George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

But it's that last challenge—arguably the easiest—that proves the most difficult for the both of them. It felt like nothing, something to get Lawrence out of the way for a second while George finished up his reps, but close enough to keep an eye on him. Plus, having him run around would definitely help to tire him out for his nap. But the excitable little boy—fueled on youthful innocence and inexperience—came running back across the grass, across the pavestones of the patio, and wasn't exactly looking where he was going.

George heard it before he saw it, the chilling clunk sound of the impact of head on metal equipment followed by Lawrence hitting the ground hard. And then came the screaming.

George had never heard a sound like that come from his son ever, before or after this moment; the absolute shrieks of fear and pain that ripping through his heart. Sure, George was used to moving fast, but he never moved faster in his life than that moment, immediately on the ground beside the screaming little boy and scooping him up.

"Fuck, Laurie, what happened?" George could hear the panic in his voice as his furrowed gaze took in the little trickle of blood that dripped down from Lawrence little eyebrow. Definitely not enough for stitches, but enough that sent George's heart racing. He held his son's flushed face in his hands and stumbled over his own reassurances, barely heard over Lawrence's shrieking, trying desperately to get him to calm down, “Okay, buddy. Okay, sweetheart. It's okay. Look at me, Laurie. Look at Daddy, baby. Come on. You’re okay.”

But the tears in Lawrence's big blue eyes were almost his undoing.

George swallowed his guilt that felt like bile in his throat and he just pulled his son into his arms, "I'm sorry, Laurie. Oh, I'm so sorry, bug."

Lawrence only sobbed and clung onto his shoulders, his audible pain having lured you out from the house and across the lawn in record time.

"What happened?!" you asked, almost horrified at the scene as you crouched down with the two of them on the patio stones.

"He...He ran into the bar of the..." George waved one hand in the general direction of whatever piece of equipment he was currently knelt beside.

You rested a nurturing hand over Lawrence's head for a moment before getting up, "I'll get an ice pack."

As you hurried back off to the house, George shut his eyes tightly and pressed his lips to the top of Lawrence's head, feeling like the absolute worst father in the world as he screamed in his arms, little fingers clinging onto his bare shoulders. George shushed him gently through little kisses to his hair, rubbing a hand over his back, whispering soft apologies like a mantra.

Soon, however, once you had returned with a few supplies, Lawrence started to calm down. The ice pack helped to take the edge off and you distracted him with a juice box while you cleaned up the cut with some antiseptic. You let him pick his own band-aid colour too. George still had a firm grasp around the little boy in his lap as you played nurse as if he didn't want to let him go for even a second, spotted remnants of blood drying on his shoulder.

It was a perfect opportunity to see George’s family who you couldn’t see often on a day to day basis, to have Lawrence play with his cousins and run across the open land of the Russell’s acreage. The race was just a bonus.

This Sunday in particular, you went through the motions of preparing for race day like you had grown used to over the years of sharing a life with George. And, especially, since you had your son. They got a bit more complicated once adding a toddler into the mix. Extra time always had to be accounted for. 

Lucky you had learned that fact early on, too, because that morning, Lawrence was determined to give you a run for your money. He had first insisted on putting on his own shoes, making you and George wait for him to clumsily menuver the velcro and he would shove your hands away and shriek “No!” if you tried to help him. 

Finally, down at breakfast, he also was adamant on carrying his own plate through the breakfast buffet, directing to George what he wanted so his father could place his selections on his plate. At only two, Lawrence still hadn’t grasped the concept of holding the plate straight so his sausages and berries kept rolling off onto the floor and George kept having to pick them up and get him new ones, reminding him a dozen times to hold the plate flat. Every time, George kept glancing at his watch to make sure you were still on schedule. 

Between Lawrence’s stalling and the Silverstone traffic, it was truly a miracle you made it to the circuit on time.

The parking lot at the circuit was packed with press, team members, and fans behind barriers; a familiar energy that was present no matter which country they raced in. George parked his G63 and the two of you climbed out, playing ignorance to the cameras that were shoved in your face. Your first priority was parenthood and while you gathered your bags from the trunk, George unbuckled your son from his carseat in the back. 

Lawrence squirmed with a single demand, “Down!”

“I can put you down when we get inside,” George explained as he hoisted the toddler onto his hip and tugged his little Mercedes cap farther over his head to shield his face a little more. 

“No!” Lawrence kicked his legs from his spot in his arms, housing a fussed pout as George closed the car door without another word. 

George just pretended he couldn’t hear him and tightened his hold. 

Once Lawrence became aware of the seemingly hundreds of eyes on your little trio on the way into the paddock, he quieted himself down. His shyness often won out over his toddler frustrations. Especially when the Mercedes and Formula 1 social media admins came right up close to get their video content and, without breaking stride, George lifted his paddock pass in front of Lawrence's face; a well-practised move whenever cameras got too close.

You navigated the paddock with practiced efficiency, the pair of you walking in step with each other, until, finally, you were leading the way up the steps into Mercedes hospitality. No sooner had you stepped over the threshold did Lawrence demand, “Down now.”

“Please?” George reminded.

With a startling amount of attitude for a two-year-old, Lawrence echoed firmly, “Please.”

George crouched down to set the little boy on his feet before straightening up again and wrapping the lanyard around his pass. Lawrence’s grabby hands shot straight up for the colourful paddock pass with a dramatic, needy whine. 

“This isn’t for you,” George gently booped his nose with it and tucked it in his back pocket before starting to guide the toddler farther into the hospitality lounge. 

Lawrence let out a very fake sob, little fingers grabbing at the front pockets of George’s jeans, just hanging off of him and almost getting himself tripped over. He then launched into an indignant stream of half-formed words—the only recognisable one being please—as he begged insistently for the colourful paddock pass that had now been hidden away. 

With your bags slung over your shoulder like a maternal pack-mule, you reached to grab Lawrence’s hand to pry him away from George, “Come on, Laurie love. Show Mumma how you climb the stairs like a big boy.”

Well, he certainly wouldn’t decline the offer of showing off his very independent and cool skills, thank you very much. His attention flipped like a switch and then suddenly he was far more interested in the narrow staircase that curled up to the second floor of hospitality, holding onto the railing with one tiny hand while his sneakered feet carefully maneuvered himself up step by step. 

Patience was a virtue as a parent, you and George reminded yourselves as you took a painful amount of time to ascend the staircase behind your toddler. And you still praised him sweetly at the top for a job well done. 

It wasn’t long before George’s siblings arrived with their spouses and kids, making it a full family affair. At least it allowed Lawrence to have a distraction so George could sneak away to his pre-race meetings and responsibilities unnoticed. The morning went by quickly as you entertained the kids and socialized with his family, enjoying the bit of time where the kids could play independently, giving you a bit of a break.

For a while, Lawrence was perfectly content and all seemed well. Yet, by the time lunch rolled around, the early start, the crowds, and the endless stream of new faces were beginning to catch up with him. The rest of the Russells had left to explore the circuit and have their own family time, leaving you with yours.

By then, George had returned from his morning obligations to have a quick lunch with you (his, prepared in accordance to his meticulous race-weekend diet put together by his nutritionist) before the afternoon would call him away again. Even in the midst of a busy day, George still made time to stand at the catering counter in hospitality, holding his son’s hand, and bent down beside him to help him figure out what he wanted to eat. 

“Would you like a sandwich or would you like macaroni and cheese?” George offered him patiently. 

Lawrence blinked up at the woman behind the counter who was awaiting the order and he took a shy step closer to George. He had already seen so many people that morning. This was yet another one who stared at him with a kind smile that made him seek out the comfort of his parents.

“Sandwich or mac-and-cheese, bug?” George repeated gently, brushing a hand over his head. 

“San’wich,” Lawrence mumbled. 

“Sandwich. Good man.” George stood up again and shared the order with the employee, thanking her with a smile. As she prepared the toddler’s lunch, she sparked up a casual conversation with George which was not unusual. Mercedes staff knew him very well. 

Lawrence, however, was not pleased by this. He tucked an arm around George’s leg and frowned up at the woman, as though she had interrupted something very important.

“Daddy,” he said quietly against his jeans.

George glanced down, “What, bug?”

Lawrence simply tightened his grip and blinked up at him with his same big blue eyes. That earned him a patient pat to the head from his father. 

Soon, lunch had been prepared and they joined you back at the table. Lawrence climbed up onto the chair across from you, kneeling impatiently as George set your plate in front of you first. You thanked him with a sweet smile and your trio seemed to settle into something close to normalcy. 

“Daddy, sit,” Lawrence reached a hand out to him. 

“I’m sitting, mate,” George assured him easily, steeling his impatience, and took the spot beside him. You handed over Lawrence’s water bottle as George arranged his small plate in front of him; his sandwich and cut cucumbers presented like a gourmet meal.

Suddenly, Lawrence’s nose scrunched up, “Yucky.”

“It’s not yucky, Laurie,” you promised.

He pushed the plate towards you with a frown. 

“You said you wanted a sandwich,” George reminded him through a mouthful of his own lunch, “Would you like something else?”

A pause. Then, “San’wich.”

You and George exchanged wordless glances. It was routine toddler behaviour; wanting and not wanting something all at the same time.

“This is your sandwich,” you gently pushed the plate back towards him, “Try a few bites.”

“Noo!” Lawrence protested a little louder.

A few people at the neighbouring tables glanced over. 

“Okay,” George sighed and wiped his mouth with his napkin before angling himself towards the toddler, leaning in closer to him and setting a hand on the back of his chair, “What don’t you like? Can you use your words?”

“No want that!” Lawrence whined, pointing distastefully at his lunch with his bottom lip stuck out and already trembling.

You opened your mouth to intervene, already familiar with the look Lawrence was giving him. It was the same one he used when he was seconds away from deciding the entire world had wronged him. And in the middle of a race day when George was supposed to be prepping and working, the last thing you wanted was for your toddler to add to his stressors.

But then George caught your look and murmured softly, “I’ve got him.”

You hesitated for only a second before letting him, observing instead. 

“Do you want mac and cheese?” George asked your son again.

“San’wich,” Lawrence pleaded.

“Okay, mate, this is your sandwich,” George insisted, reaching over to lift up the top piece of bread to show off the familiar mashed avocado and hummus. Same thing he would get at home. 

“No,” Lawrence sniffled. He pried away George’s hand to return the bread back on top of the sandwich before pressing his finger against one of the two cut triangles, “Square.”

“You want it cut in squares? Not triangles?” George clarified. 

Lawrence nodded and then promptly burst into wailing tears, slumping back in his chair. You might have pushed at home—this is what you asked for, what you were served, so this is what you are eating—but there was a time and place for those battles. Mid-race day in a packed hospitality lounge was not one of them. And George was already on his feet and taking the plate back to the catering counter. 

“Daddy’s fixing it,” you assured your son gently from across the table, offering out his water in the meantime, holding the straw towards him. He turned his head away and looked over to where George was standing, big tears slipping down his cheeks. 

In a flash, George returned with a new sandwich cut into four squares and it was placed in front of Lawrence who sobered up right away. With a pet to your son’s head, George took his seat again, “Okay?”

Lawrence sniffled and nodded and sat up straighter so he could reach for one of his squares. 

“What do you say to Daddy?” you reminded gently. 

“Thank you,” Lawrence mumbled through his first bite. 

Another parental glance was shared over the head of your two-year-old and George smothered his exasperated, amused smile behind another forkful of his lunch. He had spent so much time on Lawrence that he didn’t have much time left for his own meal, having to hurry himself up to finish in time to make it to his next session. 

When he finally set his fork down and pushed his chair back from the table, Lawrence’s attention piqued, wide eyes watching his father stand in preparation to leave. 

Lawrence set his half-eaten sandwich square down and lifted his arms up to him, “Me go too.”

“You’re staying here with Mummy,” George told him, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“Noo,” Lawrence insisted, grabbing onto his shirt. 

“Yess,” George mimicked him back, prying his little fingers out of the fabric and managing to move out of his reach, “You’ll stay here and keep Mummy company for me.”

The pitch fell on deaf ears and while Lawrence fussed and tried to get out of his tucked-in chair, George walked around the table and leaned down to give you a kiss…or two. 

“Leaving me with him, are you?” you teased lightly. 

George smiled and stole a glance at the fake-crying toddler before looking back at you, “I did my best.”

You just grinned adoringly up at him and welcomed a third kiss to your lips before wishing him well, that you’d see him later. Even Lawrence got another kiss, although he was too busy whining to properly acknowledge it. And then George was gone. 

“Daddy!” Lawrence wailed, slumping himself over in his chair. Melodramatic, that one. 

With a sigh, you stood from the table and took George’s empty seat, stopping to scoop up your toddler on the way past to place him on your lap under the eyes of surrounding strangers. 

“I know, we miss Daddy,” you soothed the best you could, rubbing his back as you reached for his water bottle at the same time, “He has to get back to work. He will be back soon.”

Lawrence reluctantly eased into you and accepted a sip of water through a tearful hiccup. You wiped his flushed cheek and dropped a kiss to the top of his head and snuggled him close. 

Lunch progressed slowly, your overstimulated toddler needing a bit more TLC than usual to finish his sandwich. You tried to get him to nap after, tucked in your arms on one of the hospitality sofas, but there was far too much going on for him to even lay down for longer than ten seconds. So he ended up back on the rug with his toys, entertaining himself in the middle of hospitality. 

George stopped by on his way to the garage one last time, already in his fireproofs and racesuit, fresh from warmup with Aleix一his fitness coach一and prepared for the imminent race start. There was something about him already locked into that competition mindset that had you a little swoony at the sight of him; the slight furrow of his brow, the determination in his eyes. And yet he always made a quick stop to give you one last kiss. 

“Daddy!” Lawrence jumped up from the floor, thrusting out his scribbly drawing to him.

George crouched immediately, taking the paper with both hands as though it were the most important thing he'd been handed all day, “Wow, Laurie, good work, mate.”

Lawrence一unaware of the time constraints一rambled on in his sweet toddler voice and jumbled words, trying to shove crayons at George to join him. A few steps away, Aleix was waiting. He checked his watch. 

“Hey, bug,” George gently grasped Lawrence’s chin to turn his attention to him, “I need a hug and a kiss from my favourite boy.”

Lawrence would certainly not complain, and he leaned in with puckered lips to deliver an adorable toddler kiss right to George’s mouth, sealed with an exaggerated ‘mwah’, before tucking himself into George’s open arms. 

“Thank you,” George kissed his head, “Be a good boy for Mummy. I’ll see you after the race, okay?”

Lawrence pulled away with a frown, little fingers dropping his crayons in exchange for two fistfuls of his father’s fireproofs, “No race.”

“Yes, race,” George pried his hands away and stood, “Just for a little while.”

“No!” 

The shout echoed through the hospitality suite, loud enough that several conversations faltered mid-sentence.

You were already pushing yourself off the couch before the first tears even fell, reaching for his arm with a gentle, “Laurie, come on, baby.”

“Daddy! No!” Lawrence screamed, “Dada!” 

George bent over to give the toddler one more kiss to his forehead before he had to force himself to retreat as much as you knew it would ache his heart to. The look on his face said enough as he glanced back at you and your son on his way after Aleix towards the garage. You gave your husband a small, encouraging nod, sending him on his way with a heavy heart. 

Lawrence pressed his hands against your chest to try and shove you away with a shriek, thrashing in your arms and making quite the racket. The hospitality lounge had grown awkwardly quiet as the child had a tantrum, strangers staring and employees watching on pitifully. It felt as if he wasn’t a driver’s son that you might have entirely been asked to leave. You could feel the heat of your cheeks as you tried to console your unconsolable toddler. 

“Dada!” Lawrence sobbed again, reaching helplessly toward the doorway George had disappeared through.

“I know, baby, I know,” you repeated softly into his hair while you rocked him in your arms side to side, keeping a secure hold as he tried to thrash and wriggle away, “Daddy will come back. I promise.”

Lawrence kicked his legs against the floor一getting you in the shin in the process一and cried so hard he choked over his breaths. You winced at what you expected to become a bruise and yet kept your focus on him, starting to rub your hand over his chest soothingly to try and help him regulate himself. 

When he finally calmed just enough that he wasn’t entirely wailing, you spoke softly to him, just for him to hear, “Can you blow out the candles for me?”

For a moment, Lawrence only hiccupped against you. Then, because he knew this game, because it was something familiar, his little face turned slightly toward you.

It was a little trick you had implemented with your toddler to get him to take deep breaths, to calm himself down. Lawrence sucked in a breath and then blew the air out of his pursed lips (only spitting on you a little in the process).

“Good boy,” you kept rubbing his chest, “Big blow.”

He inhaled again to then exhale deeply. You worked with him through a few more big breaths before he was finally starting to quiet down and fall loose in your arms. 

You leaned down to kiss his head and wiped the tears from his flushed cheeks with the pad of his thumb, “You’re just really sad, aren’t you?”

Lawrence nodded against your shoulder, sniffling.

“Yeah…you wanted Daddy to stay.”

He nodded again. 

“Me too,” you said, “I don’t like when Daddy leaves either.”

Lawrence turned his head to look up at you, blinking those all too familiar big blue eyes up at you as if truly taking in your confession. He was just so precious that you couldn’t help but lean down and press another kiss to his forehead. 

Sitting there, on the rug in the middle of the Mercedes hospitality lounge, you leaned back against the front of the couch and held your toddler as he tired himself out into a long-needed nap. His breathing slowed, his little body relaxing in your arms, and then he was asleep with long lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. It wasn’t the most comfortable position on the floor but you didn’t dare move to risk waking him, letting him take his rest in your arms. The TV on the nearby wall was playing the race anyway so you could at least watch at the same time. 

Lawrence woke up halfway through the race, blinking himself awake in your arms and rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fist. He was much calmer now and ate a snack of apple slices on your lap, watching the race on TV with you; even if he wasn’t quite old enough to truly understand what he was looking at. Plus, he still had the lingering hints of upset stirring in his little mind and so his energy was still very low. 

Going into that weekend, you had told yourself that if George finished on the podium一or, even better, won一that you would take Lawrence into parc ferme and watch the podium celebration live. Lawrence had never been in parc ferme as both you and George were almost too protective over your son’s privacy and all those cameras were not ideal. But this was Silverstone and George’s home race and Lawrence was old enough to at least understand enough of what was going on. 

George did win that Sunday, although the aftermath wasn’t as smooth as you had imagined. The hospitality erupted into cheers when George crossed the line, startling Lawrence from where he was quietly colouring and sending him into another bout of tears. At least this time he reached for you.

You scooped him up and kissed his tears away and dropped off your bag in George’s drivers room before making your way down towards parc ferme as the drivers rolled in. The noise down in the garages was astronomical and you snagged one of the headphone sets to use to cover Lawrence’s ears. Except he was not having it. 

The last thing he wanted when he was already overstimulated was a huge pair of headphones hugging his head and he kept shoving your hand away with a whine. After enough time of struggling against him, you sighed and gave up on the headphones一keeping them tucked over your arm in case he finally decided to cooperate一and carried him out of the garage into the summer sun and the packed fenced in area of parc ferme. 

It didn’t help that the chaos was all around you; people and cameras rushing this way and that, shouting over top of each other with up beat music in the background all with an undercurrent of summer heat. Right away, Lawrence was clamping his hands over his ears and fussing, trying to wriggle out of your arms. 

“Laurie一” you huffed, trying to keep hold on him. 

The toddler’s face just screwed up and he let out another wail, earning the glances of a few Ferrari mechanics and a gaggle of photographers standing nearby. You offered a half-embarrassed smile and then promptly turned on your heel and went back inside. 

You knew it wasn’t the most ideal place for a toddler, but you couldn’t help the twinge of disappointment in your chest at the fact that you wouldn’t be able to watch the podium. Honestly, you couldn’t even remember the last time you were able to watch the podium, live and in the flesh. Every time you had come to a race in the last three years you were either hiding a pregnancy or protecting your son. 

George’s first win at home and you couldn’t even be there for him in the way you wanted to be. 

You knew Lawrence wasn’t choosing this. You knew he wasn’t trying to ruin anything or be difficult. He was two years old and overwhelmed and needed his mum. But there was still a small, selfish part of you that ached.

George’s drivers room was quiet enough, private enough, and you set the screaming toddler on the floor with an exhausted sigh before plopping yourself on the massage table. Lawrence just flopped over onto his back across the carpet and wailed and flailed while you bit the inside of your cheek and watched the podium celebration on the wall-mounted TV. 

It was a whole hour later that George finally returned from his post-race duties. 

Lawrence had exhausted himself into a puddle on the floor of the driver’s room, sniffling and playing with the straps of George’s backpack that happened to be placed in the corner. Calmer now, tear-streaked, and entertaining himself. Once he caught a glimpse of George walking down the hallway, however, he perked up.

And he was on his feet in a blink and running at top speed down the hallway with a squeal, “Daddy!”

George broke into an even wider grin and crouched right down in the middle of the hallway and held open his arms, “Laurie!”

The toddler threw himself into his arms and George swallowed him up, trophy and 1st Place hat still in one hand, race suit half-unzipped, and hair still wet with champagne under his team cap. George kissed his head and snuggled him close. 

His PR manager一who had accompanied him from the media pen一said something to him and he sent her a smile and let her be on her way, giving him a moment alone with his family. Lawrence watched her retreat with a protective hand clutching the front of George’s racesuit before turning his attention to the shiny trophy in his hand. 

Right away, Lawrence was reaching for it, “Mine.”

“Yeah? Did Daddy win for you?” George smiled, pressing another kiss to the toddler’s temple.

He kept a firm hold on the fragile trophy even as Lawrence tried to pry it out of his hands. George just stared at him like the little human was the most incredible thing to him. Then, he plopped his P1 cap on Lawrence’s head, the brim falling over his eyes, and Lawrence giggled and pushed it up. 

The toddler was ushered back into the driver’s room where you were standing in the doorway, observing quietly. You hadn’t said anything yet because your throat felt tight. Maybe more so seeing your husband in that post-win glow, Silverstone trophy in hand, and how he only looked at you as he stepped closer. 

When his free hand settled on your waist, you braved a soft, “Congratulations.” 

George leaned in for his long-awaited winner’s kiss, lingering there a few seconds, before he pulled away to reply as his thumb caressed your hip, “Thank you.”

Your hands rested on his chest, unable to meet his eye as you said, “I’m sorry.”

George paused for a second, eyebrows furrowing, and leaned in to try and catch your downturned gaze, “What are you sorry for, my love?”

Your voice was shaky as you confessed, “I wanted to watch the podium. I wanted to be there for you.” 

“Oh, love,” George breathed, his expression softening, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” your words quivered and broke and you took a small breath to try and swallow back your tears, fingers fiddling with the zip of his racesuit, “You’ve been waiting years to win at home and I…I missed it.” 

“You didn’t miss it. You’re right here, aren’t you?”

You nodded reluctantly. 

The trophy was held limply in his hand while his other arm slid around your back and drew you close, giving your cheek a quick kiss as he pulled you into a hug. You curled yourself into him一much as Lawrence had done with him moments before一and ducked your face into his neck that still smelt like sweat and champagne. 

George whispered to you gently, “You, waiting for me, is the most important. Coming home to you is the most important thing.”

You smiled softly against his shoulder and held him a little tighter.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The noise of Silverstone felt far away, the celebrations happening somewhere beyond the walls of the driver’s room, the team knowing to leave him to the peace of his family. Quiet.

Then George’s eyes flicked over your shoulder.

“Where’s Laurie?”

You both turned at the same time.

Lawrence was sitting back in his spot on the carpet, earlier tears long forgotten, his exhausted body curled around his favourite toy and that P1 cap resting crooked on his head. His eyes were half-lidded, fighting a battle he was clearly losing. For once that day (or so it felt), he looked angelic. 

George changed out of his race suit while you packed up your things, leaving Lawrence to fade on the carpet until, finally, you were ready to head out. George lifted him up from the floor and right away, the toddler was snuggling into him with a sleepy sigh, like he had been waiting for this all day. 

As you walked back through the busy paddock towards the parking lot, Lawrence was cozied up in his daddy’s arms. His tear-streaked rosy cheeks were smushed against his shoulder, little arms limp around his neck, lips slightly parted through sleepy breaths. 

You stole a peek at his face to check if he was asleep but there wasn’t a doubt. With a small smile, you met George’s gaze and, with his one free hand, he reached for yours.

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