Crash

It wasn't your fault

The moment that Charles passed the chequered flag after a long, long race with a broken throttle and Max Verstappen hot on his tail, Penelope spontaneously burst into tears. Not from sadness or despair, but pure, incomparable relief. 

"Oh my god!" Will laughed as he hugged her, her tears staining the red of his shirt. "That was incredible! He drove like a winner today. Incredible."

That really was the word for it. Redbull threw everything they had at him, but it wasn't enough. Today, for the first time in a while, the team had earned a well-deserved win. Charles needed that, and so did the garage. 

From the back of the garage, a cry went out. One of Charles's mechanics beamed with pride, clapping his hands in celebration. "Il Predestinato!" 

Within seconds, that call was echoed somewhere to her right. Then, like dominoes falling one by one, calls began to ring out from all stations. On reflection, perhaps it could be viewed as cheesy or cliche, but in the moment it felt right. It was clear how much hope rested on the shoulders of young Charles Leclerc, and today he had proved them right. Charles, at his roots, was a winner. Maybe the championship wasn't his yet, but it would be. Not today, or tomorrow, but soon. It was coming, however painful the journey might be to get there. One day soon, they would make it. Penelope truly believed that. 

Will nudged her side, his expression pointed. "They're waiting," he whispered. 

Penelope stared at him, her emotions still high. "For what?"

Will smiled warmly as he wiped a tear from her cheek as though she were a child, gazing up to him for guidance. "For you. Come on, you don't wanna miss this."

It was hard to describe what she felt in that moment. She didn't remember telling her feet to move, but somehow she was running towards Parc Ferme, the cars only a few metres away now. Something was pulling her in that direction, as though there was one single thread of gold tying them together. The team spilled out against the barriers, a solid wall of red forming at the front. Cameras trained on them, cutting between the cars and the crowds. Tomorrow, this would no doubt be a story: the contrast between this week's win and the last, but that was a problem for another time. Right now, the only thing she cared about was taking everything in. Charles had suffered for weeks for this win. Now that it was finally upon them, it was only right to savour it.

The cheering grew louder still as Charles rolled to a stop, jumping from his car and sprinting towards them. He must have been exhausted, but that didn't slow him down. With every step that he took, Penelope took another mental screenshot, determined not to forget a single second. One day, when they were old and wise and at the end of their lives rather than the start, she wanted to be able to sit round the fire and tell their grandchildren about the day that their grandfather won the Austrian Grand Prix in front of the orange crowd. She wanted the story to live on, passed through generations, still told even when they were long gone. This was his legacy. She didn't want a single thing about him to ever be forgotten. 

Like magnets, he found her in the crowd. The team around her formed a path, letting him through and almost carrying her to the front of the barrier, his arms weaving around her so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. She remembered the way that he smelled, a mix of the cologne she'd brought him when she'd gone shopping with his mom a few weeks ago and the general musk of the car. She memorised the way that his eyes sparkled as he pulled away to look at her, the bright smile on his face as he kissed her, in front of a thousand pairs of eyes, as though they were the only people on the track. The little curl of hair that pressed against his forehead, the small whisper of "I love you, I love you," the second time he kissed her because the first wasn't enough. All the little details that made one core memory, a high so extreme that she never wanted to come down.