

"Guys, we're not here to argue about this now," Pierre downplayed. "We're trying to relax after a long day, and you're going to argue about that?"

"If he needs to relax after doing what he loves, then he should do something else," I shrugged, ending my part of the conversation and leaning back, sighing. Max scoffed, and I could see everyone's faces. Charles raised his eyebrows in surprise but tried to hide it. Daniel and Lewis pressed their lips together. Carlos shook his head, and the rest didn't know where to look. The champion of Melbourne left in silence, and I followed him with my eyes.

"You were a bit harsh, don't you think?" Hamilton asked beside me, but I couldn't answer. He was probably right. "Can I say something without wounding my pride?" he joked, and I smiled weakly. "Whatever problems Capri Persson has on the track, let them stay with him. I know spending a lot of time with someone like Persson can change things a bit, but... You're not him. And whatever problems he has, they're his."

"Are you going to make me go apologize to Max?" I asked.

"No. What you do next will determine whether you're like Persson, or if you're yourself."

Shit. I was so drunk.

I won't deny that everything I said—I meant it. Every single thing. But I had crossed a line, and I was mature enough to admit it. Just not mature enough to stop it.

I had never felt so light with my words in my life, but... at what cost?

That night, in the middle of my drunkenness, I got up from the couch where I was lying next to Lewis Hamilton and realized something I'd probably spent a long time trying not to see. As I stood, Lewis winked at me, and I turned to the rest of the group that kept talking, though I didn't pay them any attention.

"It's nothing personal, I'm just a bit drunk and feel like I'm going to puke," I admitted, running a hand across my forehead.

"It's alright, Am. We've all been there," Daniel laughed.

"Okay... I'm out for today, I've got something to do," I added before scanning the rooftop for Max. What I didn't notice was that it circled the building, so besides the area where the drivers and their friends were, there was a nearly empty section past a hallway between the edge of the rooftop and the club's windows. It probably wasn't open to guests, but when you've just taken heavy criticism to the face and your spirits are on the floor, the way is fully open.

I don't know if he heard me approaching because he was alone, looking out over the other side of Melbourne with his arms resting on the edge, completely still in time. Probably thinking about everything I said.

"I won't make it long, I promise," I said as I approached, and he turned only his head to look at me over his shoulder. "I admit it, I went too far this time. I was... God, I was unpleasant," I confessed, standing beside him, unable to stop thinking about how strange it was to have him close.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. I'm drunk and trying to justify myself. It sucks," I went on. "But that wasn't fair."

"You said what you think. It's fine," he replied as if he wanted to get rid of me—and this conversation. I would've let him if I weren't under the influence, unable to measure my words.

"It doesn't matter what I think if I'm going to say it like that," I shook my head, and that's when Max turned to look at me, making me feel insecure about my own words. "Congratulations, by the way," I admitted for the first time, with a bit of bitterness on my lips. "You've probably heard it a hundred times. You must be sick of it, but... whatever," I shrugged, sighing, and turned my body to face him. "I didn't mean to be so nasty and repulsive. I promise I'm not usually like that. You can say whatever you want if it makes you feel better. Whatever you want," I clenched my teeth, lowering my gaze, and Max smiled slightly, shaking his head as he looked away.

"That's what happens when you're a public figure. Everyone thinks they know you, and this kind of thing happens. But I don't know you, I can't say anything about you. I barely know your name," his gaze returned to mine, and the blue everyone talked about so much turned extremely dark in front of me.

"América, pleasure to meet you," I put my hand out between us, and he smiled as he took it.

"Max," he replied, amused.

"It's an honor, Mr. Max," I joked half-heartedly, but it still amused him. "I promised I'd be brief. You've got more fun things to do than this," I motioned between us, but when I was about to say goodbye, I went blank. Everything I had said...

"It must've been a long day," he commented, and I didn't understand what he meant, so I just stared at him, confused. "I mean for you... Capri's second place," he clarified, but seeing my continued confusion, he turned fully to face me. "It's the first time it's happened since Abu Dhabi. Must suck," he concluded.

The pain in my chest returned, and my lip trembled like I was about to cry. How stupid and childish I was trying to hide it.

"I completely understand that," he swallowed hard and looked down at his shoes in sympathy. I thanked him internally because a couple of tears were forming in my eyes and my stomach felt strange. "After the 2021 championship, I think I was a little scared to win Abu Dhabi again after everything that happened. People went totally crazy, and I wasn't ready to deal with it all at once," he bit his lip. "I was probably wrong, I won't deny that. It weighs on me sometimes, but when it happened, I thought it was part of the game—what the world expects. It was stupid, but it got people talking, it helped the teams, the series, the industry. Everyone got something. I got a trophy, Lewis the collective grief," I listened carefully. "When I watched the race again, I called Christian and told him I wanted to speak with the FIA, that the circus was too obvious. He told me it wasn't something we could discuss because the FIA had agreed to it. They'd wanted to dethrone Lewis for a long time, and when they saw me as a worthy driver to do it, they didn't hesitate."

I could barely breathe for fear of interrupting him. I remembered that race in detail, but I wondered how many people knew about this.

"I never wanted to talk to Lewis about it. It's a bit cowardly, you can say it. But when I won Abu Dhabi, it felt... I don't want you to feel sorry for me. It was strange. I thought everyone would talk about it like last time, and then you go home wondering if you're really that good," he ran a hand over his chin, and I couldn't do much more than watch him lit by the city lights. "So when what happened with Persson today happened, I couldn't stop thinking about Abu Dhabi. How everything repeats itself and comes back to you without asking. And the more you try to avoid it, the closer it gets. He must've gone through the same thing."

A tear ran down my cheek, and I didn't bother to wipe it. If I moved, it would've been too obvious, so I let it fall, taking advantage that Max wasn't looking directly at me.

"You feel like it'll be part of you for the rest of your life—but not the good part of you. The worst part. You try to rip it out, but if you do, you might bleed out. Sometimes I watch the race again, both of them, and I wonder if I really deserved it. And then you come along and tell me I didn't win and... I can't argue that when I'm not even sure myself if I'm good enough to win," he sighed. "I want to prove that I am. I really want that. But at the end of the day, when no one's watching, you fall apart without being able to stop it. I guess you had to endure Persson at the end of the day, and that's very brave," he admitted, pausing. I felt strange inside, but I wanted to believe it was because of everything I'd drunk that night. "Though I hope it doesn't go too far. A driver's rage sometimes has to be stopped."

I couldn't believe Max was confessing like that in front of me, so I half-suspected he must have had quite a bit to drink too.

"You're partly right. But this is a game, and that's how things are. When you get in the car, you accept two deaths—one physical, and the other, glory. If you go home without touching either, it means you won. Otherwise... you die anyway." He turned to look at me, and I took a breath, trying to quickly divert my gaze. "I'm glad I didn't die."

"Dying is not cool at all," I slurred my words in that silly, playful tone every drunk person has at the end of the day.

"Otherwise we wouldn't have ended up here," he added flirtatiously but subtly. And I don't know what went through my head.

"You're lucky I'm not drunk enough to kiss you," I blurted out, drunk enough to do it.

"That's a shame. I would've liked you to," he replied, and I turned to look at him. How drunk do you have to be to kiss your rival? Because I knew I was, but I didn't know how much until I saw Max differently in front of me.

With one hand on his neck, I pulled him toward me to press my lips against his, trying to forget who he was. It had been so long since I'd kissed someone like that. I just hoped that desire didn't show when our chests pressed together as if it were possible to merge into one. Max slid both hands around my neck, trying to take control, and just as he could on the track, I moved my hand down to his jaw, taking his chin to guide his lips.

I don't remember much, except the desire to keep going, stupidly, as if it were possible. I had to admit we were both tipsy, and I didn't even care that it was him I was kissing in a corner of the club's rooftop. But the moment I took a breath, opened my eyes, and saw him in front of me, something short-circuited in my head.

"Ugh," I mumbled. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"But I like it."

"Should I keep going?" His face was so close to mine, and one of his thumbs caressed my lips, making me tingle. Max nodded, and now he was the one who leaned in, taking the next step. It was stupidly sensual but also timid. I wasn't sure if that's how everyone kisses someone casually—a stranger. It's usually rougher, less relaxed. But somehow Max did it differently and... addictive, it was incredibly addictive, I didn't want to stop.

God, but it was Max!

"Why did you stop?" he murmured, and I felt his breath against my lips. His hands were resting on my cheeks. His eyes were no longer clear, but to me, they looked incredibly haunting.

"It's not right."

"But it was magnificent," he whispered, caressing my cheeks, and a shiver ran down my spine.

"The wrong things usually are magnificent. But we work together and you're drunk—we're drunk," I corrected myself, placing my hands on his chest, and I could feel his heart beating hard under my palm. "I promise you'll regret everything that happens when you wake up in the morning, Max," I whispered, slurring slightly.

"Say it again," he pleaded, looking at my lips with a playful smile, and I knew he meant his name.

"Goodbye, Max," I whispered close to his lips, smiling, and pulled away from him, hoping he'd forget everything in the morning, just like I would from how drunk I was.

In fact, that's what happened. I remembered nothing more than the argument, a slight touch between us, and the rest of the party. I collapsed as soon as I got to the hotel, regretting all my bad decisions that night.

Chapter Text

Faenza, Italy. April, 2023

Sometimes, when everything falls silent and it's just me and my presence in an empty house with nothing else to do, I wonder if this is what they call happiness, or if I'm just confused. When I come back after spending several weeks in different hotels in different cities, it seems like everything has changed—but the only thing that changes is you.

Sometimes I wonder if this only happens to me, or if the other drivers go through the same thing. Maybe it's something collective, maybe it happens to everyone in general, but I'll never know because I never talked about it with anyone. Not even with Jean or Mick.

There were quite a few free days between Australia and Azerbaijan. Days that reminded me there was a world outside of racing and the championship. Days when I secluded myself in my house in Faenza, a nearly medieval town in Italy, close to the team's headquarters, close to Imola, but far—very far—from home, from Sweden.

For many years I got used to that distance, that feeling of not knowing which place you could call home, beyond all the meaning and mystique behind it. If I was speaking of home in a poetic and meaningful way, then my home was on a machine going 300km per hour. My home was in that single-seater, no matter the model. My home was in the frenzy of speed, in the feeling of power, in the adrenaline captured by euphoria. But I couldn't sleep in a single-seater. So I had to find a place that could physically feel like home, even if it couldn't really be home because I couldn't be too far in case they needed me. So I moved to Faenza at Franz's request as soon as I signed the contract with AlphaTauri, just as I had when I was in F2 and F3, but my mother had never been able to stay close.

The stories you hear when you enter the sport vary, and although there are often drivers who had the opportunity to start from a good position, there are others who had to sacrifice everything. Hamilton is one of them, but he's not the first and certainly won't be the last. And when you're born into a middle-class family, with a deaf-mute and practically single mother in Sweden, there's no chance that something like what was happening to me could actually happen. I had no chances, and yet my mother insisted on giving me wings to believe in it.

The way I chose motorsport was quite trivial, since I always had that subtle curiosity for cars as a child—something the other girls my age barely understood. My mother nurtured that curiosity until she put me in a go-kart, and she never stopped. But I was far from the little girl who first got into a kart, and far from my mother too.

So as the days between races stretched out, my ability for retrospection stalked me from a corner of the living room. Everything came to my mind easily. Everything made me question the kind of life I was living, and my question was whether it felt this way for everyone, or if it was just me, lost in my own mind while waiting for the next race.

I was going through the chaotic and terrifying 20s. And even though I had a secured racing seat this season and enough money to live even if I didn't, there were other aspects of my life that haunted me during this process.

I could fill this time by avoiding everything that scared me about the part of my life that wasn't related to racing—the part that was about reading as many books as possible, about visiting every place in the world, or figuring my life out before turning thirty. I was terrified just thinking about it, because probably the only thing I had done during these 23 years of life was focus on building Capri Persson into an exceptional driver—someone nobody knew the truth about. Outside of that, I knew absolutely nothing about the world.

Being a mystery had spared me from thousands of things in life. Jean worked for me and the team, my masseur, my engineers, the whole crew—those were people who were there for work, not because I had to socialize with them. And besides Mick... I didn't really have friends. And with him, we could barely stay in touch because our lives were so different.

So those free days between races could be pure torture or just ordinary days where I avoided locking myself in with my thoughts at all costs.

When it rained, it was worse. Much worse.

My house in Faenza was almost as old as the city itself and had a large yard surrounding it. It was a real country house, and I hoped to have a small farm someday. I liked how cozy it felt with its old stone exterior and tile roof. I also loved how Italian it was—a typical house lost in time, with large classic windows and ivy covering much of the exterior walls. But when it rained, there wasn't much to do, so I trained to avoid every one of my thoughts. Although it was never enough.

Was this really a life? Race, train, race, train, repeat. I did nothing but that. I had nothing but that.

Jean sent me the schedule for the photo session Nyck and I would have for a campaign before the Miami GP, and that was as exciting as my week would get. Every interaction with the real world ended there.

There was something else I used to do between races, something I stopped doing after last season's finale. When I came home between training and catching up with things, I used to work on an old car that, according to my mother, had belonged to my father. Since she thought it was junk, I brought it with me to Faenza during my first Formula One season. I'd been trying to fix it ever since in my spare time, but after Abu Dhabi I closed the garage and hadn't opened it since.

So I didn't hesitate to dive into my thoughts and the few hobbies I had to fill those days when I couldn't make elaborate or extended plans.

Until I got a call from Mick.

"Mick?" I asked as I answered the call.

"Hey, Capri. I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asked, and I sat on the living room couch, watching the rain hit the windows.

"No, not at all. It's a horrible day in Faenza, can't really do much," I told him.

"I see... I haven't been able to talk to you since the party. What did you think of it?" he asked enthusiastically, and I settled into the seat.

"Fine, I guess," I stretched my answer.

"You guess?"

"I don't remember much, I think I drank too much."

"Oh," he sighed regretfully. "I shouldn't have left you alone there."

"No, no, no," I shook my head immediately. "Don't say that, I had a great time."

"You don't even remember, don't lie to me."

"Well, you're right about that. But I have the feeling it wasn't bad at all."

"The feeling, huh?" Mick replied in a playful tone, and I frowned, confused. I didn't understand where this was going. Mick doesn't usually call—Mick texts. And besides, Mick and I hadn't talked like this in a while. "Okay... so could you tell me why Max Verstappen keeps asking me about you?"

"Shit," I muttered, bringing a hand to my mouth in surprise. The week I'd spent at home after Australia had made me completely forget everything that had happened at the party, and like a bucket of cold water, the memory of his lips on mine caught me off guard—and then his eyes. God, he really had beautiful eyes.

"What happened?"

"What did he say happened?" I asked immediately, cursing myself. How could I have forgotten?

"So something did happen?!" Mick exclaimed, surprised.

"What did he tell you, Mick?" I insisted, desperate.

"I asked first," he replied, scolding me, and I tried to remember.

"Nothing happened."

"I had no idea you could seem interesting to someone by doing nothing," I could tell he air-quoted the word, smiling amusedly.

"Did he say I seemed interesting?" I asked quickly.

"He said you said some hurtful things, but that you seemed nice."

"He said I seemed nice?"

"Do you have bad reception? You're repeating everything I'm saying," he laughed. "I don't know what you told him..."

"You don't want to know."

"Ohhh, now I do want to know what you told the world champion," he replied playfully, and I sighed, forcing myself to remember exactly what I had said.

"I don't remember all the details, but maybe... maybe I went too far with the criticism."

"Are you serious?" he asked, confused.

"I was drunk. What did you expect me to do?"

"Did you confess something? Did you talk about Capri?" he asked now, worried, and I stopped breathing for a second. What if I had said something like that and didn't remember? Oh, god. "Hello?"

"No, not that I remember. But..."

"But?" he insisted, impatient, and I stood up to pace nervously.

"But I told Max what I really thought. I told him the truth—I don't think he won Abu Dhabi."

"But he did win Abu Dhabi," he reminded me.

"I would have, if I hadn't crashed in the last corner, Mick. And you know it better than anyone. If I hadn't failed, I'd be world champion. Champion. Do you understand that? I was excellent the entire season..." I sighed, standing still, watching the rain fall through the window and remembering that race. "I told him that and I also said something about Abu Dhabi 2021..."

"No, you didn't," he mumbled.

"Yes, and... then I apologized and that was it. Nothing else... happened," I concluded, thinking about the addictive taste of his lips. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I wasn't going to deny it—he was almost as good at kissing as he was at driving—but he was still Max, even if I wanted to separate a casual kiss from the rest of my life.

But Mick said Max told him he found me interesting. Capri or América?

"Well, I think he liked being insulted by your words because he invited you to go skiing in Chamonix with me and the rest this weekend," he added.

"Skiing? Mick, I don't know how to ski."

"You still don't know how to ski? Aren't you supposed to be good at everything?"

"Not skiing, I assure you."

"Well, you learn fast, so it won't be a problem. What do you think?" he asked, and I wanted to say no. I didn't know how to ski, I didn't want to see Max after what happened, and even less now that he found me "interesting." Everyone would be there, no... I wasn't supposed to be there skiing.

"I don't know, Mick. I have a lot to do this week."

"Things more interesting than skiing with friends in France?" he asked, amused, and when I didn't answer, he sighed in frustration. "Fine, the offer's on the table. I would've liked you to come, we haven't spent time together in a while and Laila won't stop talking about how she wants to see you more often. Let me know if you change your mind, it'll be three days and two nights. Hope to see you—and if not... we'll talk," he said, fully aware that maybe what I needed to do wasn't something I wanted, but something I had to do for work. He knew what he was doing, but it wasn't going to work on me.

"We'll talk later. Good luck in Chamonix."

"Goodbye," he replied, and I hung up.

I couldn't lock myself in the home gym until the end of my days or until the next race. I couldn't pretend my personal life didn't happen alongside my professional one. I knew no one other than Jean, Mick, Franz, the team, and my mother. But I wasn't sure that skiing with drivers I worked with—but pretended I didn't—was a good idea. I wanted to convince myself fairly, but a part of me knew that as soon as I got to Chamonix I'd want to leave, because I wouldn't feel comfortable there, because I was meant to follow the path my life had taken, because if the Azerbaijan GP came and I didn't win, I'd blame myself for choosing to learn to ski in France that weekend instead of staying to train and study the track from the workshop.

And I was so sick of that perspective on my life. Because... I deeply loved what I did, I loved devoting my entire life to what I loved most—but socially, I knew there was a part of my life I hadn't developed, and I didn't know if it would be too late to develop it once I had to retire from motorsport.

There I was again. Sitting at the edge of the couch in front of the window, watching the rain fall, thinking about how life passed by while I tried to figure out what to do with it.

When you can't take it anymore, you get up and lock yourself in the gym past your living room until you're exhausted, shower, eat dinner, and sleep until the next day. It was a routine I had gotten used to. I could go months without seeing absolutely anyone, without speaking to anyone, completely in my own world. I had discovered the art of planting and keeping my own garden, which I tried to maintain like juggling on a moving single-seater—it was pretty hard to keep up while traveling all the time, but the strawberries never failed me, and that lifted my spirits.

I also liked walking through most of Faenza, it was a great pastime. I liked hiking, so if I had the chance, I'd find a place to go and disappear. If the activity didn't require talking or more than one person, it was perfect for me. That, and visiting the simulator at the team's offices or driving at the Faenza track. If there were no GPs, that would be my routine for the rest of my life. And I thought it would be for the rest of the week until I had the photo shoot with Nyck for a campaign—but it was Friday morning, and someone had rung the gate bell.

"Yes?" I asked, frowning. Only Jean, my mother, and my trainer knew where I lived. No one else. And all three were supposed to be at home, living their lives.

"Can you open up? We're running late."

I went pale when I heard her voice. I didn't remember us having anything scheduled today, so I paused a moment to see if it came back to me.

"Do we have something today?" I asked.

"Open up and we'll talk. I'm in my car," she said, and I pressed the button on the wall that allowed me to open the gates for vehicles. I closed them as soon as I heard Jean's car in the driveway and went out immediately.

Jean was getting out of the car, dressed very casually.

"Pack your bags. I'm not missing the chance to ski in France, and neither are you."

Chapter Text

Faenza, Italy. April, 2023

"Are you spying on me?" I asked, watching her close the door of her car.

"Of course not. Mick told me."

"Why?" I kept asking. I had so many questions, but I had to measure my intensity because I wasn't sure Jean would accept them all.

"Because I'm your advisor. He really wants you to go," she confessed, and I sighed.

"You told him the truth, didn’t you?" I feared, and Jean silently nodded.

"It's time for you to stop hibernating every time the races end," she smiled with pressed lips, making a face knowing how hard that was for me.

"I can't give up now, Jean. I promised myself I’d win this championship, and I won’t stop until I do."

"Part of winning is also having fun," she said almost jokingly, even though she wished it were true.

"Sure," I nodded. "But it wasn’t like that for me, not even in go-karts. I’d take your advice if I were doing something else, but I race, Jean. And I’m a woman on a track full of men. There’s the academy, sure, but curiously the best drivers in the world are men... Winning isn’t about fun here. Winning is about showing the world its own criticism to its face," I explained. I was sick with this championship, but if I managed to win it—if Capri Persson won the 2023 Formula One championship... I wouldn’t just be the first woman to race in Formula One. I’d be the best driver of the season, and if I kept going like this... I could even consider myself on par with the legends. It sounded crazy, but maybe it wouldn’t be if I kept working as hard as I was.

"Why are you so against going?" she asked, putting her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and leaning against her car.

"Because if I lose, if I drop from the top three podiums in the upcoming races and don’t win this year... there’s something here," I pointed at my head, "that would never let me live it down."

"I spoke to a psychologist, Capri," she announced out of nowhere, and I tensed. "It’s necessary after everything that happened. I thought you were okay and I wanted to believe you because apparently you did too... You even made Franz believe it, but..." she sighed. "You had a damn panic attack in the car. How much longer are you going to wait until you freeze at the wheel and cause a major accident?" she asked. "You’re not only putting your own life at risk, Capri. There are 19 other drivers on that track, and if you don’t see it yourself, then I’ll do what it takes to make you see it." She placed her hands on her hips, standing firmly in front of me. "Don’t want to go skiing in Chamonix? Fine. But you won’t gain anything by staying locked up here race after race."

"Jean, I can’t affor—"

"You stayed here last season... and what good did it do you?" she snapped.

Oh, Jean... She was playing dirty. But she hit the mark. Jean was really good at throwing darts in conversations—that’s why she had been my advisor since I entered F3. We’d been together a long time, and that gave her an advantage in hitting my weak spots and breaking me down. She was probably the only person who could do that besides me, of course.

I couldn’t answer her. I just looked away and thought about it while she watched me.

"I wish I could stop being like this, Jean. Really," I admitted, and she walked up to me with long steps from her slender legs. She took me by the shoulders and I looked into her eyes. It wasn’t easy to say things the way they happened in my head, but I knew Jean appreciated it in her own way. "I don’t know if I like the way I am... but it’s the only way I know, and the only one that’s worked for me for a long time," I said honestly, and she looked into my eyes before hugging me tightly.

Jean was the closest thing I had to a maternal figure while I was away from home, losing my own.

"What if we change that? Try something new?" she rested her chin on my head because she was tall enough to do so. I could smell that cheap French perfume she’d been wearing since I met her. "You’re really good at what you do, Capri. You’re amazing, and that gives you great opportunities. You’ve worked your whole life for this, and maybe it’s time to relax a bit and let the work you’ve cultivated over the years grow without pressing it so hard. You have a huge chance to change what you can’t stand, because what you love has already set its roots in your life. Why don’t you trust a bit and let me handle this?" she pulled away to look at me. "Have you ever packed for a last-minute ski trip on the border of France, Switzerland, and Italy?" she smiled, and I shook my head. "Good, I’m glad to hear it. Me neither—I could never afford something like that. So, let’s get to it."

Jean and I spent a good while choosing what to bring. This in case we went out, that in case we had dinner at night, or also if we did during the day. Jean had taken this very seriously, and since I preferred not to get into discussions about what would be best (clearly some AlphaTauri sweatpants, a few hoodies, and faux fur jackets), I let her choose what to pack while I ran on my treadmill. Apparently, the long-distance bus that would take us was departing from Milan, since there were no flights from the airport to Chamonix, meaning we had a two-hour train ride there and then another four and a half hours by bus. Obviously, everyone else would go on their private jets, but I’d been clear about that kind of thing from the start. I didn’t use my jet unless it was an emergency—the world is already ridiculously polluted to keep contributing when I could use other means of transport. Besides, traveling by train from Faenza to Milan wasn’t bad at all, and it got better when we had to get on the bus.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, we were at Milan Central Station. Jean stopped to take a few photos of the station because it was quite big and had sky-facing windows that looked very satisfying due to their symmetry. A car loaded our bags into the trunk to take us to the bus terminal, and I must admit that this whole train-then-bus thing was quite entertaining. When you go from race to race on planes, there’s not much entertainment between flights. This way, Jean and I spent the trip chatting about random things we saw in Milan.

When the bus arrived, we got ready for what would be the most exciting four hours of the day. The bus would climb the mountain, as it was the only way to reach the village. Traveling by road was something I loved deeply. My mom and I used to do it almost all the time we could. She would just take the car and we’d disappear looking for strange and spontaneous adventures. My mother helped me get to know all of Sweden before I turned twelve. She wanted me to know my whole country before leaving it, so every free day we had together was a new place to visit.

Climbing the mountain by bus brought back memories I didn’t expect to visit—memories I didn’t have on regular days because I was too busy training and focusing on the races. And right then, I couldn’t avoid them. I couldn’t just ignore them.

"So?" Jean asked excitedly, sitting next to me. "How does it feel to get out of the routine?"

"I won’t lie... It’s weird," I confessed. "But so far, nothing to worry about."

"I’m glad to hear it. I thought you were going to die of boredom in that house," she joked, and I looked at her, pretending to be deeply offended. "Or from an overdose of training."

"You know what I still don’t get?" I frowned, adjusting in my seat to look at her directly. "Why are you so excited about going skiing when you can barely walk?"

"Seriously?" she asked like it was obvious, and I waited for her to answer herself. "Mick said everything was covered, and when would I ever have another opportunity like this?" she shrugged. "Besides..." she added, "I deserve to have a little fun sometimes." The mystery with which she said that before looking back at her phone left me very curious—too curious to leave her alone the rest of the trip, because she didn’t say it like something casual. She said it like she was hiding something pretty obvious.

"What do you mean by that?" I frowned.

"You don’t see it, but I can assure you drivers are extremely sexy," she whispered. "And I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity."

"I’m a driver too," I replied obviously.

"I didn’t say you weren’t sexy," she joked, and I laughed. Jean had a ridiculous sense of humor, but that was what I liked most about her. She accepted parts of her life others would consider unpleasant or inappropriate, confessed when someone was sexy—and you could see it on her face—told bad jokes often related to the frauds of her life. For Jean, there were no taboos; she could talk about vaginal discharge while walking into a meeting with Franz and Horner. She’d eye Toto Wolff every time he passed by, even if she tried to hide it since he was a married man, and joked about it because, according to her, "she had never fallen in love with a decent man in her 36 years of life."

Jean was all I had.

When we began climbing the snowy mountains, she didn’t stop taking pictures from every possible angle. The place looked beautiful, the white snow covering the mountains like a heavenly eternal blanket, and everything looked straight out of a professional photograph. It felt like my eyes weren’t worthy of such a miracle, like I was entering another realm of the earth above the mortal and ordinary.

When we arrived at the bus terminal, a car was waiting to take us to the hotel. We didn’t bring much—well, maybe we did, but not by choice. Jean had decided what to pack, and I wasn’t going to argue, so I had no choice.

Being an F1 driver, I expected to be used to the material luxuries hotels offered with their lodging: incredibly luxurious, symmetrical, and perfect facades, all the comforts, every gym machine imaginable, dining rooms full of meals from our exclusive diets, furniture that looked brand new. Everything was splendid and shiny just for us—but arriving at the hotel the group of drivers had chosen to stay at while skiing in France... was another kind of luxury.

"Look who showed up," Lewis smiled as he saw me entering the hotel residence, taking off his headphones to greet us.

"Oh, God. Here he comes," Jean said almost breathlessly, and I turned to her, puzzled. I couldn’t believe what she’d just said, but I couldn’t pay much attention because Hamilton was coming toward us.

"I didn’t expect to see you here," he said, placing his hands on his hips.

"Me neither, but... Mick insisted," I half-admitted, and Lewis turned to Jean beside me.

"Jean Henderson, at your service," she introduced herself, and the driver laughed, shaking her hand with amusement.

"You didn’t," I muttered, stunned.

"It’s a habit, I’m sorry," she went on, completely lost in Lewis’s eyes. "I’m..."

"Persson’s advisor, I figured," he clarified, and I frowned in confusion while Jean seemed to melt beside me.

"Oh," was all she managed to say, touching her neck like she was drowning in her own fantasy.

"Are you skiing?" Lewis asked me.

"That’s the plan. Isn’t that why we’re all here?"

"Good, then I’ll see you at dinner. The guys are in the main hall," he said in farewell and left the hotel, putting his headphones and black glasses back on.

"I saw it—did you?" Jean raised her eyebrows repeatedly, and I rolled my eyes, amused to see her like this. "Right, I think I’ll go to my room and think about what could happen after such a steamy encounter."

"Alright. I’ll look for Mick to let him know I’m here, okay? See you later," I also said goodbye to Jean, watching her follow the bellhops who would take our bags to our rooms, and sighed, looking around. Who would’ve thought? Today I woke up ready to train and race, but I ended up on a mountain in France, persuaded by my advisor who just wants to watch drivers ski for free. I could never have imagined a more ridiculous plan.

The hotel lobby was too big to figure out which of the hallways or double doors would lead me to the main hall where Lewis said the others were—and where I assumed Mick was too. Some hallways were empty, others not so much. The spring sun waited patiently to set, still casting light for the evening. Outside, it wasn’t snowing, but it wasn’t summer weather either. It was the perfect climate to enjoy the snowy mountains and a walk through the mild town center.

While I was thinking about how wonderful the hotel and the weather were, I bumped into someone coming out of one of the double doors.

"You came," he smiled hopefully. His expression had completely changed, and now he didn’t look so terrifying with sweaty hair, flushed cheeks, and damp skin.

The simple fact that he said a single word stopped me instantly.

"You came" echoed in my head.

Why did it feel like his words were embedding themselves in my mind as if they wouldn’t leave for a long time? And... why did I still feel like he was my worst enemy even when he stood in front of me smiling just because he saw me?

Why couldn’t I be happy to see him?

Chapter Text

Chamonix, France. April, 2023

I was clearly coming out of the gym while the others chatted in the great hall. Why does it sound like something I could've done myself? Yet he didn’t lose the smile on his face while I was trying to think of a response.

"Well, it would be rude to turn down an invitation," I replied simply, and he nodded.

"I'm glad you didn't. Until just now, I thought you weren't coming."

"You weren't that far off."

"Were you going to say no?" he asked, licking his lips as if the answer were obvious. No one would say no to spending time with drivers. Of course.

"What reason did I have to accept?" I shrugged, and Max fell silent as if he were waiting for more from me.

"Of course," he lowered his gaze as if he now understood, pressing his lips together, and I kept watching his every move.

"You're going to the dinner, right?" I asked nervously, trying to fill the silence as quickly and awkwardly as possible. It was obvious he would go.

"Yes. You?"

"I think I'm invited to that too," I smiled without showing my teeth, and Max smiled back, amused, as if something I said was funny.

"Well, then I'll be happy to see you there too."

"I hope so. I promise not to say anything painful," I joked, and he laughed.

"I wouldn't mind if it ended like last time," he said casually, as if it were easy to remember, and I paled, more nervous than ever, recalling how little my mind had actually registered. I looked both ways down the hallway, then stepped closer to Max and lowered my voice.

"I don’t remember exactly what happened, Max. But I think it would be best if we just let it go, don’t you think?" I suggested, and he raised his eyebrows at my words. He seemed surprised.

"Yeah, sure. It wasn't anything that important anyway, you don't have to worry," he said calmly, and I sighed in relief. "See you later," he said goodbye before leaving, but I asked where everyone was before he disappeared. Max told me the great hall was two doors down, and I was thankful no one had come out. I didn’t watch him leave because I left first.

"America!" Danny exclaimed when he saw me, standing up immediately to greet me. Mick, who had been sitting with his back to me on one of the sofas with Laila, turned at Daniel’s excitement and smiled before the Australian pulled me into a hug, lifting me off the ground.

Daniel had too much energy—the kind that sometimes scares introverts like me—but it was Danny, after all. I had always liked him. He was incredibly kind and could be even more so, but I feared he already believed his time in the spotlight had ended. That's when everything ends for a driver. If you don’t believe in yourself, then you're out, and the line that separates both ends is so thin that by the time you notice, you're already falling on the wrong side.

After Abu Dhabi, that’s exactly how it felt. Everything looked blurry to me. And just remembering it gave me chills.

I greeted everyone generally since the room included those I already mentioned, along with George, Carmen, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Kika, Charles, Alex, and Lily. Mick came over to greet me, and I asked if he had a minute to talk in the hallway because I needed to clear up a few things.

"Jean made it happen," he smiled as soon as we stepped out. "Did you come with her?"

"What did Max tell you?" I asked almost aggressively, and Mick looked at me, surprised.

"Okay, I get it now..."

"Mick."

"He asked about you after Sunday’s party."

"I know that already. Be more specific," I responded sharply.

"Wait... did something happen between you two and you’re not telling me?" he frowned, lowering his voice, and I hesitated for a moment. I just wanted to know what Max had told him because I didn’t remember much. Otherwise, I could recall if I said anything about Capri Persson that could compromise me. That was all I wanted. But I also had to give something in return.

"I was out of my mind when I said all that. Lewis was there, and he told me I should apologize to him, so I did. But Max started talking, and oddly, it was the perfect moment—it would've been great if it weren't Max Verstappen."

"You're not being clear."

"We kissed, Mick. But I don't remember everything clearly, and I need to know what he told you to rebuild the memory and make sure I didn't say anything that could compromise me," I explained, and Mick got it, scratching his head, looking worried. "We were all a bit drunk that night, but apparently Max remembers it quite well."

"He definitely does, because he told me he met you at the party, that you were very nice, and that Daniel told him you arrived with us. He asked which team you work for, what you do—just the basics."

"Nothing else?" I leaned against the wall across from Mick, parallel to him. He shook his head.

"Hey, I trust you didn't say anything else. Otherwise, Max would’ve gone to Horner, Horner to the FIA, and you'd have heard the rest long before now. Max would never wait this long if he had the chance to... get back at you this way," he tried to reassure me while glancing around to make sure we were alone. "Anyway, I’m glad to see you," he smiled innocently, and it was contagious. "It reminds me of Aspen, for your birthday."

"I remember it perfectly," I smiled at just the memory. "Corina was really good to me."

"She loves you more than me," Mick joked, and I couldn't deny it. I met Mick’s family after we became close friends once he found out I was Capri Persson. Although his family still didn’t know the truth. Mick told them I was a friend he met while racing, doing internships here and there—nothing major. Corina thought for a long time we would end up together for some reason. There's no way you can end up with the person who almost broke your leg in a snowball war in Aspen. That was Mick.

"You still owe me a snowball war," I reminded him, and Mick laughed at the images likely flashing through his mind. It had been a lovely gesture from his mother to bring me along for my birthday. According to Corina, Mick hadn’t stopped talking about me all winter and felt bad knowing I would spend my birthday far from him due to their planned vacation—which I didn’t intend to celebrate. Corina was a huge birthday fan, so she contacted my mom, and although it hurt to spend a birthday away from her, it had never been a big deal until I celebrated it with Mick’s family. She still sends me messages every year. She was completely fascinated.

"I'll be waiting for you outside the hotel tomorrow—only if you promise not to break my leg."

"Mmm... I'll think about it, I still thirst for revenge," I joked, and Mick laughed. Being together after so long did me good. It reminded me of the moments before that life-changing Abu Dhabi. It reminded me of when I was just a rising star and not a driver stuck in her own life.

"All jokes aside," Mick said, "I’m really happy to see you here, Am," he pressed his lips together as if the moment was tough, and I nodded, feeling the same.

"I talked to Jean," I told him. "I wouldn't be here if she hadn't made me change my mind."

"I wonder what she said, but I’m afraid it's too emotional a topic for you to answer that, right?" he smiled, stepping closer with his arms open. "How about a hug? Like Danny’s."

"Too many hugs for today."

"Come on, you can't say no to this one," he insisted, and I gave in. I was never a fan of physical contact, but I knew what it meant to Mick. I couldn’t deny him a hug now. At the end of the day, if I was here, it was also because of him. And if it helped me with the competition, it would be thanks to him too.

I used to lose track of time when it suited me. It was something I turned to when I wasn’t comfortable with what was happening. I would simply disconnect from all presence and reality and dive into the absence of my mediocrity. Everything moved more slowly, but I could see it all pass by.

For a few hours, I sat by the window in my room and witnessed one of the most beautiful views of my life. I forced my eyes to watch without blinking, as if they were lenses of an old camera that had to remain still for a long time for the light to imprint the photograph.

Chamonix could have been depressing with all that snow and those cold, lonely landscapes, but the colorful flowers and the quaint wooden houses with old rooftops made it a less sad and more charming place. From where I sat, I could see the great snowy Alps, a few people skiing, and a fragment of the small mountain village as the sun set.

I had opened my small chessboard to play by the window on my own. Jean had gone to explore the village since I told her I’d stay to sort my things and take a shower. But the truth was, I was wrapping myself in solitude, trying to get used to the idea of being out of my comfort zone.

Sometimes I wanted to go out and see what everyone else was enjoying, what was supposed to happen during the rest of the weekend, what normal people do on a short vacation in the mountains. What do normal people do?

I figured it was Jean when I heard the knock long before the door opened. I knew she would sit on the edge of the bed and tell me what the town was like and what she had bought or planned to buy in the morning. But I was surprised when I opened the door confidently.

"Good afternoon," he greeted with a friendly smile and his hands in his coat pockets.

"Good afternoon," I replied the same way and stayed silent because I didn’t know how to react to Charles Leclerc at my door.

"Am I bothering you?" he asked.

"No, not at all. Would you...?" I gestured awkwardly toward the room, unsure how to respond to his presence, and he nodded, stepping inside. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Should I be polite? Offer him a glass of water? Ask how his day went? Ask about his training?

"I figured you’d be here. You didn’t come down after arriving," Charles commented, looking around my room curiously but not removing his hands from his coat.

"No, I was putting my things away and... it’s not like there was much for me to do down there."

"Yeah, Mick said you’re a bit shy," he added with a small smile.

"I tried being extroverted last time, and it didn’t go as planned," I sighed, and Charles laughed, remembering.

"It was fun, though. Even if we didn’t all agree, and you were very drunk."

"Don’t remind me," I rolled my eyes, and Charles’s gaze landed on the chessboard.

"Am I interrupting?" he pointed at it by the window.

"No, I was playing alone, so... I wouldn’t mind the company."

"Great. Can you believe the hotel doesn’t have any boards or pieces?" he sat excitedly in one of the armchairs by the coffee table, and I sat across from him. I felt like a cat exploring a new space but probably looked like an idiot. "You don’t have to spend the whole weekend locked in this room," Charles said while we set up the pieces.

"Yeah, I know... but... I won’t lie, it’s weird," I confessed, and he looked up.

"I get it. We all know each other, don’t feel intimidated by that. You work with us—you’re already part of the group," he smiled. "And actually, Carmen spoke very highly of you after you left. You’re welcome to all the get-togethers if you want to come... unless whoever you work for has a problem with it."

"You mean Persson?" I frowned as I finished setting up my pieces. I was black.

"I don’t like to judge because I don’t know him, but not everyone likes him. Is he good to you?" he asked, moving his first pawn.

"Of course. I’m his assistant. Even if it’s hard sometimes... Persson is just like all of you, Charles," I replied, continuing the game.

"Yeah, I know—that’s what nobody wants to admit. But he’s just a man with a helmet and a reputation. I have to admit I was a little terrified when he beat us all in his first preseason," he recalled with amusement.

"Why are you all so afraid of him?" I asked. The question almost slipped out. As soon as I had the chance, it jumped onto the board, disrupting all his pieces in his eyes but laying perfectly in mine. Charles had raised his hand to move a white piece, but once the question was out, he froze, hand suspended over his side of the board, fist clenched, hesitating.

"Persson is probably everything we all want to be," he admitted. "I mean, he doesn’t have it easy, but people love him, the FIA lets him get away with more than it should... He doesn’t have to face the press directly. Do you know what we’d give for that?" he asked. "He just shows up, races, wins, and we don’t see him again until the next event. Nobody knows who he is, but they know the power he has in a car. That guy can go out to dinner with his girlfriend anywhere without a camera following him. No one comments on his private life because all that matters is what he does on the track."

His eyes settled on the board as he thought through his next move, and I breathed in, swallowing every word.

"Capri was on Max’s heels, dismissed Lewis like no one else, and could take any of our seats because we have no idea what’s going on in his mind or what he’ll do next," he moved his bishop, attacking my rook.

"He could take any of our seats," I recalculated.

"He’s been a legend since F3. Even Vettel said it: 'If anyone can beat Hamilton someday, it’ll be number 9.'"

"Do you think Persson is that good?"

"Persson is a machine behind the wheel. He’s much more than good... Check," he declared and looked out the window while I assessed my options on the board. I moved my queen two spaces, blocking the check, and met his eyes.

"Checkmate," I said seriously, and Charles looked at the board for a moment before smiling in amusement.

"I wouldn’t expect anything less from Persson’s assistant."

Chapter Text

Chamonix, France. April, 2023

Charles left my room after we checked the time following a few more chess matches. I won 3–1, but time had flown. By the time we noticed, the sky was completely dark, and it was time to get ready for dinner—though, strangely, I kind of wanted to stay and play a few more rounds with Charles.

"Alright, see you in a bit then," he said as he reached the door after helping me put away the board and pieces.

"Where's the dinner?" I asked, since I had no idea.

"I can come get you, if you’d like. The hotel’s a bit of a maze."

"Just tell me where it is and I’ll be there."

"As you wish. It’s two doors past the great hall where we all were today. Let me know if you need anything," he winked before walking out, and I sighed, realizing I had to face one of life’s hardest decisions—picking an outfit for dinner.

Jean had saved me a step by packing pre-selected outfits, but she packed several, which meant I still had to choose one myself since she had already gone down for dinner. Feeling confident, I took a shower, chose my clothes, and left the room determined to have a good evening. A nice dinner. But I couldn’t pretend I wouldn’t run into him in the halls when we were literally staying at the same hotel. It was starting to feel a bit too intentional.

"Are we going to run into each other like this all weekend?" I asked as I closed my door and noticed we were the only two in the hallway.

"Looks like it—we’re staying on the same floor," he replied, clearly amused. I turned to look at him. I couldn’t believe it, but I had to admit he didn’t look bad at all. Max also gave me a quick, subtle once-over. "I can ask for another room if you want."

"Oh, please," I scoffed. "It was just a comment," I rolled my eyes and we started walking toward the elevator.

"Are you going skiing tomorrow?" he asked, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence without looking at me.

"I don’t know. I’ve never skied before."

"Seriously?" he turned to me like all his seriousness had fled the elevator. His eyes lit up with amusement and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe it. I raised my eyebrows as if to ask, "What do I owe you?" and he looked back ahead. "It’s not that hard, you just... need to stay focused and keep your balance. You can do that, right?" he looked at me again with that slightly annoying playfulness, and I sighed. At the end of the day, he would always be Max, and I couldn’t change that.

"You're so funny."

"You crushed all my feelings last time. You said I could say whatever I wanted about you in return."

"Sure, but that coupon expired days ago. Maybe you can earn another next time," I stayed composed—when I wanted to, I could be both funny and sarcastic.

"Will it come with a final punchline?" he laughed with a snort.

"If you were that quick on track, you wouldn’t have to worry about the rest of the season," I fired back cleanly, turning to look at him. Max looked at me, surprised but clearly entertained. I couldn’t deny there was something addictive about poking at the sensitive parts of his champion know-it-all armor.

"Who said I’m worried?" he shrugged, and I focused more on not being too obvious while glaring at him than on responding.

"You’ve had two podiums this season. How many points ahead is Capri? Twelve? Fifteen? Probably twenty?" I argued, barely hiding my annoyance. I tried to stay discreet and subtle—I didn’t want to be too obvious. The elevator doors finally opened and we stepped into the main lobby, me walking a few steps ahead.

"Right, but... how many points does Red Bull have over AlphaTauri in the constructors’ standings so far? Fifteen? Twenty, maybe?" he mocked me far too openly, and I turned to him, indignant. Max was openly mocking my team and looked at me, clearly expecting a sharp and hurtful comeback.

"We’re sister teams, Max. You think we haven’t sacrificed a few things for your victories?" I snapped. "If you win, don’t forget why."

"Because Persson holds back from being as good as they say?" he barely held in his laugh, and I fully restrained myself. Hitting him wasn’t a viable option, but in my head, I was already smashing his head against the shiny marble floor over and over again, gripping his infuriating blond hair.

"Is this going to be a regular thing with you two, or just a coincidence?" George laughed, approaching us with Carmen, who beamed when I turned to see her.

"I love that combo," Carmen complimented, eyeing my outfit and stepping away from her boyfriend to link arms with me. I had worried it might be too simple or not appropriate, but after seeing what Carmen was wearing, I knew it was perfect. If it weren’t for the team giving us branded clothes to wear like walking billboards, I would never buy any of this.

"Well, if you’re complimenting me, I must’ve done something right."

"Oh, definitely, Am. You know, the girls are going to a café near the hotel for breakfast tomorrow before skiing. Of course you’re invited—and Jean too, by the way. I haven’t seen her since we said hi earlier," she added with that particular look of hers that, somehow, made me trust her. I couldn’t believe that after just a few exchanges, I already felt so close to Carmen.

"Okay, sounds great. Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be there."

"Fabulous," she grinned with enthusiasm, and before I realized it, we had arrived at the hotel dining room—a massive hall with enormous windows overlooking the snowy Chamonix mountains. The lighting was low but thoughtfully placed where it mattered. The luxurious cabin-style décor gave the space a warm and peaceful vibe.

In a corner, separate from the rest of the tables, was a more private area where the rest of our group sat. Jean was already there chatting with Lewis, Mick, and Laila, sitting quite far from the open spot left for me.

"There you are," Charles smiled. "For a second I thought I’d have to come get you," he leaned toward me as I sat. Max sat between us, which made conversation a bit awkward.

"I thought you got lost," he added.

"Actually, they argued again," George chimed in, laughing, and Carmen turned to him with what I imagined was a warning look.

"Careful, Max. There’s nothing this woman doesn’t do well," Charles said, and Max didn’t even look at him when he answered:

"I already know that."

Having Max next to me all dinner was one of the most awkward and unexpected things of the year. A few months ago, I would’ve sworn that if I imagined this scene, I’d be plunging a steak knife into his thigh out of pure frustration. But now we were eating almost in sync.

The hotel chef served everyone sample dishes from the upcoming menu, and while everyone raved about the texture and overwhelming flavor of the soy sauce, Jean and I exchanged glances from opposite ends of the table, trying not to laugh. We weren’t exactly culinary experts, so we felt completely excluded from those conversations, which made the topic seem downright ridiculous.

When the waiters came around offering the most popular cocktails after dinner, Max interrupted my order, grabbing everyone’s attention.

"No alcohol for her," he joked. "Don’t want you regretting anything later," he smiled, looking into my eyes. Strangely, there was no trace of the usual mocking tone. I could even detect some seriousness in his voice.

"He’s right," I turned to the waiter. "I have to protect his ego. Maybe next time, once I’ve rebuilt his confidence," I smiled sarcastically, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder to make sure everyone knew who I was talking about. The waiter gave an awkward smile, and the table burst into laughter and murmurs. "The things I do to protect your arrogance," I sighed, looking at him, and Max laughed, shaking his head.

"I wouldn’t call it arrogance," he shrugged.

"Then what would you call it?"

"It’s what you need to properly get in the mindset of a champion."

"So you just avoid criticism?" I frowned, and the conversation had become private and intimate.

"When the criticism isn’t constructive or helpful for winning, yes. I avoid it."

"You avoid the criticism you don’t want to accept," I rephrased.

"I avoid what doesn’t benefit me," he replied like it was obvious, so I turned to the rest of the table.

"How do you all handle criticism?" I asked the group.

"Like this," said Carlos, grabbing a napkin, spitting in it, and tossing it over his shoulder so it landed on the floor. Everyone roared with laughter. "Without looking back," he smiled triumphantly, and although the advice was solid, it wasn’t quite what I was hoping for.

"If the criticism isn’t good or constructive, what use is it really?" Pierre shrugged.

"Are there bad but constructive critiques?" Daniel asked playfully, knowing the answer. "It’s better to focus on the positive, not the negative. Your mind attracts whatever you surround yourself with," he explained to me directly, and before I realized it, I had my elbows on the table, giving my full attention to the answers.

"How does Persson handle criticism?" Lewis asked suddenly, and everyone turned to me for an answer.

He took it all—good or bad—diving into a bathtub of comments and making them part of himself. There were no good or bad critiques, just people talking. And they said a lot.

"I don’t want to imagine what it was like after Abu Dhabi," Alex muttered, staring down at his glass, swirling it and playing with the rim.

I completely zoned out, staring at a single spot on the table. Jean noticed.

"Capri doesn’t distinguish between good or bad criticism. No matter what people say, he’ll always be his harshest critic because he’s the only one who can destroy himself long before he even exists." Jean spoke her words as if I wasn’t there at all, as if they hurt, as if she felt them. I was sure she did, but she didn’t look at anyone in particular. She just adjusted the napkin on her lap like it wasn’t important.

"That’s even worse," Charles replied.

"But you can’t avoid it," I sighed. "If you’re not your own harshest critic... then you become a liar. Your own worst traitor."

And I meant it.

I couldn’t spend my life telling myself positive things, lying to my face like everything was okay. I understood that after Abu Dhabi. I finished second, but I couldn’t leave thinking, "Oh well, at least I came second." That wasn’t fair after an entire season of sacrifice to win the championship. Second place wasn’t what I aimed for, and I had to fix that. Maybe I needed more training, maybe better connection with the car, maybe I needed to push harder. I could accept the blame. What I couldn’t do was be too forgiving with myself. I never had been. That’s what Jean meant.

As dinner wound down, people left gradually—first a few, then more. Carmen and I left, leaving George, Max, Pierre, Lando, Carlos, Isa, Kika, and Charles behind. They said they were heading to a bar or something, but we skipped and went up to our rooms. The hotel was nearly deserted by then.

"You seem close to Persson," Carmen commented while we waited for the elevator.

"I’m his assistant—I’m like a part of his body or something," I replied.

"Am," she said, taking a deep breath. "I don’t know if I should say this, but I want you to trust me. If that’s the case..." she turned to me just as the elevator doors opened. Carmen gestured for me to go in first and press my floor before she did the same. "The guys keep saying it’s obvious Persson is really tough on you and the team. I never would’ve noticed if I didn’t know you, but now that I do, it worries me. Is it true? Because if it is, I want you to know you don’t have to be ashamed about it..."

"What are the guys saying?" I asked, frowning.

"I think we both know what they’re saying." Her eyes locked on mine, and I couldn’t help but feel humbled by her concern. I couldn’t believe she cared about me that much.

"Capri is extremely hard on himself, Carmen. He’s incredibly private and... purely ambitious," I explained. "All drivers are, to some extent. And I understand—probably more than I’d like. I get how he felt after last season and what he’s been dealing with since the start. But my working relationship with Persson isn’t what it seems. I support him, a lot. But I can’t separate certain things when I know better than anyone what he’s been through," I confessed, and she nodded, completely absorbed in my words. "I really appreciate your concern, Carmen. But it’s part of my job. And if you’re wondering—he’s never laid a hand on me or verbally abused me."

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that," she smiled, visibly at ease. "I was scared he might be abusing his position over you, and while everyone else was speculating, I... I couldn’t imagine what I’d do in your shoes. I owe you an apology if this felt intrusive or silly, but... once they started talking, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I needed to talk to you to make sure everything was okay. It didn’t feel weird or silly, right? Because if it did, we can just pretend this never happened and..."

"Carmen," I interrupted her. "No one has ever cared about me like that before," I smiled, and she exhaled. "Thank you, really."

I couldn’t miss the chance to give her a short, heartfelt hug—woman to woman—to show how grateful I was that she noticed certain things and chose to act on them. I completely understood where she was coming from. It made me a bit emotional and sentimental that she saw it, but it also terrified me. Everyone had noticed something in how I acted around Capri. Everyone had noticed something... but how long until they found out the truth?

The elevator doors opened and I said goodbye to Carmen, thanking her again and looking forward to seeing her at breakfast. She said she’d stop by to get me so we could go together—she didn’t want to go alone—so I thanked her again. Sometimes I felt like a little kid in preschool, new and friendless, discovering the territory—but finding another kid with way more experience, willing to help me grow. That was Carmen. And I couldn’t resist her warmth, because she was the kind of person you feel proud to have by your side.

I just wondered how close I could really keep her.

And as if the day hadn’t been enough, the night played its own card. I stayed on my phone for what felt like a moment, but when I checked the time, almost two hours had passed. I changed into my pajamas and dragged myself toward the bed—I was exhausted. It had been a long day full of unexpected moments. As I undressed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—and there it was again, a scar on my waist I’d been trying to ignore for months.

There’s a name for this feeling. When you think you’ve overcome something—and sometimes it really seems like you have—but then a memory, a thought, an emotion connected to it shows up... and everything falls apart. A famous author once said happy memories hurt a little, but painful ones still hurt—and that’s how it was for me.

In Abu Dhabi, when I got out of the car with the front completely wrecked, a part of the front wing had flown up near the halo. With all the adrenaline, desperation, and anger, I got out without realizing how close it was. I slipped while trying to use the halo to climb out, and the piece of wing scraped a huge part of my waist. I thought it was just a scratch, but when I took off the dirt-covered suit, I saw my undershirt was soaked in blood—the “scratch” was actually an open wound, and my suit had a slit in the same spot. At the time, it felt like a minor detail since I had just lost the championship on the final corner, but I had to make sure it didn’t get infected—it was a fairly big wound.

For a long time, I wanted to ignore it. While training, showering, getting dressed—I just didn’t want to look at it. It was already torture enough carrying the weight of that race’s guilt. But there it was again. The physical pain recorded, the mark that moment left on my life—and on my skin.

And that’s when I asked myself why. Why, in silence, did I hear all the things I struggled to say out loud? Why did all those memories come back so easily—so fresh? Why did it still hurt like the first time? Why couldn’t I remember even one good thing that had happened since then? Why wasn’t there any happiness between that championship and now? Why, in moments when I should’ve felt proud and happy, did I only feel relieved I hadn’t lost?

And I was terrified. Because I wasn’t sure if I’d remember the victory as clearly as the day I lost.

I held my breath when I heard the sound at the door. I froze, trying to figure out if it was mine or another down the hall. But there it was again—the sound of knuckles on the door.

I quickly threw on my pajamas and opened the door, gasping in surprise when I saw him barely able to stand.

"Don’t even say it," he slurred, and I noticed how hard it was for him to keep his eyes on a fixed point. "I think Carlos has my room key, but he left before the bar, and he’s a really heavy sleeper. I’ve tried everything but he won’t wake up," he explained, eyes tired, leaning against the doorframe. "Yours was the only room number I could remember."

"Alright, I’ll call reception and have them give you another key," I offered, turning to head for the room phone, but Max grabbed my wrist in a sudden, drunken movement.

"You think I haven’t tried that already?"

"Let me guess," I pulled his hand off my wrist, turning to face him and crossing my arms. "They don’t have another key?"

"The receptionist is an idiot."

"How convenient," I pressed my lips together. "Knock on a few doors. One of them has to belong to another driver. Goodnight," I said before closing the door and turning off the light to go to sleep. Drunk Max was a whole situation—the half-open shirt, the messy hair, the vacant gaze, his chest partly exposed... A whole situation I hadn’t expected to fully uncover until I heard him vomit in the hallway and sighed in frustration. I couldn’t leave him there, especially not like that.

"Damn it," I muttered when I saw him bracing himself with his hands on his knees, and I helped him into the room. Max tried to steady himself against the walls, but as soon as he spotted the bathroom, he rushed in and didn’t come out for several minutes. Meanwhile, I had to call reception to ask them to send someone to clean up the mess he had made.

If I needed something to end my day, it was this.

Chapter Text

Chamonix, France. April, 2023

"Are you done?" I asked without looking, through the small gap between the bathroom door and the frame. Max answered yes after flushing the toilet, and I opened the door fully, seeing him sitting on the floor beside it, resting his head against the wall like he had just run the race of his life. He looked vulnerable but much better than when I’d first opened the room door.

He sighed.

"You’re very good-lo—"

"Don’t even think about it," I cut him off, knowing what he was going to say and the state he was in. It was useless to listen or let him talk like that. Max lowered his eyes for a second, smiling mischievously.

"I lied," he looked at me, his eyes full of remorse. He was embarrassed. "I remembered Lando’s room number too, but he drank as well—enough to laugh at me all night. And Pierre is with his girlfriend. They drank too, but I didn’t dare bother them."

"What about Danny?"

"He would’ve questioned why I drank so much. We’re not supposed to drink that much," he explained, and I had to glance away to another corner of the bathroom so I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed by his gaze. I adjusted my posture against the doorframe. I didn’t need his explanations. I just... felt a bit of empathy seeing him that way. "Did you drink that night to forget too?"

"What?" I asked, confused, looking back at him. Now it was Max who looked away.

"I’m not in a great place right now," he smiled weakly.

"It shows," I muttered, and he let out a dry chuckle. I stepped closer, sitting on the floor against the opposite wall, cross-legged. "You don’t have to talk about it. You can sleep on the couch in the room," I said with some timidity.

"That’s why I came," he looked down at his hands on his thighs and I sighed. It was going to be a long night. "We’re not close enough for this."

"Come on, it’s late," I got up, cutting the conversation short, afraid he might keep talking—afraid of learning more about him. I took Max’s hand to help him up and made sure he reached the couch without bumping into anything. Once seated, I handed him a glass of water, and he stared out the window. I sat on the bed, watching him, analyzing his every move. He felt like a constant threat but was clearly lost, thoughtful, nostalgic.

"I shouldn’t have drunk like that—I never do," he said, staring at the glass in his hands.

"What’s done is done. Get some sleep."

"What do you do when you want to forget something?" he asked, looking me straight in the eye, and I felt paralyzed.

What do I do? Really?

"Sleep," I replied like it was obvious.

"I’m serious."

"Sometimes I drink, but it’s not really an option. At least not the best one."

"Then what’s supposed to make up for it?" he asked, almost pleading.

I thought about it, but honestly, I was out of words.

"It’s not easy to forget what you desperately want to forget," I shrugged, but he kept staring like he needed clarity. "You forget the little things, but when you really want to forget something, it’s like trying to hide an elephant under a rug."

"This isn’t an elephant," he confessed, and I narrowed my eyes to see whether it was tears or just the gleam of alcohol in his eyes. Max looked down and took a deep breath, and there was no doubt now—his eyes held tears.

"I thought I could fix things with Kelly, but I couldn’t."

"You don’t have to—"

"I miss her so much, and I know she does too. I don’t understand why it’s so hard," he choked out, and if he hadn’t started crying, I probably would’ve told him to shut up and go to sleep. But he did cry, and I didn’t know what to do.

That’s the problem with men who always try to act like men—when they finally become human, they seem almost unreal. So much so that even they ache at the realization that they’re not heroes made of stardust.

"Who’s Kelly?" I asked, scooting to the edge of the bed, facing the couch.

"My girlfriend... ex-girlfriend," he corrected. "We were together for a long time... but it wasn’t the same anymore."

"Do you expect things to be the same after a long time?" I asked.

"I love her so much," he gasped, breaking down and burying his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. This couldn’t be happening to me. Maybe Max was exaggerating because he’d been drinking, but I couldn’t bring myself to minimize his feelings, not even a little.

"We were a family, you know? And now P calls me from Kelly’s phone when we used to spend all our time together, and that... that feels horrible."

"Who’s P?" I frowned even more, not understanding the depth of what was happening, especially considering how drunk he was.

"Penelope, Kelly’s daughter," he explained. "I’ve known her practically since she was born. Kelly won’t say it because she knows we’re not in the best place, but P misses everything we used to be, and... I do too."

I could barely understand what was going on, but I sighed and tried.

"Let me see if I got this. You and Kelly have been together for a long time, she has a daughter, Penelope, and you were all like a family. But now things aren’t working and..."

"We’ve been taking a break since the season started," he said, trying to collect himself.

"Well, that explains a lot," I murmured, realizing the obvious drop in race wins this season compared to the beast he used to be. And I think that’s when I understood the rest. "Do you need her?" I asked.

"Do I need her? Of course I need her, America! She’s everything to me! Who would I be without her?!" he exclaimed, pulling his hands from his face, consumed by a pain I wished I could share—but I couldn’t, because I’d never been in his situation, whatever it really was.

"If you’re nothing without her, then you don’t deserve her," I recited, and he stared at me, stunned, like I’d just told the cruelest lie.

"I don’t know her—I don’t know you or this Penelope—but I don’t think I’d want to be with someone who, beyond loving me, needs me."

"But I love her," he whispered.

"If you love someone, you can live without them—but you choose them every day because you know life’s better with them by your side. If you just need her because you hate coming home alone after winning a Grand Prix... Let me tell you, she deserves better than you. Instead of promising her you’ll keep fighting, maybe she needs you to stop that war," I sighed, and we both fell silent. Max let a few more tears fall, and I felt completely out of place—like I was intruding in a space that wasn’t mine, witnessing a vulnerability I wasn’t prepared to see.

Never watch your enemies break in front of you. Ever.

With nothing left to say, I lay down in bed, and before turning off the light, I wished him a barely audible goodnight. I heard him settle onto the couch until he finally fell asleep. But for me, it wasn’t that easy.

When I woke up, I felt a bitter taste in my mouth seeing the couch empty. I stayed still to hear if he was in the bathroom—but no. Total silence in the room. The couch was tidy and the glass he drank from was back where it belonged, like it had all been a dream. He didn’t have to stay, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He could leave whenever he wanted—there were no strings attached... even if, deep down, I wished he had stayed.

I looked up Kelly and was surprised to realize I had no idea she was the daughter of Brazilian driver Nelson Piquet. Her eyes were the most beautiful I’d seen in a long time—Max definitely didn’t deserve her...

I didn’t let that thought linger for too long. I was heading out with the girls that morning and we’d be back at the hotel later to get ready to go skiing. When I got down to the reception, Kika and Lily were already there, followed by Isa, then Laila and Carmen. Spending time with them was unlike anything else. The girls created a perfect atmosphere of trust and closeness, as if they’d known each other their whole lives, and they had this wonderful way of making you feel like you belonged—something I’d never truly felt before.

Even though my mother had tried my whole life, I’d never been interested in making friends anywhere. That’s how Capri Persson was born. I was the shy girl intimidated by social interactions and long conversations with other kids. I just wanted to go, race, win, and go back home—that was all I cared about. Still, my mother was never fully on board with me keeping my helmet on at all times; she’d even been too harsh once.

"I want to make a difference. I want to be a driver in my own right, not 'the only woman who raced in F1,'" I snapped back during one of our many arguments.

"If you want to make a difference, then take off the helmet and face the problem," she signed, angry and out of patience. "You want change? Take off the helmet and fight."

She’d basically called me a coward. That was my relationship with my mother—even without a voice, her words were always too loud for me.

"What about you, Am?" Kika asked, settling into her seat when we got to the café. "What’s your life story?"

The question caught me off guard, but the answer came easily—it was a story I had down by heart. There wasn’t much to tell. My Swedish accent, camouflaged by a British twist, gave away my origin. I’d studied mechanics on a scholarship at Lund University in Sweden (which was true), had been working with Capri Persson for a while, and hoped to keep doing so for the foreseeable future because I didn’t have other plans. The girls asked a few more questions until our breakfast arrived, and we moved on to other topics.

Before heading back to the hotel, the girls helped me get proper ski gear, and once I had everything ready, we returned to change. Around 10 a.m., we all met in the hotel lobby to go to the ski resort together.

I had to admit I was a little nervous. I loved trying new things and had never skied in my life—not even when the Schumachers invited me to Aspen for my birthday. So I was genuinely excited about skiing in the French Alps.

When we arrived, everyone paired up for the chairlifts. Jean stuck to me like a magnet—it was a several-minute ride to the next station where we’d be skiing downhill. But as soon as the chairlift started ascending and we were away from the rest, with a bit of height-induced panic, Jean started talking.

"Franz wants to talk to you when we get back," she said.

"About what?" I frowned, confused.

"You know what about," she replied plainly, and my expression shifted immediately. Of course I knew.

"I’m not planning on changing teams..."

"Maybe you should think that over," she interrupted. "There are plenty of options these days, Capri. Staying at AlphaTauri would be like Russell staying with Williams instead of going to Mercedes."

"Have you already spoken to someone?" I asked, referring to other teams.

"Even Aston Martin is willing to make Lance a reserve driver—Lance, their own son! Do you get that? Stroll is willing to bench his son because he knows that no matter the car you’re in, there are at least three podiums a season waiting."

Jean turned completely toward me, forgetting how high up we were.

"How many teams have you talked to?" I asked, looking at her with a mix of pity and fear. I didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not like this.

I’d signed with AlphaTauri my first year, 2020. When they saw my potential, we renewed for three more years. But something felt off—something too strange to analyze while sitting on a chairlift—and it was the fact that Franz hadn’t mentioned anything about a contract extension, while Jean was convinced I needed to consider other options.

"All of them," she murmured, sounding almost sorry for me. "Capri, you need to talk to Tost as soon as possible."

"But I’m not leaving AlphaTauri, Jean," I snapped. "Unless Franz pushes me out, that’s the end of this conversation."

"Fangio wasn’t the best just because he won with skill and precision, Capri. Fangio is the best because he won no matter which team he drove for," she concluded, turning her gaze forward again. I had nothing more to say—because once again, Jean was right.

I didn’t want to jump to conclusions or assume the worst, but I could sense something different this season. I wasn’t worried about my place on the grid—of that, I was sure. What really worried me was that Jean had already spoken to every team, and Franz Tost hadn’t said a word about my contract with AlphaTauri, even knowing full well I had no intention of leaving, no matter what offers were on the table.

When we reached the next ski station, Jean and I got off the chairlift and took in the snow-covered landscape around us, glistening brightly. It was almost blinding—but purely beautiful. There were plenty of people skiing down various slopes, suited for different skill levels. While Jean joined up with Kika, Pierre, Alex, Lily, and Lewis—who had agreed to accompany my advisor on a beginner slope—I blended in easily with Mick, Laila, Charles, Carlos, Isa, and Max on the expert slope. In my defense, I drove every weekend at 300 km/h. Skiing like a pro on my first try felt very on-brand.

Mick was talking about the best places in the world to ski, a favorite hobby of his, when he turned to look at me and furrowed his brow, realizing where I was.

"Wait a second," he stopped abruptly, and Laila looked puzzled until she caught on to what her boyfriend had noticed. "What are you doing here?" he asked once we were fairly high up on the expert slope.

"Sorry, weren’t we baking cookies today?" I asked sarcastically, and the group laughed.

"Am," he said, stepping closer, "you don’t have to come if you’re not ready. You can go to the other slope with Lewis and the others."

I should note that Mick was very sweet when he worried—and I completely understood his concern—but I couldn’t help laughing. I needed the full experience, or it wouldn’t count at all.

"You must have a lot of faith in me."

"You don’t know how to ski?" Max cut in, and I turned to look at him for the first time since last night. His skin was redder, and his blue eyes shone even more under the snow’s brightness. No trace of tears or pain.

"No," I answered simply.

"Then what are you doing here?" he pushed.

"I can go with you to the other slope, Am," Charles offered.

"Come on, let her be. She’ll do fine—we’ll be with her," Isa stepped in, and Carlos backed her up.

"She’s never skied in her life. She should go back," Max objected, and suddenly everyone started debating whether I should stay or leave. We were perfectly positioned to start skiing, but they were more interested in figuring out if it was safe for me to stay. Mick knew I could do it if I wanted to—and I understood his point. Max, on the other hand, didn’t need to butt in.

Just then, a kid about thirteen or fourteen launched himself next to me. I watched how he placed his poles, bent his knees, and got ready for speed. As he slid down the snow, he moved beautifully—from the waist down—keeping his shoulders steady and balanced. All right... I just had to copy him.

Turning my back to the group, I adjusted my goggles, remembered the kid’s posture, and launched myself without hesitation, pushing off with my poles.

"America!" I heard them shout behind me, but I burst into laughter as I felt the speed. The control was in my feet, and the direction was easy to manage as long as I kept my focus. I just had to move my knees and maintain my balance and confidence. It felt completely liberating. All the motion came from my lower body, so I could keep my gaze forward.

Of course, going downhill, I occasionally felt like I was losing control, especially when I zigzagged too widely—but I welcomed it. That was part of the experience. No brakes this time. It was nothing like racing—but it felt just as fantastic.

I stopped at the end of the slope just like I’d seen the kid do moments earlier, exhaling a deep sigh and relaxing my shoulders. Then I heard clapping and cheering from the side. I turned to see Danny, Jean, Lewis, and the others who’d stayed on the easier slope. I took off my goggles smiling and bowed toward them. Then I looked back up the slope where I’d been just seconds ago and saw Max, Mick, and Laila leaning over, ready to come down, clearly confused. I gave them a thumbs-up, laughing, and they soon followed.

"Well? What do you think, huh?" I asked Max as he reached me, just as Charles, Carlos, and Isa were arriving too. "Think I’m ready to play with the big kids now?" I teased, and Mick stifled a laugh.

"You’re good," he complimented.

"Oh my god, are we all hearing this?" I raised my eyebrows at Laila and Mick with sarcasm. "Did Max Verstappen just give me a compliment?"

"I can admit it. I just did," he lifted his hands in surrender, and I laughed. "America, last night..."

The second I heard his voice slip into a serious tone, I quickly bent down, scooped a snowball with my gloves, and threw it at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, snow on his face, and I laughed. Mick turned around to see what was going on, and soon I felt a snowball hit my back.

"You didn’t!" I turned to him, and he laughed. I completely forgot about Max and started pelting Mick with snowballs as fast as I could—he still owed me a snowball war.

"Don’t start without us!" Daniel shouted from a distance, and within minutes, the ski area turned into a full-on snowball fight between a bunch of grown-ups. It was genuinely fun—we waited for someone to get distracted so we could aim and fire, and if you hit their face and they made a terrible expression, extra points. I also realized I had great aim—every snowball I threw (especially at Mick) hit its target.

But then my phone started vibrating in the pocket of my coat, and I stepped away from the group without saying anything, trying to read the screen despite the light.

"Mom"

My skin tingled, but I didn’t hesitate to answer.

"Where are you?" she asked, and I lifted my phone to show her the view.

"The French Alps. Skiing," I set my phone on the window of a small wooden hut that sold ski gear so I could use both hands to sign. My mom’s confusion was clear. "Mick invited me."

"Oh, how nice," she replied. "How have you been? I saw Australia, but I wanted to wait for you to call," she added, and I sighed. I hadn’t thought about Australia in a while.

"I don’t want to talk about that right now. It didn’t go as I expected."

"It was an incredible race despite everything, Capri," she replied with enthusiasm. "That overtake was amazing and when..."

"I don’t want to talk about it right now," I repeated, signing with emphasis.

"Lately you don’t want to talk about anything," my mom replied, and I rolled my eyes. "Will you come home for the summer?"

"Depends on the Hungarian Grand Prix. If I get enough points, maybe. Otherwise, I’d rather stay and train." My mom let out a heavy sigh, clearly displeased with my decision, and shook her head in disappointment.

"You know I support you in everything. But I can’t support you when you insist on destroying yourself in your obsession," she argued.

"I’m not obsessed, Mom. I’m doing what you’ve told me my whole life to do. Face things and fight for my place."

"Being runner-up was enough. Do you know how valuable that would’ve been for younger girls in the sport—to see that the greatest competitor of our time is a woman who finished second?" I hated when she did this—every part of it.

"Second place isn’t enough."

"Nothing is ever enough for you," she concluded, and I sighed, tired of having the same argument over and over.

"You’re right," I gave in, unbothered. "That’s what I call discipline. And without it, I never would’ve made it to F2 in the first place." That silenced my mom completely. "We’ll talk later, Mom. I love you," I said, ending the video call. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to find inner peace like Sarah had advised—but it wasn’t working. And just when I tried to concentrate again, a snowball hit me in the face. I turned to see where it came from.

"I owed you one," Max smiled shyly, and I realized he’d noticed my absence.

"The battlefield’s over there," I pointed to the others who were still throwing snow—Lando had just tackled Danny to the ground.

"Were you talking to Persson?" he asked, gesturing toward my phone.

"Because of the signing?" He nodded. "No, it was my mom."

"I had no idea how many things you hide," he smiled, and I sighed. If only he knew.

"You barely know me, Max."

"America," he called, stepping closer, "I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable last night. I didn’t mean to show up in your room. And when I woke up this morning, I felt terrible about it. I shouldn’t have stayed. I’m sorry."

"If I’d known you were going to leave before I woke up, I’d have stayed up all night," I said without thinking. To fix it, I added, "I don’t know what’s happening in your personal life, Max—and I doubt you remember much. But it sounded alarming... and painful last night."

"I remember what you said," he answered, with an expression I never expected to see from him. Suddenly, we were talking like I never thought we could—with compassion and calm. "Maybe you don’t know what’s going on, but if it happens again, I know who to talk to," he smiled. "Do you have any other advice for me?"

"Besides not drinking so much?" I joked, and he laughed. "I guess you have to stay positive," I shrugged, honestly not knowing what else to say. I’d never been in this situation before. "But you should know... everything feels worse when it’s just you and your breathing in a room. It’s much easier to hear all the things we silence in the noise of everyday life."

"Have you ever had your heart broken?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes," I said thoughtfully. "Last winter."

Chapter Text

Faenza, Italy. April, 2023

I came back from Chamonix before the others so I could talk to Franz first thing Monday morning. It had been fun to get out of the routine for a bit, spend time with everyone, and enjoy learning how to ski. On Saturday, we had lunch at a restaurant right there and then spent the rest of the afternoon skiing, and I’m proud to say that I didn’t think about Abu Dhabi at all for the rest of the day. For the first time since it happened, I was able to detach myself from that memory, at least for a while.

When we got back to the hotel in time for dinner, I spoke with Franz and he said he’d be at the office Monday morning, so I decided to head back early on Sunday with Jean. At breakfast, we said goodbye to everyone, and they made me promise we wouldn’t lose touch.

Going unnoticed around the paddock would now be much more complicated, and just thinking about it was enough to make me anxious. When we got on the bus back, Jean looked at me like I owed her an explanation, but the truth is, I didn’t know what she wanted from me.

“Yes?” I asked, noticing her insistent gaze.

“I thought we told each other everything,” she replied with a hint of frustration.

“Of course we do.”

“Of course not, Capri! Why didn’t you tell me about the party?” she demanded.

“It was Lewis, wasn’t it?” I went pale. “What did he say?”

“He said you were amusingly drunk and that you argued with Verstappen, but apparently now everything’s great because you talk as if a week ago you weren’t about to kill him.”

“A lot happened.”

“I’m glad to hear that, because we’ve got a four-hour trip ahead,” she said, settling into her seat.

I laughed. It would be an entertaining trip while I caught Jean up on what my life had been like this past week, laughing at her reactions. I told her everything, absolutely everything—from how I refused to go to the party to what Max had told me on Friday night when he came to my room, including the filler week of solitude. Jean listened to me like no one else ever could, fully interested in whatever I told her, and worried for me like only she could. Jean was the only thing I truly had by my side, the only person I could trust. Jean was my real soulmate.

“But you kissed him,” she smirked playfully.

“I know, and it was a good kiss, but it’s Max,” I replied in frustration. “He’s still Max, that’s never going to change. The upside is that now I understand my competition better—his weak points, his possible breaking points. If Max keeps dragging this along, he’s just as weak or even weaker than I could be after Abu Dhabi,” I explained to Jean, and she gave me a strange look. “I just need to figure out how to keep him close so I can see how that’s going.”

“Sounds a little cruel, don’t you think?”

“Sounds like life to me. Besides… You’re the one who should be telling me everything. What happened with Hamilton?” I changed the subject, and Jean sighed, leaning back in her seat without looking directly at me.

“I’ve got a better chance of driving your car and winning than ending up with Hamilton, let’s be honest.”

“But you talked?”

“Of course we talked, but he’s…” she sighed in frustration. “He’s a lot. Way too much. I’m not on his level. Not even for a one-night thing.”

“You’re the most exceptional woman I know, Jean. How could you not be on his level?” I questioned.

“No, don’t say that just to cheer me up. I’m not frustrated about it. There’s a pattern behind every driver’s partner, a somewhat sexist pattern if you ask me, where the woman usually has to keep a low profile. And it’s strange because it doesn’t seem true until you see them. They’re gorgeous, slim, talented, and… Have you seen their skin? I can barely keep my hair in place because of my job,” she scoffed, and I wanted to change the subject entirely.

“Has Franz told you anything else?” I asked.

“No. He said he needed to talk to you urgently. There’s a lot going around, Capri, and everyone already knows your contract with AlphaTauri ends this year. Maybe you ignore it because the FIA filters the questions you get asked or because you don’t have social media, but the rumors are awful.”

“What do you mean?” I frowned, unable to picture exactly what she was talking about.

“I tried to get as much information out of Franz as possible, but he doesn’t want to talk. Apparently, there are going to be changes in the team.”

Jean looked at me the way a parent looks at a child after breaking difficult news, waiting for their reaction. She knew exactly what she thought about it—she’d made it clear the day before on a chairlift. But AlphaTauri was all I knew, and Franz… He would never let them lose Capri Persson.

“Can I see what people are saying?” I asked, somewhat innocently, and Jean nodded, taking out her phone and opening Twitter.

If it weren’t for the questions I have to answer in the press release after each race, what Jean or the team tells me, and what certain TV shows say, I’d probably be living under a rock, literally. I had no idea what was being said about me or my races in general—I only heard from a couple of outlets, and that was it. It had been that way since… well, I guess at this point we all know since when.

When I searched my name, a flood of posts appeared, some very flattering, others not so much. Some stated that the status of my contract was still unknown, others speculated where I should go. I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh—it was more of a scoff—when I read one comment:

The replies ranged from those who thought it was a good idea to those completely against it.

Scrolling down, I saw several tweets connected to the same topic. My skin tingled just reading them:

I began to feel an intense heat at the back of my neck just noticing it. I knew tension had grown between Max and me after Abu Dhabi, tension we’d built over an entire season, ending with a single race to decide the championship. I knew exactly what that had been and what it meant—not only for our teams but also for the sport’s history. What I didn’t know was the tension that still lingered beyond our reach. People were comparing this to an even higher level than what happened with Max and Lewis in 2021.

The track we were racing on now was different. In 2021, Max dethroned Lewis after seven years of glory and victory, not just for him but for Mercedes. Now, Max was fighting to hold on to the title while I came after him hungry and desperate, craving revenge. On social media, people believed I could win that last GP and rack up enough points to surpass Max—who, at that point, was only two points ahead of me—after I’d received a penalty in Brazil for accelerating under two yellow flags. I was ready to win that championship. But it didn’t happen, and once again Verstappen was crowned 2022 champion in front of the world. He proved he could fight Lewis and anyone else in his way. Now, I had to prove I wasn’t “just anyone” in his way.

For me, the 2022 season wasn’t over. For me, this year would define my career. And I had to win, because when I got home after the Abu Dhabi GP, I made myself a promise—and I don’t break my promises.

I was dying with anticipation and nerves to talk to Franz about it. I had many doubts, and the ground beneath me felt more and more abstract. I knew it was early to jump to a problem like silly season, but if AlphaTauri had no doubts about wanting me on the team next year, why were they waiting so long to make me an offer? Why were they letting it slide when Jean had already spoken with the other teams?

There were definitely a lot of things I didn’t know, and it was making me far too uneasy.

“Buongiorno,” I greeted the team at reception upon arrival.

“Il signor Tost ti sta aspettando nel suo ufficio,” one of the women said, and I went upstairs to where I needed to be. It was incredible to think that just a couple of years ago, I had come here for the first time to talk to Franz about the future of Capri Persson in Formula One. I had turned down Mercedes’ program, just waiting for a call from Franz Tost. He had shaped drivers like Max, Carlos, and even Sebastian Vettel himself. I didn’t care about anything else in the world except learning from him. And it meant a lot that he had chosen me to be on the team without me having gone through Red Bull’s junior program—that said more than I could explain.

I knocked on his door, waiting to hear him from the other side, and when he gave me the signal, I entered his office.

“Good morning,” I greeted him with a hug beside his desk before sitting down in front of him, calm and comfortable.

“So now you know how to ski, huh?” he asked, amused, and I nodded.

“Can you believe they didn’t think I could?”

“That’s the mistake everyone makes. But you’re Capri Persson,” he smiled proudly. “Jean told me you were in Chamonix with the rest of the grid. How did it go?”

“Fine, I suppose that’s what the whole team wanted, right? For me to connect with the other drivers and understand they’re nothing more than ordinary human beings,” I said with a sarcastic tone.

“Verstappen’s not doing so well. You know what they say: good at the game, bad in love. At this point, he might be bad at both.”

Franz chuckled, shaking his head at my antics and took a breath.

“Don’t dodge the subject, Franz. You know I don’t like beating around the bush.”

The playful moment vanished, tension filling the room. I would have liked for us to keep laughing, but I couldn’t if I felt something was happening behind my back without my knowledge.

“What do you have in mind for your future?” he asked seriously.

“Winning, Franz. Obviously.”

“And after that?” he looked me in the eyes, expectantly, as if analyzing my every move.

“Go home, enjoy being the first woman to win an F1 championship, make history, give talks, train, and come back for next season. I’ll probably have to film a bunch of stuff for the series—should I say yes?” I laughed, trying to break the tension, but Franz didn’t laugh. I straightened my posture and spoke seriously. “I have no intention of accepting any contract that doesn’t come from AlphaTauri.”

Franz looked away, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable but trying to hide it like a businessman who knew exactly what he was doing and why. My senses were on full alert, searching his body language for a clue.

“I’m not leaving the team unless you want me to,” I added. “And I find it extremely strange—and I have to admit, a bit painful—that you haven’t called me yet to renew my contract if we’re both so sure about it.” I put my cards on the table. Franz took a breath, staring at the desk.

“Have you already signed with Nyck?” I asked, trying to push him.

“Capri,” he began, “I called you today because it’s my duty as team principal to tell you the current situation of the team.” He placed his hands on the table, fingers interlaced—a sign of trust—but I couldn’t help feeling a wave of panic. Franz was never formal with me. “It’s a complicated situation,” he admitted. “I won’t sugarcoat it. There are a lot of rumors going around. Apparently, they plan to change sponsors, maybe make changes in the team, but what’s most talked about is that they’re negotiating the team’s future. And although none of this is official, there’s no defined future right now, Capri.”

It felt like the floor was shifting under me. Even without specifics, the uncertainty itself was terrifying.

“As for Nyck,” he went on, “I can’t give you too many details, but after talking to Christian, we’ll give him until mid-season. It’s not good that every week we have to fix a car that could be in good condition in the right hands.” He pressed his lips together, showing how tough it was, but I stayed silent.

“Nothing’s certain yet, Capri,” he tried to comfort me, moving his hand to mine. “But my advice is to start looking at other options; I’m sure you have plenty.”

Looking at other options meant a new team, new engineers, a new car, new strategies, new dynamics, a new teammate… a new principal.

“What will happen to you?” I asked, desperate. Franz took a breath, shrugged, and gave a small, uncertain smirk.

That was a blow I hadn’t expected, and neither were the sudden tears stinging my eyes.

“Hey,” he said, holding my hand, “you’ll face situations like this your whole career. This is just the beginning. We still don’t know much, but it’s the perfect opportunity to consider new horizons, new challenges. Usually, AlphaTauri drivers prepare for Red Bull, but you have the chance to choose any team.”

“And what if I want to stay here?”

“For now, you’re still here, and until I can confirm otherwise, that’s how it’ll be. It’s just advice, and this time you need to listen to me.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to switch teams, Franz,” I admitted, my voice shaking.

“You’re Capri Persson. You’re already a legend, and you’ve only been here three years. If I hadn’t worked with Sebastian, I’d say you’re my best creation,” he joked, making me smile through my melancholy. “Leaving is also an act of courage, not just cowardice. And wherever you go, Capri, I’ll always be immensely proud to look at you and say: ‘I know that girl.’ I’ll always be proud of you, Capri. Wherever you go, win or lose, never doubt it. You’re one of the most talented drivers I’ve had in my entire career.”