George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

It was only the first Heat of the weekend, some might argue. No points up for grabs. There was no reason to be that serious, that dedicated, that intense and precise. Ivy knew, however, that such a mindset was not how one would win a Championship. And she was going for gold for the second year in a row. There was no margin for error. 

She crossed the line first, zipping beneath the waving checkered flag with confidence, beating out her competition by a fraction of a second and guaranteeing herself a front row start for Sunday’s Super Heat. A solid start to the first weekend of the season. 

Parked up in parc ferme after the cool down lap, Ivy climbed out of her kart and clasped her gloved hand in that of her father who was waiting for her. 

“Incredible, Poppet,” George praised. 

She pulled her helmet off and her two neat braids fell pristinely over her shoulders as she grinned at him, “Thanks, Daddy. Super easy.”

George turned momentarily to speak with their mechanics as they approached the kart to begin to take it back to their tent for tuneups and end of day packdown. At the same time, from behind her, Ivy was nudged playfully by a familiar hand and she turned to glance at the suspect. There, in a race suit as polished as her own, matching down to the same sponsor logos printed in all the same spots, only with red instead of purple trim, Henrik smiled at her through the open visor of his helmet. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight and he held up his gloved fist to her. 

“You’re a beast.”

Grinning, Ivy bumped her fist against his and bantered right back, “Try harder next time. It’s boring out at the front.”

“I tried! Varland kept moving under braking,” Henrik huffed as he, too, tugged off his helmet and ruffled his hand through his hair, “So hard to pass without getting thrown into the wall.”

“Varland’s an a-s-s.” Ivy spelt out under her breath for just him to hear, not wanting to risk a lecture from her father on manners. The two of them giggled quietly together.

From across the crowded parc ferme filled with the rest of the thirty-odd kids and their associated parents and teams, Josefine came jogging over, “Henrik! Good news.”

Henrik and Ivy looked over at her and even George looked up from where he had been talking with one of the mechanics. 

Josefine didn’t bother to wait for any prompting before she was explaining herself, “The stewards found the P2 driver’s kart to be a kilogram overweight. He is disqualified from the session. You are P2! Starting front row tomorrow.”

At the same time, Henrik and Ivy exclaimed a thrilled “yes!” before turning to each other for another eager fist bump. It was a far cry from where they had started last year at this time, but fifty-two weeks could change a lot.

“That’s great news,” George jumped in right away as coach, “We better debrief then, lots to prep for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, like how I’m going to overtake you in the first turn,” Henrik elbowed Ivy.

She elbowed him right back, a little harder, despite her cheeky smile, “If you can even see through my dust!” 

Their little group made their way from parc ferme to the pit area with their mechanics and their dollied karts, locating their sizable tent amongst the dozens of others. It was newly made for the season and pristinely branded; housing Ivy’s purple 36 on the right side and Henrik’s fiery red 72 on the left in matching fonts to the informal Russell Racing insignia. Inside, it was just as elaborate as the year before with vinyl tiles to make up the floor and full sets of toolkits and equipment for each mechanic team. 

Henrik and Ivy put their helmets and gloves away before sitting themselves at the folding table to prep for their routine debrief. With their racesuits tied around their waists and faces still half flushed from the session, they talked animatedly together, leaning over the track map and recounting what they could as they waited for George. Josefine set a hand on the back of each of their folding chairs to steal a peek.

“Turn seven was much better for you this year, Ivy,” she complimented. 

“Yeah, all the practice over the break paid off. And I think the handling is better this year,” Ivy agreed.

Henrik jumped in, “Although I’m still losing time in the second sector.”

“Hug the curbs more,” Ivy said, “You gotta, like, really rattle over them here.”

“You also lost some time because you were stuck behind someone else,” Josefine reminded him, “You were better in the qualifying, remember?”

“Right, what are we discussing?” George called out as he approached their table. As he squeezed past Josefine, a fraction closer than necessary, his hand caressed lightly along her lower back before he dropped into the empty chair beside Ivy. Josefine shifted slightly to give him room, her hand still resting on the back of Henrik’s chair as George settled in.

As George and the kids began their debrief, Josefine’s gaze flicked between them—the easy rhythm of it, the way Henrik leaned in without hesitation now, the way Ivy spoke over him kindly and he didn’t bristle. She let her hand fall from the chair, folding her arms loosely instead as she listened and observed. 

After a moment, George leaned back slightly in his chair, his attention still on the kids as they talked over one another, a small, absent smile settling on his face. His gaze flicked to Josefine—only to find she was already looking at him. 

Something in his expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting just a touch more, and though he said nothing, she felt it all the same. 

A quiet understanding passed between them. 

Something steady. Something that stayed.

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