like in the season of the old me

James Vowles' chin is too weak for the confidence he's trying to feed Carlos when he tells him they won't be participating in the Barcelona shakedown.

The thought is mean. He knows it is. The man has clear, dark eyes, a full head of hair, a mind that’s meant to be one of the best in the paddock, but as he sits there being told the car has stumbled before it’s even seen a track, Carlos can’t summon the generosity to be kinder.

Beside him, Alex drags his tongue off the back of his teeth. It fills the room with a sharp tisk that slices through Carlos, though he manages not to flinch. James doesn’t react. The rest of the meeting is him trying to put a band-aid on an arterial bleed; all contingency plans and simulator programs built on projected numbers. Data they don’t quite trust yet, dressed up as something usable. They talk about extracting information, about maximizing learning, about being ready when the car is ready.

Carlos had been looking forward to Spain; the weather, the food. And now, the reality is this: he is stuck in Grove.

Late January in Oxfordshire sits heavy and damp, a cold that isn't fierce enough to bite and isn't soft enough to leave. The sky stays a flat sheet of grey, daylight thin even when the sun sits high in the sky. It doesn't rain so much as mist, leaving everything damp, the sweet smell of petrichor heavy in his nose every time he goes outside. Every day feels the same, a time-warp of exercise and testing and going to bed, stomach heavy with worry and anxiety he plays off with instagram photo dumps and bike riding vlogs on his youtube channel.