I wake up feeling the kind of heaviness that makes staying under the covers for just a few more minutes feel like a luxury.
Qualifiers are today, and for once, I'm glad to be watching from the sidelines.
Eventually, I gather the energy to throw on some clothes, grab breakfast, and head to the track to meet the rest of the team.
When I arrive, a track official leads me off the circuit and into the paddock, guiding me past row after row of other teams' garages.
Finally, we reach my team's the garage; the doors are open, revealing the car bay inside. Directly behind it, the space opens into series of temporary structures.
It has everything the team needs for the weekend: a private seating area, dining space, showers, and enclosed meeting rooms.
The rest of the team is huddled around Esteban in the pit plane, just outside the team garage, listening to his outline of today's plan.
Esteban outlines the strategies for today's qualifying round, focusing on how Seb and Gemma can secure the best starting positions for tomorrow's race.
Seb is wearing his uniform. It's crisp and striking, despite him looking more tired than usual. His fingers are wrapped around a coffee up, and he is leaning back against the fence, focused on Esteban.
Gemma perches on a stack of tires nearby. She is wearing sunglasses and tossing back some ibuprofen.
Seb's jaw muscle ticks subtly as Esteban speaks. He seems completely absorbed in the strategy, but something about his body language suggests he has more on his mind.
Seb has been in the back of my mind all morning.
I wonder if he's thinking the same...about me.
Last night's apology and Seb's mention of Gemma being taken makes me think he may still have feelings for her. And even if he doesn't… he clearly has his reasons for keeping his distance from me.
Esteban finishes with a sharp clap. "Alright everyone. Let's get to it."
The group splinters fast. Gemma and Seb head for their cars with a few of the engineers in tow, helmets tucked under their arms.
I stay behind with a couple crew members in the pit, eyes fixed on the wall of monitors showing different sections of the track.
Already, cars from other teams blur past on the feeds. Gemma's and Seb's cars roll out from the pit lane a minute later, and my attention automatically shifts to their cameras, flipping between views as they take their warm-up lap.
They start slow, tracing the track, feeling out the grip. Seb's car glides through each bend with that signature precision. Gemma's behind him in car 44, steady, tightening her lines lap by lap.
Plenty of competition today.
Esteban's voice crackles through comms. "Time to beat is 1:40.12."
"Copy," Seb replies.
"Got it," Gemma adds.
Within a few laps, they break the threshold without much difficulty.
As the laps pass, Gemma manages to shave off another second of her time, landing herself mid-pack—a comfortable starting position for tomorrow's race.
Seb's car, number 5, stays on the track.
He's calm but aggressive, weaving through traffic, carving every turn. There's a confidence to him that borders on defiant.
He clocks a time good enough for the top five.
"Good work," Esteban radios. "You want to call it? We've got what we need."
Seb's voice comes back low, irritated. "75 been on my ass all day. Hasn't given me a clean run since the first lap."
There's a sigh over comms. "There's always one. Your time's solid."
"Let me do one last run."
Another sigh. "Fine."
He floors it the moment he's cleared, the car exploding down the first sector with an impressive level of control. Tracking his delta on the monitor, he's already up on his best time, threading the corners with easy precision.
At the final corner, 75 veers out of line, and Seb is forced wide, shattering his rhythm.
He pulls into the pit with a textbook stop, rips off his helmet in one sharp motion.
He looks more tired than frustrated.
With the heat, the travel, and last night's chaos… I can't blame him.
He drops into a chair, elbows on his knees. Esteban approaches, claps a hand on his shoulder.
"Very nice work, Seb."
He pats Seb's shoulder, shaking it in a congratulatory manner.
Then Esteban pauses.
"…You're a little warm."
Seb looks up. "What?"
Esteban presses the back of his hand to Seb's cheek, then his forehead. His expression shifts into something more serious.
"Why didn't you tell me you're sick?"
"I'm not," Seb insists. "I'm probably just cooling down. Maybe a little hungover."
"Go see Nigel or someone else in medical. Now. We'll talk later."
Seb looks like he wants to protest, but judging by the look on Esteban's face, he knows better than to push it.
After qualifiers, most of the team drifts back to the hotel to shower, nap, or crash completely.
I grab a quick snack from the lobby bar before heading straight to the conference room Esteban booked for the debrief.
He's already there, pacing in front of a whiteboard, muttering under his breath as he rearranges magnets across a diagram of the track.
Gemma is slouched in a chair with her feet propped on another, scrolling through her phone. A couple of engineers sit nearby, laptops open, pretending to work but clearly waiting.
I slip into an empty chair and glance around the room.
Gemma drops her phone onto her thigh with a huff and sits up straighter, irritation flickering across her face as she scans the room.
"Where's Seb?"
Esteban doesn't look up. "Sick."
Gemma blinks. "Are you serious?"
That gets everyone's attention. A few engineers stop typing.
"Sounds like the flu," Esteban says evenly.
Gemma groans and leans back, rubbing her temple. "Great. That's just great."
Silence thickens the room.
Then Esteban claps his hands once, sharp and decisive.
"Alright. We're adjusting. No time to panic."
His eyes land on me.
"Liv will be taking the seat."
The words take a second to register.
Holy shit.
I completely forgot I'm the one who steps in if Seb can't race.
I guess it didn't feel real until he said it out loud.
Gemma straightens. "What? But Liv is—"
"A reserve driver," Esteban cuts in decisively. "Doing exactly what we hired her for."
Gemma's mouth snaps shut.
"She's been in every session. She knows the track notes." He shifts his attention back to Gemma. "We'll adjust strategy around you."
Gemma leans back again, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her face at the word priority.
"Prep starts now," Esteban says.
He clicks the projector on, and the briefing lights up the wall.
For the second day in a row, I wake up feeling groggy. Yesterday's meeting ran longer than anyone expected, and the entire team is running on fumes.
I force down breakfast, swallowing nerves with every bite, and head to the track.
Esteban gathers me and a few engineers around a data screen, tapping through sector times and tire strategies.
"Before anything else," he says, "we're prioritizing Gemma for podium today. We need her points to stay in contention for the Emerald Series team championship."
He looks at me. "Your time will come. Today, we support her strategy."
I nod, sighing internally.
We agreed on this. I knew the plan. Still, hearing it out loud leaves me feeling a little deflated.
When I finally step away to suit up, my phone buzzes against the bench.
Seb: You got this.
The message warms something in my chest but things between us still feel unresolved.
Me:Thanks. Hope you feel better soon.
I slide my phone away and pull on the last of my gear.
When I step out, I don't look at the cameras, but I feel them.
Gemma stands beside her car, adjusting her gloves, expression unreadable. When her eyes flick to mine, they're sharp.
"Try and stay out of my way today."
I hold her gaze for half a second. Then I say nothing.
Instead, I click my helmet into place and climb into the cockpit.
***
As the starting lights begin counting down, I inhale.
Engines roar. Lights go out.
The start is messy.
My tires spin half a second too long, and I lose a position off the line.
Damn it.
I force a steady breath and settle in.
Gemma started tenth. I watch her carve through the pack in my mirrors, gaining ground corner by corner.
By lap twenty, my neck feels like it's on fire.
By lap thirty-eight, I'm in absolute agony.
I'm running third, Gemma's in second, and car 83 leads.
In my side mirror, 75 lurks.
The tires scream under braking, and my car lurches. Every corner feels like it's pulling my head clean off my shoulders.
I'm going to feel this tomorrow.
The radio crackles.
"Liv, final laps. Hold position and manage traffic. Keep Gemma clear. Confirm?"
Ahead, 75 closes the gap.
If I defend aggressively, there's a chance I can end up on the podium, but it would leave Gemma exposed.
She's been nothing but hostile to me since I got here. She made it clear she could handle her own.
And this—this is my chance to stand on that podium and show the team exactly what I'm capable of.
My thumb presses the radio button.
"Negative. I'm going to defend my position."
There's a long silence, then Esteban's voice comes back.
"Copy."
I dive late into the next corner, slipping past 86 in a risky move that puts me into second, just behind Gemma. My tires scream in protest. The rear end wobbles before I wrestle it back into line. My arms burn from the strain.
Behind us, 86 spots the gap I've left. Gemma's line wavers under pressure, and 86 attacks relentlessly.
Gemma tumbles from first to fourth in a matter of corners.
The final laps blur. I chase 86, but the earlier fight drained too much from my tires.
I cross the finish line in second, but 86 takes the win.
Over comms, Esteban's voice cuts in; it's controlled, but edged.
"You drove well. But next time, prioritize team positioning in critical moments."
The pride swelling in my chest evaporates instantly.
Was I wrong to let Gemma fend for herself?