Chapter 8: Steward Little

I've learned that silence has texture. Blair's has the weight of carbon fiber, impossibly light yet strong enough to crush you.

A day after my catastrophic conversation with Ivy, I'm back at the Shanghai International Circuit, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. The grandstands roar with post-sprint race energy while I navigate the paddock with my credentials bouncing against my chest, a purple badge of belonging that suddenly feels counterfeit.

Fifth place. Blair finished fifth in today's sprint race while Ivy took first with a commanding lead that made the rest of the grid look like they were racing in a different category. Now we're back to qualifying for tomorrow's main event, and Blair has barely acknowledged my existence since catching me with her teammate yesterday.

Last night was a masterclass in emotional whiplash. She'd allowed me to give her a pre-race massage, my hands working the tension from muscles coiled tight as suspension springs. I'd poured everything into those touches, apology, devotion, desperation, while she lay silent beneath my fingers, receiving the physical comfort while maintaining the emotional barricade.

Then, like clockwork, she'd kicked me out of the bedroom again. "Race day tomorrow," she'd said, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did.

I push through the crowd toward the Zenith hospitality suite, where I'm supposed to watch qualifying. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the knowledge that Blair thinks I betrayed the one cardinal rule she established. Hate Ivy Hunt completely.

"Nick! Hold up!"

I turn to find Tessa jogging toward me, her McLaren polo slightly rumpled and her glasses slipping down her nose. Something about her disheveled appearance makes me smile despite everything.

"Hey, Tessa," I say, glad to see her. "How's it going?"

She adjusts her glasses, a gesture so familiar it's almost comforting. "Good! Well, mostly good. The car's still giving us some trouble in sector three." She studies my face, her expression shifting to concern. "You look terrible."

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Thanks. That's exactly what a guy wants to hear."

"Sorry," she winces. "I just meant... is everything okay?"

The question hangs between us like smoke. I glance around, making sure no one from the team is within earshot before responding.

"Blair saw me talking to Ivy yesterday," I admit, my voice dropping to just above a whisper. "She's been freezing me out ever since."

Tessa's eyes widen behind her glasses, her brow furrowing with immediate concern. "That's... not good. Especially with someone as competitive as Blair." She chews her bottom lip for a moment, then blurts out, "Listen, if things get really bad and you need somewhere to go, I mean, my hotel room has plenty of space. There's a decent couch I could take, and you could have the bed."

Her words come out in a rush, cheeks flushing slightly as she realizes what she's offering. I can see the genuine worry in her eyes, which only makes me feel worse about the whole situation.

I shake my head quickly, waving my hands in front of me. "No, no, I appreciate that, really, but I'll be fine. I actually have my own room already." My voice drops slightly as I add, "Blair prefers to sleep alone before races anyway. For focus."

Tessa's expression shifts, a flicker of concern crossing her features before she nods. "Right. Of course. I just wanted to offer..." She trails off, adjusting her glasses again.

"It means a lot," I say, meaning it. "Honestly, just having someone to talk to who isn't completely wrapped up in team would be nice."

She smiles, a genuine warmth reaching her eyes. "Well, I'm always around if you need an escape. We engineering types keep odd hours." She glances at her watch and grimaces. "Speaking of which, I should get back. Lana's having issues with her seat position, and I need to run some calculations before qualifying."

"Go, go," I urge, feeling lighter somehow despite everything. "Thanks, Tessa."

I watch Tessa disappear into the paddock crowd, her brown braid bouncing against her back as she weaves between team personnel. Just as I turn to continue toward the hospitality suite, a firm grip closes around my shoulder, yanking me backward with surprising strength.

"Nick, a word?" Bridgette's voice cuts through the ambient noise of the paddock like a scalpel. Her perfectly nails dig slightly into my shoulder as she steers me toward a quieter corner between hospitality units.

When we're relatively secluded, she releases me and crosses her arms, her expression a mixture of concern and irritation. "What the hell is going on with Blair? She's completely off her game."

I blink, caught off guard by her directness. "What do you mean?"

Bridgette narrows her eyes. "Don't play dumb. She's been a disaster in briefings, snapping at engineers, missing apexes she could hit blindfolded last weekend." She leans closer, lowering her voice. "Her telemetry looks like it's being driven by two different people compared to Australia. So I'll ask again did something happen?"

My stomach twists. I consider lying, but Bridgette's penetrating stare makes it clear she'd see right through any attempt.

"She saw me talking to Ivy yesterday," I admit, the words tasting bitter. "During practice."

Bridgette's perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up, her eyes widening with sudden understanding. "So that's it. You had a friendly chat with her newly sworn enemy, and now she's driving like she's got concrete in her racing boots." She leans against the hospitality unit wall, studying me with a mixture of exasperation and calculation. "You managed to upset Formula 1's newest star right before qualifying?"

The bluntness of her assessment hits me like a physical blow. I wince, running a hand through my hair. "It wasn't like that. Ivy approached me, started asking questions about Blair's driving style. I didn't tell her anything, but Blair saw us together and assumed the worst."

"Of course she did," Bridgette sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Blair's had a target on Ivy's back since before she even signed with us. The woman could offer Blair a winning lottery ticket and she'd tear it up out of spite."

"I didn't know what to do," I confess, the words tumbling out faster now. "Ivy just sat down next to me and started talking. What was I supposed to do, run away?"

Bridgette fixes me with a look that suggests that's exactly what I should have done.

"Look," she says, her voice softening marginally, "I don't care about your relationship drama. I care about lap times. And right now, Blair's lap times are suffering because she's too busy imagining you and Ivy plotting against her."

"That's ridiculous," I protest, though a small voice in my head wonders if that's exactly what Blair thinks.

"Is it?" Bridgette challenges. "You're dating a professional athlete whose entire life revolves around competition. Being betrayed by her boyfriend…"

"I didn't betray her!"

"…talking to her nemesis," Bridgette continues as if I hadn't interrupted, "is basically emotional sabotage in her mind."

Bridgette's eyes narrow, her professional veneer cracking to reveal genuine frustration underneath. "You're really becoming a liability for me, you know that, right?" She jabs a finger into my chest. "You have to fix this."

Before I can defend myself, a collective gasp rises from the nearby screens. We both turn to see Lancia Stroll's green car spinning wildly across the track, pieces of it shattering in all directions as she slams into the barrier on the main straight.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, watching the wreckage scatter across the asphalt.

Bridgette's attention snaps to another monitor showing Ivy's onboard camera. The screen flashes with yellow flag warnings, but Ivy's purple Zenith continues hurtling forward at full speed.

"Fuck!" Bridgette hisses, her face paling. "Did her engineer not say anything?"

Without another word to me, she scurries away, already pulling her phone from her pocket as she races toward the pit wall. The paddock erupts into controlled chaos, team personnel rushing to monitors while marshals wave frantically on track.

I'm left alone in the suddenly empty space between hospitality units, the distant sound of engines and emergency vehicles creating a surreal soundtrack to my spiraling thoughts. How am I supposed to fix things with Blair when she won't even look at me? When every attempt at conversation is met with that impenetrable silence?

The irony isn't lost on me, I'm supposed to be her emotional support, her rock in this high-pressure world, yet I've become just another source of stress.

A commotion near the garages draws my attention. I push through the crowd just in time to see Blair's purple Zenith roaring into the pit lane, her frustration evident even through the mechanical movements of the car.

I hover at the back of the garage as she pulls to a stop, the team swarming around her like worker bees attending their queen. Blair yanks off her helmet in one fluid motion, her electric blue hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, silver eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

"Ivy didn't slow for the yellow flag until sector two," she snaps to one of the engineers, who's already downloading data from her car. Her voice carries that dangerous edge I've learned to recognize, the one that appears when she's spotted an advantage.

The engineer glances nervously over his shoulder before leaning closer. "Yeah, we lucked out. Looks like the stewards didn't catch it."

Blair's expression shifts, calculation replacing anger as she steps out of the cockpit and moves toward the bank of monitors. She taps one screen, bringing up Ivy's onboard footage, her eyes narrowed as she studies the telemetry scrolling alongside the video.

"Hmm."

Something about her tone makes my skin prickle. I've heard that "hmm" before, it's the sound Blair makes when she's spotted a weakness, a crack in someone's armor she can exploit.

Blair's eyes flick up suddenly, catching mine across the crowded garage. For a split second, something unreadable flashes across her face, recognition, determination, maybe even a hint of relief. She straightens, silver gaze never leaving mine as she snaps her fingers at a nearby crew member.

"Get me out of this," she commands, already unzipping her racing suit with practiced efficiency. The team member rushes to help her, peeling away the sweat-soaked purple fabric while another hands her a team shirt.

I remain frozen at the garage entrance, unsure if I should approach or keep my distance. Before I can decide, Blair strides directly toward me, purpose in every step. Her face is set in hard lines, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

"Come on," she says when she reaches me, not stopping as she grabs my wrist and pulls me along in her wake.

"Where are we going?" I stumble slightly, caught off-guard by her sudden acknowledgment of my existence after nearly twenty-four hours of glacial silence.

"Stewards' office," she replies, her voice clipped. "Then back to the hotel."

Each word comes out like it's being rationed, no excess syllables, no warmth. Just information, delivered with military precision. The grip on my wrist isn't affectionate, it's functional, ensuring I follow where she leads.

People part before us like water around the bow of a ship, Blair's determination creating an invisible force field that no one dares penetrate. I follow in her slipstream, trying to read the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine. Is this the end of her freeze-out or just a tactical pause?

"Are you going to report Ivy?" I ask, keeping my voice low as we navigate through the paddock.

Blair doesn't look back, doesn't slow her pace. "Yes."

One word. That's all I get.