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It had been quite a while since George had learned to smile through his tears, to smile without crying and thank god he had. Well especially now, he supposed, the Mercedes motorhome behind him for what seemed to be the last in a very long time.
The decision that had been made was an unsurprising but unwelcome gesture of the care held for him, but he hid his apprehension as he stood in front of Tot- no, Torger. At least he had the heart to pretend to look sad, but George knew better. Max had been chased for years, and Toto finally being able to see Max as his own driver meant he did not have any remorse left for George, let alone sympathy. Well, George mused, perhaps he held a little. Perhaps.
Every headline across Formula 1 repeated the same phrase, every fan in an uproar.
‘THE DECISION IS FINAL. VERSTAPPEN IN, RUSSELL OUT’
George responded to them precisely.
“I gave a lot to be here, but my mistake was expecting to be appreciated. Of course, this was neither the fault of Mercedes nor Max, but I appreciate everyone’s concern.”
His smile did not falter, and his eyebrows were relaxed, his posture loose but rigid. Of course, the interviewer got all up in his face and attacked him with countless questions, uncaring for how he felt. Nonetheless he played his part as the perfect precise driver and delivered clean responses, only hoping for good feedback in return. It was at least what he was owed, no?
“And, well, do you believe you could perform as well in Ferrari?” Unclench your jaw.
“Well, I believe I can.” Respond with certainty.
”Ah, so you only believe so?” Make eye contact.
”No, I know so.” Be specific.
What a joke of an interview. Toto would’ve been proud.
Every movement was a reminder, a reminder that he’d been replaced. George did not dare check his phone for he was afraid he’d see the news, the angry or righteous fans, the comforting words of which his friends were offering. He did not need, no — want pity, he wanted certainty.
A wolf on the hunt, who has been left behind by his own pack. Wounded, draped in red that’s not quite his, will it ever be quite the same? No, George does not fear the lion in silver, for he drips with blood red, a vengeance simmering. His wounds open, but George is no longer the same. And so the wolf shreds the star barbed wire and bares his teeth, for he will not back down either. He will win, and he will win in red.
Perhaps George is thankful? (Is it right of him?)
Mercedes is cold and clinical, posh and precise. Mistakes are not allowed, each movement is scrutinized by calculating gazes. But now, the ice blood flowing in his veins wistfully thaws to red, flowing loosely between his fingers, a slow defiant trickle. Down his head, drip, drip, onto the floor. Was it the right decision? Will it make him regret? Only left with an outstretched hand, an offer made not out of pity but of expectancy, what move do you take? There is no time to rue, make your decision, and make it quick. Adjust now, regret later, and feel satisfied.
(Feel love?)
Then again, love, George decides, will never be the same as care. Not as comforting, not one’s to keep. Love is not as pure as care, love is the feeling. But feeling is not enough. Care is the sustainment of such. Without both, how can one’s feelings truly be pure unfiltered love? Wanting a flower to live will not keep it alive, but giving it what it needs will. And all the same, loving is not the same as longing. Longing is faint, something that hurts. Longing is still feeling the space that was had once had a tooth, already long fallen. You can’t just let go, can you? It is the same as ringing the doorbell to the empty house, no response in return. Expected, but nonetheless unwelcome.