The Grudge •||• PA17

•||•

30 August 2025

The sea air at Zandvoort was sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of Hungary. I was back in the car this weekend. The pressure was intense, but it was a welcome distraction from the mess I'd left in Budapest.

Ollie and I hadn't spoken since the argument in the garage. No calls, no texts. Just the cold, digital silence that screams louder than any shouting match. He was here, preparing for his own F1 race, but we were operating in parallel universes.

I was just running through my pre-session checks in my garage after I had a small talk with Susie and Toto, a shadow fell across the cockpit.

"Good morning," Ollie said, his voice stripped of all emotion.

I lifted my visor. "Ollie. Good morning."

He didn't apologize. He didn't mention the DNF. He just looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep and dark. "I just wanted to see you before FP3."

"I'm here. You saw me." I kept my hands on the wheel, avoiding his gaze.

"Look, Vivi," he started, running a hand over his crew shirt. "Hungary was... bad. I was frustrated. I was wrong to blame you for the floor damage."

"But you're not wrong for blaming me for the distraction?" I finished for him, my voice flat.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I needed focus. That's all. We're in a tough patch, and I just... I need you to be completely with me right now. It was a huge weekend."

"I was completely with you, Ollie. I was there. I'm supporting you, always. But I'm not going to stop being friends with Paul."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" he burst out, his carefully constructed calm cracking. "After everything he did, why is he still worth this much of a fight?"

I leaned back in the seat, looking at him fully. "Because he's the only person who understands what it feels like to lose everything on one lap, and still want to get back in the car. He's history, Ollie. You're my present. But I'm not going to erase my past to make you feel secure."

He just stared, the silence loaded with all the things he couldn't say:

He was there when I wasn't. I'm still not over it.

"I have to go," I said, pulling my visor down. "Wish me luck."

"Luck," he muttered, and walked away, not waiting for my engine to fire up.

...

Later that afternoon, after my qualifying session, a decent P4, I was walking back to the paddock, lost in thoughts about tire pressures and setup changes. I practically walked right into Paul. Why did this always happen? He was leaning against a hospitality fence, scrolling on his phone, a rare moment of stillness.

He looked up, surprised. "Hey. Good quali. You looked fast through Turn 3."

"Thanks. You were watching?"

"Yeah, I had a gap. Alpine stuff are being notoriously boring today. Did you change your front wing angle?"

I instantly relaxed, falling into the comfortable rhythm of talking pure racing. "No, we dialled out some toe-in on the front. Felt much better on turn-in, but the rear is snapping out on the throttle."

"Try taking a degree off the rear wing. You'll lose stability, but you'll gain time on the straights, and the banking here will save you on the high-speed entries."

"I... might actually try that." I paused, the casualness feeling precious. "You know, Ollie and I... we had another talk this morning."

Paul straightened up, his easy demeanor dissolving. "About me?"