I Dare You, I Bet I Can - Max Verstappen

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"Box for softs."

Their hopes were that the softs would make up for the pace that I was losing, but it didn't help much. And after another fifteen minutes of torture, I could finally leave the car.

Eleventh fastest time.

It was humiliating.

If this was going to be all weekend, I might just take my plane back to Monaco tonight. I couldn't believe the week started to well, only for life to throw this uno-reverse card at me.

»»————　★　————««
29 days until summer break
Sunday - Race Day - Montreal, Canada

"This car is fucking shit!" I cursed through the radio; I almost slipped into the third corner of the circuit but held on and drove back onto the circuit.

+ "Max is cursing about the car, but I honestly think he's just not used to driving in the middle of the grid."

- "It almost looks like that, indeed. I was surprised to see him missing out on Q3 yesterday, and with today's attempts to overtake, my guess is that he won't get any points today."

+ "I feel for our current champion, normally Canada is not this bad for him. And I wonder what's going on at Red Bull."

"Take the car home, Max. You don't need to create a crash."

"If this fucking car does what I want, I won't need to crash, and I wouldn't be in this shit position!"

"Copy, Max. I can't do anything about it now."

The gap between me and Esteban got closer and closer, and I was desperate to pass him as quickly as I could. I calculated the risk, and after two more laps, I passed him easily. Next was Carlos, who was struggling with his tire management. If I had enough patience, he would be pitting anytime soon.

In the past two days, I had tried calling Jasmine and texting her some more, but she didn't pick up and the messages were still left on delivered. At this point, I was certain it wasn't just some light embarrassment anymore, and I started to get genuinely worried.

I wished I could've just asked Charles if he knew she was okay, but he would rather have me worried to death than tell me if she was alright or not.

"That's P8, Max. Good recovery."

Charles won the race, accompanied by Daniel and Lewis on the podium. I parked the car in the pitlane and stormed off to my driver's room. I'd do my media duties after I had cooled down, and my PR manager was familiar with it. Gemma would simply wait about ten minutes before knocking on my door to tell me to get out of my own misery.

But what do you call it when the realization hits you: my father had been right.

Is that still my own misery?

Jasmine had been on my mind since Monday then her confession had been on my mind all Thursday, and after that, worry about her entered my head. Can I call it a distraction?

The knocks on my door were much sooner than expected, "I will be out in a minute! Give me a goddamn minute!" I yelled against the closed door and hoped that Gemma would spare me a few more minutes.

But instead, the door opened, and I groaned in frustration, "I asked for a–" I stopped talking when I saw it wasn't Gemma but my Dad. I let out a frustrated sigh, "What?"

"You drove like shit," he said. "All weekend long, you drove like shit."

I rolled my eyes; I didn't need him to tell me something I already knew. And blaming the car was pointless as Daniel managed to secure second place, and the car had been performing well in all the races before.