Swerve | 𝑷.𝑮.

Part 18

Italics is French

Francesca let out a sigh as she rang her hands together. She had gotten to the paddock earlier that morning and had been chilling in her drivers room with Mick since he had come over from Mercedes.

She never normally felt anxious for races. Motor racing was engrained into her blood so much so that it was probably her first nature over anything else.

But the circumstances surrounding her Saudi Arabian Grand Prix were enough to put her on edge.

Niki could sense the anxiousness in her driver.

"You alright?" The trainer questions.

"Mhm." Francesca hums in response.

Niki gently placed her hand on Francesca's knee, finally snapping the drivers attention over to her. She gave a small smile before rubbing harshly at her face whilst Niki watched her carefully.

"You've got this, Cesca." Niki mutters.

"But what if I don't?" Francesca asks. "What if everything gets fucked up?"

"You're an amazing driver," Niki recounts. "And you know how to keep yourself in check on track - hell, you've got pole positions seconds up on Max."

"I'm just scared of crashing again."

"I know. But remember who you are."

Francesca stopped to think for a moment, going over her life and the many moments of her career in her head as she did so.

She was Francesca Lewis, she had won the F3 championship in her second year and the F2 championship in her rookie year. She was the daughter of a nine time British Touring Car champion and had already been the leader of the F1 world championship twice before. Each time had been with the same teammate except now, Max was a two-time world champion.

She was a woman racing for a top team.

She had 15 grand prix wins to her name.

A supportive family in both France and England.

Friends in and out of motorsport that would do anything for her if they really had to.

But at the same time, she was still that little girl who got bullied at karting tracks and in school. The same little girl who was different from her peers because of her family history and the fact she had more of a French accent than an English one.

The little brunette girl who struggled with her English and barely scraped through her GCSE's.

She didn't go to sixth form or college like her brothers and friends. She didn't get to experience higher education like Oliver was doing. She had never had a part time job because her entire life revolved around racing.

She was the exact same little girl who wanted to be an f1 world champion.

In a way, she was still the young 19 year old who joined the grid in 2019. The rookie taken on by Red Bull on a whim after the departure of Daniel Ricciardo who was expected to become nothing and be dropped by the end of the year.

The 19 year old who had won her first race.

She was different now, at the age of 23, but she still had the same dreams as her younger self.

Twice she had come close to achieving them.

And twice they'd been ripped from her fingertips...

"I'm gonna go out there and win this fucking race."

"That's it!" Niki laughs.

Francesca gave her trainer a wide grin before pushing herself up from her position on the sofa. It wasn't race time yet - only the drivers parade.