George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

Despite the excitement thrumming through the karting paddock as Josefine and Henrik unloaded their van, there was an unmissable grey cloud above them. It was a sense of melancholy that neither could deny. While the upbeat voices around them carried hopes for next season, next year…talk of new sponsors or upgraded machinery, they were facing the grim reality that this might be their last race weekend. If Henrik overheard, he made no indication of it. Instead, he kept his head down and focused on getting set up, his fringe falling over his eyes as he bent over his kart.

He was so strong and Josefine was in awe of him daily. She knew it was good for him to learn that money wasn’t easy to come by and that hard work didn’t always pay off—that was the harsh reality of life—but as a mother, all she wanted to do was give him everything he dreamt of. After everything, she had still managed to fall short. Maybe it would have been easier to stomach if he cried or yelled or blamed her. But he didn’t. He kept his head down and he stayed focused and he still showed her that he appreciated her and loved her through it all. 

They went through the routine of it all like it was any other weekend. Even if this was likely going to be their last race weekend, they still had to give their everything one last time. Josefine even insisted on funding the optional Friday Practice session, just so Henrik could make the most of every bit of opportunity he had left. 

By Saturday, there was still no word from George and as much as Henrik tried to play it off like he didn’t care, it was very clear that he did. Josefine could see it all over him; the way he’d walk a little slower past the impressive purple and white Russell tent in the paddock or steal lingering glances at George and Ivy from across the grid before each session. It was a hard balance to know that they needed to respect that George needed time and patience, and also knowing that they had very little time left without that sponsorship. 

But it couldn’t be all on George either. He wasn’t their sole option for funding. 

And so, between heats, over lunch, in any spare moment he could find, Henrik was approaching anyone who looked like they might matter; brand representatives for tyre companies, the owner of the tool company hosting the National Championships, even well-dressed karting parents he thought might be worth the risk.

Josefine could only watch in quiet awe. For a boy who had always been so shy, he moved through the paddock with startling confidence, throwing himself into conversation after conversation like he had nothing left to lose. It wasn’t confidence, not really. She knew better than that. It was desperation, plain and simple.

On the walk back to their tent after the first heat—Henrik finishing a modest P9—he slowed near the race director’s hut, where a Silverstone official stood in conversation with a small group. Josefine barely had time to register it before he was already veering off, leaving her a few steps behind to manage the dolly alone.

Henrik clasped his hands behind his back as he approached. The group’s conversation tapered off as they noticed him, offering polite smiles and quick congratulations on his result. Henrik returned them with a practiced modesty.

Then, after a brief pause, he stepped forward and held out his clammy hand to the Silverstone official.

“It’s very nice to meet you, sir. My name is Henrik Nesheim,” he said, careful and deliberate, “I’m currently in the top five of the British National Karting Championships. I was just wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk about…potential opportunities for next season?”

The man humoured him with a handshake, “Very nice to meet you, Henrik. I was watching you out there today and you look very talented behind the wheel.”

“Thank you,” Henrik lifted onto the balls of his feet for just a moment before settling back down. Nervous energy, Josefine knew it well. 

“What potential opportunities are you looking for?” the gentleman inquired. 

“A sponsorship,” Henrik replied easily, “My mother has been doing everything she can to help fund my karting career but with the increased fees for the Nationals, we are in need of extra support. I can promise results with the right funding.” 

The man’s question was not unkind and, honestly, expected, “Did you not already have a sponsor this year?”

It wasn’t the first time Henrik had been asked this in his desperate attempts to cold-call individuals and companies at the circuit and, much to Josefine’s reluctance, it wasn’t going to be the last. Unfortunately, when you are sponsored by a retired Formula 1 driver, people seem to take notice. 

Henrik hardly flinched, replying with practiced ease, “Yes, but funding was pulled because of personal reasons and so I need to find another sponsor.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, kid. Unfortunately, SIlverstone isn’t offering any further funding opportunities right now. We will keep you in mind though.”

Before the man could turn away, Henrik jumped in again, “Can I give you my mum’s phone number in case something comes up?”

“It’s alright; the Championship would have her number on file. Best of luck, Henrik.”

And her poor boy always returned to her with his tail between his legs. Rejection after rejection and he took it in stride and would try again. She took him under her arm and kissed his head and steered them back towards their tent without a word. 

They had barely returned to their tent before Henrik seemed to have a new wave of determination, saying, “I want to go talk to George again.”

Josefine’s response was easy, “We said we would give him time and space, remember?”

“Yes, and we gave him time and space and now it’s, like, too much time and space. Please, Mamma.” Henrik groaned, following her around the dolly to the toolchest as he shrugged out of his race suit to let it hang around his waist.

Josefine sighed, “You may go say hello if you really must but you may not talk about the sponsorship.”

Henrik pursed his lips and then flopped himself down onto the folding chair with a disgruntled huff. Josefine knew that the only thing keeping Henrik from going to say hello was Ivy. Although he had stopped by the Russells’ a week prior, Ivy was at school and so he hadn’t properly interacted with her since that day in August when everything fell apart. No one could blame him for being a little hesitant to step into her domain. Especially on a race weekend. 

So he stayed there and helped his mother work on his kart as if he wanted to soak up every second of it. 

On Sunday, Henrik’s entire focus was on the final Heat and on the final race. It felt as though any chance of securing a sponsorship was out of the question and so their priority shifted to simply enjoying what they had left. Soon it would be back to Norway and back to leisure indoor karting tracks that never felt the same. 

Lining up P10 on the grid for the race, Henrik was quiet. Other kids and parents bustled around them, thrumming with excitement behind the upbeat music that was playing from the speakers at the main grandstand. To Josefine and Henrik, everything felt in slow motion. 

He helped to get his kart into place and Josefine double checked it to make sure it was all in order as he zipped up his racesuit. As he did, his attention was focused past her towards the start/finish line where, in P1, sat an all too familiar lilac purple kart. George was helping Ivy get her gear on while their mechanics checked over her kart and got everything in place. 

They both looked perfectly normal. Like nothing was wrong. Like they would go through the motions of just another race in just another championship and go home and sleep soundly with visions of what next season would bring. George adjusted Ivy’s braids and then she tugged on her matching purple helmet. He pushed open her visor and she nodded at something he said, words unintelligible across the distance of the entire front of the field. 

Henrik looked away and pulled on his own helmet. 

Josefine came around behind him and gave his shoulder a squeeze, “All set?”

“Yeah,” Henrik nodded and carefully climbed into his kart. 

She crouched down beside him, like she always did, and helped him to slip his gloves on. Her hands were shaking a little, tugging them on a little too tightly, but Henrik didn’t speak to it. Not even as he watched her do it so closely, like he was trying to remember it all. 

“Alright,” Josefine sighed and looked into his eyes through the open visor of his helmet, “no coaching right now. I am just ‘mum’.”

Henrik nodded. 

“I am so proud of you,” she said seriously, holding his helmet between both hands to keep her looking at him, “You know what you need to do. This track treats you well. Deep breaths, stay focused, and have fun. That is all you need to do. Have fun.”

“Mamma—”

Josefine cut him off with a gentle but firm, “No. Just enjoy it.”

All he could do was nod. She closed his visor and then patted the side of his helmet three times and offered out her hand for a fist bump. He bumped her knuckles with his and as she stood up, she left a kiss to the top of his helmet. 

On her way to the viewing area, Josefine stole a glance to the front row where Ivy had also climbed into her kart. Something tugged in her heart to go over there and wish her luck, but her hesitance came from not knowing if that would be the right thing to do. Not before the final race when Ivy held a Championship in her hands. The last thing Josefine wanted to do was risk jeopardizing that and giving Ivy another reason to dislike her.

So Josefine turned away and made her way to the grandstand. 

She sat amongst the parents who had no care in the world, feeling as though she held a rain cloud above her head in their crowd of blue skies. There was nothing to say, really. Not that anyone would particularly pay her any mind normally and, now, she was perfectly fine with that. After the gossip scandal over her relationship with George before, now, suddenly being on their own once again, the last thing she wanted to do was entertain backhanded conversation.

But what was most surprising of all, was the polite nod that George directed her way as he passed her by on his way to his spot by the railing. Josefine barely managed a small smile in return; just something acknowledging and well-mannered. She stared at his back as he leaned against the railing overlooking the track, situated comfortably between a few other parents and spectators. He looked so effortlessly casual in his cuffed jeans and white t-shirt; sunglasses shielding his eyes from the October sunshine. Josefine missed the days when she knew her place was standing beside him.

Instead, her attention was focused on Henrik and what was set to be his last race. It had been a long journey they had shared together and it ached her heart to realize that it was coming to a close. The last few years had been some of the best and some of the most trying all in the same. But she wouldn’t trade any of it. Not when every second of struggle was worth the smile it put on his face. 

That final race at Silverstone was one of Henrik’s best. His craft nearly brought Josefine to tears, watching him out there taking to the apexes with precision and making use of every single gap no matter how small. He was an artist and that rickety old kart was his brush. He never had the same opportunities provided to him as many of those other kids did, but he sure knew how to make the most out of what he did have. And she was so, so proud. 

He was racing like he had nothing to lose. Racing like he knew he was about to lose everything. 

Every overtake was clean and fair but pushing the limits to the maximum, lingering on the line between something dangerous. It was the type of racing that got him his sponsorship to begin with, what first caught George’s eye and had him pitching the offer. He had a talent that was unlike many and Josefine had no idea where it came from but she was desperate to cling onto it as long as they could. And they had. 

Henrik finished P5 in his final race, having pushed his kart to the absolute limit to bleed the most out of what it could offer. 

After having led the entire pack for every single lap, Ivy had finished first and sealed the championship; the first girl to win the British Nationals since its founding. 

Josefine stood from the grandstands with many of the other parents, and applauded. Not just for Henrik, but for Ivy. For a long winded season of hard work and dedication and sacrifice. For many lessons learned. 

When Josefine met Henrik down in parc ferme, he was still in his kart. With the empty karts surrounding him, he sat there alone, gloved hands still on his steering wheel, visor still down. She could see his heavy breathing as she walked slowly over. He didn’t look up even as she crouched down beside him. 

“You, my boy,” Josefine spoke softly, “are inspiring.”

Henrik flicked up the visor on his helmet and stuck his hands inside, unable to hold back the small sob he had been suffocating since the last lap. It was tears of grief that he had been refusing to accept for weeks now, knowing what was coming but not wanting to accept it. Josefine felt her heart shatter, piece by piece, unable to do anything more to help him continue on his journey. She felt like she had failed him.

But this wasn’t about her. This was about him. It was always about him. 

So she leaned in over the machinery of his kart and held him, uncaring about the awkward angle or the bulkiness of his helmet pressing against her shoulder. She just held him as he cried, like a mother should. 

“You are brilliant,” she whispered to him, just soft enough for only him to hear in the quiet of parc ferme, “It has been an honour to watch you these last years. You have done everything you could, on and off the track, and you have still stayed my kind, genuine, wonderful boy through it all. I am a very proud coach and an even prouder mum.”

Between his tears, Henrik croaked out a small, “Takk, Mamma.”

And it was a simple thank you that carried the weight of a million. 

Josefine pulled away just enough to take his helmet between her hands and she rested her forehead against it, to look into his blue eyes through the open visor. And then she whispered her love to him in their native tongue, something so special just for them, “Jeg elsker deg.”

Henrik managed to calm his tears enough to make it to the podium ceremony. They stood near the back, undetected, watching Ivy on the top step and beaming as they played God Save The King through the speakers and she mouthed along the words. George was front and centre with his phone out, recording the whole thing, his face almost permanently set in a grin. There was no question about the look of a proud parent. Well, perhaps that of Josefine who was proud in a way that felt incredibly opposite at that moment. 

After the trophies were given and the cider was sprayed and the podium celebration came to an end, Ivy jumped right off the top step and into George’s arms. The local media that was present got some incredible shots of that moment and, even from their distance, it warmed Josefine’s heart. If it was anyone else other than Henrik who would win it, she was thankful it was Ivy. 

Packdown was silent that evening. Josefine didn’t push Henrik to help—knowing that he would likely prefer to sit and process his emotions from the day—but he did anyway. While she closed up the tool chest, he brought their folding chairs and cooler to the van in a few trips. Despite the murmur of outside voices and noise from the rest of the paddock, their small sanctuary under their worn tent felt like a bubble. They worked well together, as always. Like a well oiled machine. Moving around each other with practiced efficiency. 

Suddenly, a voice cut through their peace with a soft, “Henrik?”

Josefine glanced over her shoulder and Henrik looked up from where he had been packing his bag, to see Ivy standing at the threshold of their tent. He stood up, eyes wide, almost startled by her presence. It was certainly unexpected. A few steps behind her, just outside of the tent and almost out of view, Josefine noticed George quietly observing, allowing Ivy to have her moment.

Ivy took a half step forward and thrust out her hand towards him, “Thank you for making this season really fun on track. You’re a super good competitor.”

For a moment, Henrik just blinked at her. And then at her hand. As if he was processing if this was real. Then, he seemed to snap back to reality and he accepted her handshake with a clear of his throat and a soft, “Thank you. You too. And congratulations on the Championship.”

She smiled sweetly and tucked her hands behind her as she took a step back, “Thank you. I’ll see you next year then.”

Henrik faltered just a moment, hesitating, and then admitted calmly, “You won’t.”

Like a mirror image, Ivy’s smile also faltered, “What?”

“We’re moving back to Norway next month. We can’t afford another season.”

Trying to look busy with the tool chest, Josefine was listening closely, stealing another glance to the children, and to George, when she could. 

“Oh…” Ivy just stood there, processing. A few long seconds went by before she glanced back at George outside the tent and then looked back to Henrik, “You can’t even afford it even a little?”

Henrik shrugged, “Not really.”

Ivy’s frown deepened, her words faint, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Henrik brushed it off with a forced smile, like it was his responsibility to not make her upset by his own misfortunes, “but it was really fun to race with you. Even when it got a little…crazy.”

Her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes, “Yeah…”

There was a pause between them, as if neither ten-year-old quite knew what to say next. Like neither of them particularly wanted to admit that this was likely goodbye. Henrik shifted his weight. 

“Um, Ivy…” Henrik started.

Her attention snapped fully back to him, “Yeah?”

“I’m, uh…” he took a breath and said the last thing Josefine had been expecting that morning, “I’m sorry for what I said to you after the race in Whilton Mill. It was really awful of me.”

At the same moment, Josefine and George looked to each other from their distance apart, from opposing sides of their children. Expressionless and yet equally just as surprised. She hadn’t pushed Henrik to apologize to Ivy; she figured the opportunity would never have arisen and that Ivy was perfectly fine pretending they didn’t exist. But for Henrik to take the initiative? Josefine’s heart soared. She truly was the proudest mum on the grid.

Ivy—who was also just as taken aback by the unexpected apology—took a second to compose herself. Then, without a word, she shook her head as if to rid herself of the memory, “It’s okay. I’m sorry for…being awful to you, like, all the time.”

The two shared nervous little laughter. Like water under the bridge. 

“I better go, but…” Ivy took a small step back, “maybe I’ll see you around again.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

It was clear that neither quite believed it but neither quite knew how to grapple with it. They were only ten; what were they supposed to do? Sometimes, things were just destined to come to an end. 

George gave Josefine a final melancholy smile before turning away and following after his daughter back towards their tent. 

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