#capripersson

Bahrain GP, Middle East. March, 2023

The first years are always a mess, no matter how well your career has gone. People will try to prove that you don't have what it takes to be among the top 20. They'll do whatever it takes to weaken you, even if it means bombarding you with hundreds of cameras as if you were Britney Spears herself. The difference is, I was more like Hannah Montana.

People did everything they could to test how much you could endure, what you were capable of, how far they could push. When I came out of my first F1 race to check in with the other drivers, I had agreed with the FIA and my team on everything necessary to never have to take off my helmet, for any reason. And yet, the officials weighing us started an argument with Jean, insisting that I had to remove my helmet even if the FIA allowed me to keep it on, since they could subtract the weight of the helmet, considering that the rest of the drivers were still holding theirs while stepping on the scale.

A lot was said. They pressured the other drivers to speak badly about me, conspiring with the press. They left them on the edge of a cliff in a dirty and unpleasant game that only media people could scheme up. I ended up being Rookie of the Year and winning Action of the Year for the overtake I made on Albon in the last lap of the Abu Dhabi GP at the FIA awards during my first year. Clearly, I didn't go to collect the trophies. Partly for obvious identity reasons, and secondly, as a protest against how badly the FIA handled my first year, despite our agreement. In my second year, I won Action of the Year again for a move on Leclerc in Monza. And by the third year, I was already a runner-up—but that's another story, probably the worst of my career.

Being a runner-up is even worse than not scoring a single point all season. In fact, there was an episode in the Netflix series that went to great lengths to explain that event. They titled it "No Victory", and I replayed it eighteen times during the winter break so that when I returned to Abu Dhabi this year, I would understand what would happen if I lost again.

Runner-up felt like a joke when I crashed my car on the last lap, just moments away from winning. I just wanted to collect the trophy so I could go home and smash it against the floor. It would have been different if I hadn't scored any points, if my car had caught fire, if something else had happened. But instead, I sat on the couch in my apartment, watching the FIA hand Max that trophy for the second year in a row.

And since then, I haven't stopped replaying it in my head—until now. First race of the 2023 season. Capri Persson is ready to win. Capri Persson will win. That's what sets him apart from the rest.

I could no longer allow myself to trail behind Verstappen and Red Bull. Not anymore.

"Capri?" Jean called from the other side of the door, knocking twice as a warning before stepping in. That pulled me completely out of my thoughts. "Alright," she sighed. I stood up in my suit, my helmet resting on a table in the corner of the workshop room. "Ready?"

"What if I don't make it?" I whispered, consumed by my worry.

"No, no, no," Jean immediately shook her head, stepping closer to me. "Don't say that. Don't even think about it."

"Jean..."

"Look at me." She held my jaw in her hand, tilting my face so I was looking straight at her. "You're going to go out there, you're going to race, and you're going to thrive because you're the damn Capri Fucking Persson. Do you hear me?"

"Yes..." I mumbled.

"I can't hear you. What was that? A little bird chirping?" she exaggerated her motivational speech. "Did you hear me?!" she raised her voice, trying to hype me up aggressively, but I hid my laughter and raised my voice.

"Yes, Jean!" I shouted firmly, and she smiled, satisfied.

"You're already on the ground, Capri. There's nowhere lower to fall. The only thing left is to get up." She winked, placing a hand on my arm. "I know you only see bad things ahead because you feel surrounded by them... but why don't we look at the good opportunities that could come out of this instead?" I sighed at her words. "Instead of asking yourself, 'What if it doesn't happen?' ask yourself, 'What will I do if it does?'"

Go home and train for the next one. That's how things were, how it had always been, and how it always will be.

Winning is great, but nobody ever tells you what happens when you don't. Everything that comes with mourning what you thought you had in the palm of your hand.

Shit.

I could have been champion if it weren't for that mistake on the last corner—THE LAST! I should have lifted Verstappen's trophy, I should have taken that recognition. But I crashed. I got out and saw my car wrecked against the wall while the rest of the competitors drove past me.

While the world spent the winter break talking about Capri Persson's defeat, I was mourning the fact that what I had longed for hadn't happened. I had to carry the grief of that emptiness I felt when I turned on the TV to watch the FIA awards, where I had already imagined myself receiving the trophy and showing the world who Capri Persson really was.

When things don't happen, the focus is on getting back up and trying again. But no one ever tells you how to handle the pain of watching life go on, just not how you wanted it to.

Jean helped me with my helmet, and we left the room, entering the garage to see the new AlphaTauri car I had tested during the break. Nyck was talking to the mechanics, getting ready to step into his car when he saw me arrive. With a small nod in his direction, I greeted him briefly, and he smiled tightly, a little uneasy. It was no surprise how difficult it was for the rest of the drivers to share a space with Capri Persson.

Pierre Gasly had been my first teammate, and even though I knew he wouldn't always be, I think I had grown fond of the idea of seeing him in the garage often, testing cars together in the off-season. We never really talked, but I always had the idea that, after all, he could be the first to know the truth about Capri Persson—mainly because he had been my teammate since I started. But Pierre announced he was leaving AlphaTauri for the 2023 season, meaning I had to change teammates.

Nyck hadn't been too bad—decent, overall. He neither got in the way nor stood out too much, which worked. But it was clear he had an exaggerated respect, almost bordering on fear, for his teammate. That meant I had to get used to having him on track in a very different way than I was used to with Pierre.

2023 meant a big fresh start. A complete reset.

New teammate, new car, new reputation. New season.

We all got into our cars for the free practice lap, and at that moment, I knew that keeping my foot on the accelerator was like planting a great garden. Keeping my foot down meant believing in tomorrow; it meant still having faith that one day, what Turn 16 on the last lap in Abu Dhabi had taken from me would finally be mine.

It was just me, this single-seater, and John, my engineer, whom I could silence if I wanted to. So I gripped the steering wheel tightly, took a deep breath, and watched the lights change.

The circuit starts with a straight, followed by a tight right-hand turn that connects to a wider left-hand turn. Exiting that corner, you accelerate fully, avoiding the outer curb and keeping the car centered on the track to slightly attack the next apex. I had to keep the wheel straight for a fraction of a second and then change direction to the left while still accelerating and shifting gears. The next small right-hand bend is practically straight, but it's crucial to position yourself on the outside at the exit to attack the next corner. Verstappen was leading, for obvious reasons, followed by Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, and me. Sixth place.

There was a theory about qualifying in P6. Jean called it "the devil's position theory," and although I wasn't convinced, I couldn't deny that it never failed. Starting the first race of the season in "the devil's position" meant a guaranteed podium—unless the tradition changed this season or betrayed me.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Jean had said, sitting in my team's hospitality café during the French GP last season. "You started sixth this year in Australia, Miami, Spain, Canada, and Silverstone. And guess what..."

"I don't need to guess."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, lowering her voice when she realized she had spoken too loudly. "You won every single one of those GPs in a way that was torturous for the other drivers. France won't be an exception. Six is the devil's number."

"Actually, it's 666."

"Oh, come on," she looked at me in frustration. "The devil's position is already a fact. You can't deny it."

And she was right. France confirmed it, and then Monza did too. I couldn't deny it, so now I was expecting the same.

"Turn 10 in less than two seconds, Capri. I'll let you know when you can activate DRS," John notified me over the radio. Just as I was ready to take the corner, Carlos made one of the worst overtaking maneuvers I had ever seen.

"What the hell did he just do?" I asked. "Someone give that idiot an extra prize from me for ignoring every other driver so spectacularly while passing. I want to hear you all applaud when I smash his nose against the steering wheel," I spat, completely lost in my anger. John burst out laughing—I knew deep down he was grateful that my radio messages couldn't be shared with anyone else. It was just me and John, though sometimes Franz chimed in too.

"Copy that. But I'm going to ask you to calm down; you can pass him with DRS."

"I know, I know," I muttered. "I can pass him with my eyes closed. Want me to try?" I teased.

"Focus, Capri," John scolded.

I passed Carlos before the next corner, and I think I even heard him curse. The long curve leading into a fast, sweeping left-hander gave me the chance to overtake Lewis for fourth place and steal third from Russell on lap 43/57. I was doing well—I was making it happen.

"Capri, push. If you keep it up, you have a guaranteed podium," John said over the radio.

I didn't want a guaranteed third place. Who the hell did he think I was?

I wasn't going to maintain the pace—it wasn't about that.

"A guaranteed podium?" I laughed. "John, I started in 'the devil's position.' Of course, I have the podium secured."

"Capri, don't push the engine too hard. This is just the first GP; you should—"

"Goodbye, John. Should I call you when I win?" I grinned, though I knew he didn't fully appreciate it.

If there was something I loved on the track, it was knowing what each driver was willing to give in the competition. I believe years of experience mean nothing in relation to the car, which changes every season. Instead, experience matters when it comes to learning how to read the races of others. When you know each driver's blind spots, how they think, what they do—that's when you win. And this season, I was willing to do everything to build that knowledge.

You have to know whether they feel the car or just think about strategy. Or, on the contrary, if they have a perfect and absolutely necessary balance. If they did, they were great drivers. If not, they failed. The balance between feeling the car and thinking about your next move while knowing everything could change drastically in an instant—that was probably the key to driving an F1 car.

That was my formula. Know your competitors and find the balance between reason and instinct.

"Capri, box. We need to box," John notified me, his voice urgent over the radio.

"No, we don't, John. Not on the penultimate lap, and not when I just passed Leclerc for second place."

"Persson, I'm sorry."

"No, John. I'm even more sorry. I'm not pitting—I won't start the season on the wrong foot," I shouted, caught between anger and exhaustion.

"Capri Per—" I heard Franz jump in immediately, and my first instinct was to turn off the radio. I knew this would cost me, but it wouldn't be so bad if I got first place at the end of the day.

Max was ahead. And I felt like we had some unfinished business. Starting the season by taking him out of the lead would be the best way to boost my confidence. But Charles was on my heels, and that was driving me crazy.

"Verstappen is losing power. You need to overtake." said John five seconds after I turned the radio again.

"Is this a joke?" I felt deeply disappointed.

"This is your chance, Capri. Max won't be able to fight back. Pass him!"

I frowned. How was this possible?

"Come on, accelerate," I thought bitterly as I looked at the Red Bull car. My front wheels were approaching his rear ones, and all I wanted was for him to speed up. I wasn't going to win just because he couldn't accelerate. I wasn't going to win because he lost. I was going to win because I beat him fair and square. "Come on, come on, come on," I muttered, and suddenly, I was leading the race. Even Charles had passed him.

"That's it, Capri! You're leading! Keep pushing!" John shouted excitedly. Reaching the finish line, I could see the entire AlphaTauri team climbing the fence, cheering for me.

The checkered flag waved over me, but I said nothing. Reluctantly, I raised my hand to the crowd as if everything was fine—but it wasn't.

The good thing about always having a helmet covering my face was that I didn't have to fake a smile, a grimace, or anything. I just had to raise my hands, wave, and pretend everything was fine—just with my hands.

I parked the car and got out, moving confidently and greeting the roaring crowd. I saw signs with my name, team colors, and the iconic white AlphaTauri helmet. I watched Leclerc arrive in red and Verstappen pull up behind him, getting out in frustration.

"Great race, brother. Congrats," Charles said, fist-bumping me, which I returned. Max turned away and headed straight for the garage.

I watched him, thinking how ridiculous it felt to win almost by default because your rival had a failure. That's not winning—that's surviving. And I wasn't fully satisfied with that.

The team was waiting for me to celebrate, so I did everything I was supposed to do—act like the man of the grid.

If there's one thing I have to highlight, it's the feeling that filled me when I had to act like the man as soon as I won my first F1 race. It's strange, but in the small details, you deeply know that a woman would never be allowed to celebrate like that—because of the comments, the opinions, everything. It feels terrible, but... I couldn't deny that, in a way, it was amazing to enjoy the good parts of all this. Though I don't know how long it will last.

"You have to go to the cooldown room," Jean said, licking her lips uncomfortably.

"What?" I replied in sign language, frowning even though she couldn't see me.

"They demanded that you have to go to the cooldown room this time. Let's not make things more difficult."

"Difficult? Who the hell said that, Jean? What exactly am I supposed to do there with my helmet on?" I keep moving my hands angry and aggressively offended.

"Just go and show them it's pointless, that there's a reason we never did it. Go" she ordered, and with nothing more to say, I followed her instructions.

The team accompanied me to the cooldown room, and as soon as I entered, still with my helmet on, everyone went silent. The camera pointed straight at me as if it could pierce through my visor, and I stepped onto the device that would measure my weight. Max and Charles kept murmuring while watching my back.

I sat in one of the chairs and felt the drops of sweat tickling my face. The areas where the helmet pressed against me felt hotter than usual, and I could feel every bit of its texture. I was supposed to take it off like the rest of my teammates, drink water, put on the Pirelli cap, talk about the race, and watch the screen.

I simply sat there, staring at a fixed point through my visor, thinking about how disappointing the start of the season had been. Yes, the mark said that I won that race, but no for me. I didn't win, he gave up. It's different, and painful to start like this.

"Piastri is pretty good, don't you think, Persson?" Max asked, turning to me. Charles took a sip from his bottle, visibly uncomfortable.

"Yes, he's very good," I answered curtly with my hands, and both of them went silent, discreetly glancing around to see if anyone had understood what I had said in sign language.

It was my first time in a cooldown room. It had been discontinued in 2020, and in 2021 and 2022, the FIA agreed that, for obvious reasons, it was better to handle things like the rest of the drivers outside the podium. I didn't know what had changed now, but if this was good for anything, it was for thinking about the statement I had to write before leaving the paddock. Since I don't give interviews, the federation required me to write a statement after each race, answering certain questions and discussing the event. It was a good moment for me—while the others were doing live interviews, I had no pressure inside the motorhome, typing away on my computer.

But now, I just hoped things wouldn't keep changing like they just had.

NEXT: 02. I DON'T WANNA TALK

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

My gaze was lost, listening to conversations that didn’t concern me. I had no idea how many drinks I’d had, or how long I’d been drinking and listening to the drivers talk about trivial things. I only remember one of the girls—I think her name was Isa—got all of us up to dance together before Carmen, George, Checo, and Carola headed back to their hotels. I remember going with them and enjoying dancing with Carmen, but not much else. There were gaps in my memory that night, but when I realized it, I was on one of the couches staring at a fixed point on the table, listening to the rest talk. Only Carlos, Isa, Max, Pierre, Kika, Lando, Alex, Lily, Esteban, Lance, Danny, Charles, Lewis, and I were left. I don’t remember when I lost track of Mick and Laila—or maybe they left and I just didn’t notice.

“How does it feel?” I heard Daniel ask. It was that point in the night when the rooftop had turned into a bar and the interior of the club into an electronic dance floor. Out here we could hear the breeze and the low music blasting inside the club while we drank and chatted, overlooking the city from above.

“How does what feel?” Lewis smiled, confused, taking a sip of his beer.

“I mean, it must be great... But what’s so bad about winning?”

“You’re saying that so Max stops doing it?” Hamilton joked, and everyone laughed. “I don’t know, man. After seven years, it sounds stupid, but you get used to it, and when you don’t manage it, it feels like...”

“Everything’s over,” I whispered beside him, and Lewis turned to look at me. “Yeah, it’s stupid. And you know it, which makes it feel even worse. But you can’t fight it because you know you didn’t just lose a race—you lost all your confidence and that desire that kept you alive until then.”

“Someone’s got a melancholy hangover,” Carlos sang playfully.

“Jokes aside, the girl’s absolutely right,” Lewis pointed out.

“You go so high that the only risk you run is dying from the fall,” I looked him in the eyes, feeling that melancholy, nostalgia, as if I had once won something.

“Okay…” Daniel added, ending the topic because the conversation had gotten so painfully deep. “What do you think, Max? You’re the reigning champion.”

“Well... It’s not that hard. I always say the same thing…”

“This time, no beating around the bush, okay? We’re friends, not the press,” Charles clarified, giving him his full attention, and I turned to stare at him. I suppose he noticed because we made eye contact. My stomach turned, and his face was dangerously addictive to the masochistic side of me that remembered all the times I watched him step onto the podium this winter.

“Last season was inexplicable. I had completely given up before those last seconds. Until Persson crashed into the wall and I felt... It’s horrible, but I felt relieved. Not even like I had won, just... relief.”

“But you didn’t win, so it doesn’t count,” I interrupted, cracking my neck without moving my hands. The whole group looked at me, my eyelids drooping—I was dying of sleep.

“What?” Max asked, confused.

“Last season doesn’t count. Danny asked what’s wrong with winning... You didn’t win Abu Dhabi.”

I no longer had full control of my words.

“Didn’t I?” he raised his eyebrows.

“Persson crashed, America. And the points went to Max for finishing the race because they were tied…”

“I know how points work, Lando,” I snapped. “But Max didn’t win.”

“Want to explain your point of view?” Charles adjusted in his seat, clearly impressed by the little argument that had sparked and giving me his full attention.

“If Capri hadn’t crashed, she would’ve won. And Max would’ve been second. But she crashed because there was an issue with her car. Otherwise... the world champion would have been Capri Persson,” I shrugged.

“You win when you cross the finish line first,” Max replied, eyes locked and brows furrowed.

“Yeah, you did. Good for you. But you didn’t win because you crossed first. You won because Persson had an accident…”

“Well, if we’re thinking that way, then Persson didn’t win Bahrain either,” he insisted. In minutes, the friendly conversation had turned into a heated argument between Max and me.

“Okay… So you admit you’re not the world champion?” I squinted, and everyone fell silent. Max looked at me strangely, as if he didn’t understand the purpose of this argument, although deep down we could’ve gone all night. “Just like the 2021 championship belonged to Hamilton.”

“Guys, we’re not here to argue about this now,” Pierre downplayed. “We’re trying to relax after a long day, and you’re going to argue about that?”

“If he needs to relax after doing what he loves, then he should do something else,” I shrugged, ending my part of the conversation and leaning back, sighing. Max scoffed, and I could see everyone’s faces. Charles raised his eyebrows in surprise but tried to hide it. Daniel and Lewis pressed their lips together. Carlos shook his head, and the rest didn’t know where to look. The champion of Melbourne left in silence, and I followed him with my eyes.

“You were a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Hamilton asked beside me, but I couldn’t answer. He was probably right. “Can I say something without wounding my pride?” he joked, and I smiled weakly. “Whatever problems Capri Persson has on the track, let them stay with him. I know spending a lot of time with someone like Persson can change things a bit, but... You’re not him. And whatever problems he has, they’re his.”

“Are you going to make me go apologize to Max?” I asked.

“No. What you do next will determine whether you’re like Persson, or if you’re yourself.”

Shit. I was so drunk.

I won’t deny that everything I said—I meant it. Every single thing. But I had crossed a line, and I was mature enough to admit it. Just not mature enough to stop it.

I had never felt so light with my words in my life, but... at what cost?

That night, in the middle of my drunkenness, I got up from the couch where I was lying next to Lewis Hamilton and realized something I’d probably spent a long time trying not to see. As I stood, Lewis winked at me, and I turned to the rest of the group that kept talking, though I didn’t pay them any attention.

“It’s nothing personal, I’m just a bit drunk and feel like I’m going to puke,” I admitted, running a hand across my forehead.

“It’s alright, Am. We’ve all been there,” Daniel laughed.

“Okay... I’m out for today, I’ve got something to do,” I added before scanning the rooftop for Max. What I didn’t notice was that it circled the building, so besides the area where the drivers and their friends were, there was a nearly empty section past a hallway between the edge of the rooftop and the club’s windows. It probably wasn’t open to guests, but when you’ve just taken heavy criticism to the face and your spirits are on the floor, the way is fully open.

I don’t know if he heard me approaching because he was alone, looking out over the other side of Melbourne with his arms resting on the edge, completely still in time. Probably thinking about everything I said.

“I won’t make it long, I promise,” I said as I approached, and he turned only his head to look at me over his shoulder. “I admit it, I went too far this time. I was... God, I was unpleasant,” I confessed, standing beside him, unable to stop thinking about how strange it was to have him close.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. I’m drunk and trying to justify myself. It sucks,” I went on. “But that wasn’t fair.”

“You said what you think. It’s fine,” he replied as if he wanted to get rid of me—and this conversation. I would’ve let him if I weren’t under the influence, unable to measure my words.

“It doesn’t matter what I think if I’m going to say it like that,” I shook my head, and that’s when Max turned to look at me, making me feel insecure about my own words. “Congratulations, by the way,” I admitted for the first time, with a bit of bitterness on my lips. “You’ve probably heard it a hundred times. You must be sick of it, but... whatever,” I shrugged, sighing, and turned my body to face him. “I didn’t mean to be so nasty and repulsive. I promise I’m not usually like that. You can say whatever you want if it makes you feel better. Whatever you want,” I clenched my teeth, lowering my gaze, and Max smiled slightly, shaking his head as he looked away.

“That’s what happens when you’re a public figure. Everyone thinks they know you, and this kind of thing happens. But I don’t know you, I can’t say anything about you. I barely know your name,” his gaze returned to mine, and the blue everyone talked about so much turned extremely dark in front of me.

“América, pleasure to meet you,” I put my hand out between us, and he smiled as he took it.

“Max,” he replied, amused.

“It’s an honor, Mr. Max,” I joked half-heartedly, but it still amused him. “I promised I’d be brief. You’ve got more fun things to do than this,” I motioned between us, but when I was about to say goodbye, I went blank. Everything I had said...

“It must’ve been a long day,” he commented, and I didn’t understand what he meant, so I just stared at him, confused. “I mean for you... Capri’s second place,” he clarified, but seeing my continued confusion, he turned fully to face me. “It’s the first time it’s happened since Abu Dhabi. Must suck,” he concluded.

The pain in my chest returned, and my lip trembled like I was about to cry. How stupid and childish I was trying to hide it.

“I completely understand that,” he swallowed hard and looked down at his shoes in sympathy. I thanked him internally because a couple of tears were forming in my eyes and my stomach felt strange. “After the 2021 championship, I think I was a little scared to win Abu Dhabi again after everything that happened. People went totally crazy, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it all at once,” he bit his lip. “I was probably wrong, I won’t deny that. It weighs on me sometimes, but when it happened, I thought it was part of the game—what the world expects. It was stupid, but it got people talking, it helped the teams, the series, the industry. Everyone got something. I got a trophy, Lewis the collective grief,” I listened carefully. “When I watched the race again, I called Christian and told him I wanted to speak with the FIA, that the circus was too obvious. He told me it wasn’t something we could discuss because the FIA had agreed to it. They’d wanted to dethrone Lewis for a long time, and when they saw me as a worthy driver to do it, they didn’t hesitate.”

I could barely breathe for fear of interrupting him. I remembered that race in detail, but I wondered how many people knew about this.

“I never wanted to talk to Lewis about it. It’s a bit cowardly, you can say it. But when I won Abu Dhabi, it felt... I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It was strange. I thought everyone would talk about it like last time, and then you go home wondering if you’re really that good,” he ran a hand over his chin, and I couldn’t do much more than watch him lit by the city lights. “So when what happened with Persson today happened, I couldn’t stop thinking about Abu Dhabi. How everything repeats itself and comes back to you without asking. And the more you try to avoid it, the closer it gets. He must’ve gone through the same thing.”

A tear ran down my cheek, and I didn’t bother to wipe it. If I moved, it would’ve been too obvious, so I let it fall, taking advantage that Max wasn’t looking directly at me.

“You feel like it’ll be part of you for the rest of your life—but not the good part of you. The worst part. You try to rip it out, but if you do, you might bleed out. Sometimes I watch the race again, both of them, and I wonder if I really deserved it. And then you come along and tell me I didn’t win and... I can’t argue that when I’m not even sure myself if I’m good enough to win,” he sighed. “I want to prove that I am. I really want that. But at the end of the day, when no one’s watching, you fall apart without being able to stop it. I guess you had to endure Persson at the end of the day, and that’s very brave,” he admitted, pausing. I felt strange inside, but I wanted to believe it was because of everything I’d drunk that night. “Though I hope it doesn’t go too far. A driver’s rage sometimes has to be stopped.”

I couldn’t believe Max was confessing like that in front of me, so I half-suspected he must have had quite a bit to drink too.

"You're partly right. But this is a game, and that’s how things are. When you get in the car, you accept two deaths—one physical, and the other, glory. If you go home without touching either, it means you won. Otherwise... you die anyway." He turned to look at me, and I took a breath, trying to quickly divert my gaze. "I’m glad I didn’t die."

"Dying is not cool at all," I slurred my words in that silly, playful tone every drunk person has at the end of the day.

"Otherwise we wouldn’t have ended up here," he added flirtatiously but subtly. And I don’t know what went through my head.

"You’re lucky I’m not drunk enough to kiss you," I blurted out, drunk enough to do it.

"That’s a shame. I would’ve liked you to," he replied, and I turned to look at him. How drunk do you have to be to kiss your rival? Because I knew I was, but I didn’t know how much until I saw Max differently in front of me.

With one hand on his neck, I pulled him toward me to press my lips against his, trying to forget who he was. It had been so long since I’d kissed someone like that. I just hoped that desire didn’t show when our chests pressed together as if it were possible to merge into one. Max slid both hands around my neck, trying to take control, and just as he could on the track, I moved my hand down to his jaw, taking his chin to guide his lips.

I don’t remember much, except the desire to keep going, stupidly, as if it were possible. I had to admit we were both tipsy, and I didn’t even care that it was him I was kissing in a corner of the club’s rooftop. But the moment I took a breath, opened my eyes, and saw him in front of me, something short-circuited in my head.

"Ugh," I mumbled. "I don’t know what I’m doing."

"But I like it."

"Should I keep going?" His face was so close to mine, and one of his thumbs caressed my lips, making me tingle. Max nodded, and now he was the one who leaned in, taking the next step. It was stupidly sensual but also timid. I wasn’t sure if that’s how everyone kisses someone casually—a stranger. It’s usually rougher, less relaxed. But somehow Max did it differently and... addictive, it was incredibly addictive, I didn’t want to stop.

God, but it was Max!

"Why did you stop?" he murmured, and I felt his breath against my lips. His hands were resting on my cheeks. His eyes were no longer clear, but to me, they looked incredibly haunting.

"It’s not right."

"But it was magnificent," he whispered, caressing my cheeks, and a shiver ran down my spine.

"The wrong things usually are magnificent. But we work together and you’re drunk—we’re drunk," I corrected myself, placing my hands on his chest, and I could feel his heart beating hard under my palm. "I promise you’ll regret everything that happens when you wake up in the morning, Max," I whispered, slurring slightly.

"Say it again," he pleaded, looking at my lips with a playful smile, and I knew he meant his name.

"Goodbye, Max," I whispered close to his lips, smiling, and pulled away from him, hoping he’d forget everything in the morning, just like I would from how drunk I was.

In fact, that’s what happened. I remembered nothing more than the argument, a slight touch between us, and the rest of the party. I collapsed as soon as I got to the hotel, regretting all my bad decisions that night.

🚥PREVIOUS: 05. FEMALE DISAPPOINTMENT

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

I was beginning to believe that it wasn’t necessary to arrive just in time for Grand Prix weekends. I could arrive early, wander aimlessly through the paddocks, watch others endure the weight of the press, the photos, and the cheap questions thrown at them by the worst journalists in the industry. I liked drinking coffee in the hospitality area, sitting near the windows to watch everything others had to suffer and I was lucky enough to avoid. I hadn’t noticed how many things they had to do that I had negotiated with the federation not to. The Netflix cameras harassed anyone they came across, and even though I was part of the group of drivers who entered F1 after Netflix and its whole production, I was grateful not to have a camera on my shoulder 24/7.

I hadn’t seen Carmen again since the Saudi Arabian GP, but I had made sure to send her a new pair of pants to replace the ones she gave me to help me out of a jam, along with a thank-you card. She had been very kind and warm to me, and I felt a strong need to return the gesture, even in the smallest way. If she hadn’t given me a nudge to ask for feminine hygiene products, I might not have even been able to race due to the discomfort. I could handle a flooded track, but menstruation was another matter.

I returned to the motorhome when I got a message from Sarah—my masseuse, trainer, and companion since I started racing. Sarah and I weren’t the closest people in the world, but along with Jean, she was one of the only people I’d known since the beginning, and she had always done an excellent job with me. So we were like a strange, long-term, open marriage.

"Did you miss me in Saudi Arabia?" she smiled when she saw me, and I gave her a welcoming hug.

"You can’t imagine what happened to me."

"Having kids sucks. Don’t do it," she joked, and I laughed as we started warming up. Sarah had become a mother two years ago, but Sid—her son—had gotten sick a few weeks back, and if she wasn’t the one helping me train, it wasn’t going to be anyone else. So when I couldn’t have her around, I just did what I could on my own.

"... and since we started, Nyck hasn’t stopped crashing the car. I don’t know what’s going on, he’s good. He has a lot of potential, and now he can’t even blame the car because it’s obvious it works with me," I explained to Sarah what she had missed so far. "I don’t want to think about it, but I don’t know how much of a future he has if this continues."

"Haven’t you thought about talking to him?" she asked from behind me while helping me stretch.

"In three years of sharing with Gasly, I’ve never said a single word to him. What makes you think I should talk to Nyck?"

"The fact that you’re scared of having to change teammates again. I don’t know, think about it. Maybe it’s time to start telling everyone the truth—as a sign. You could even encourage him, you’ve been in his shoes too."

"No, no. I was a rookie too, but I never had to retire from more than two races in less than half a season," I explained.

"Is it really that bad?"

"He’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, he managed to finish Saudi Arabia. But for how the season’s going, it doesn’t look good, and Franz has already hinted that the team bosses are starting to move pieces."

I stared at a fixed spot in my motorhome room while Sarah gently massaged my shoulder blade as I sat. I was deeply worried, not just about Nyck but about the constructors’ championship. At this rate, it didn’t matter how much I won if he kept causing problems.

"I barely talk to my teammates, and when I see they’re at risk of being replaced, I grow fond of them. I don’t know if I can get used to someone new all over again," I shook my head, and then I heard the door open without warning, making my whole body tense—until my eyes met those bright, playful blue eyes laughing at my reaction and that ridiculously blond hair.

"You’d die to have me as your next teammate, wouldn’t you?" he laughed teasingly, but with his usual innocence, and I jumped off the massage table to hug him tightly, bumping into his chest.

"Finally, you show up! Has being part of Mercedes gone to your head?" I punched his shoulder, and he laughed loudly.

"You’re dying of jealousy, that’s what’s happening."

"At least I’m a full-time driver, not a reserve," I teased, and he laughed even though it stung.

"Low blow, Persson. Extremely low blow," he shook his head.

"I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Capri," Sarah said, picking up her things and leaving the room, closing the door behind her. Mick sat down with his characteristic shyness on one of the couches, and I handed him a water bottle.

"I waited for you all winter. Do I need to send you a formal invitation to remind you we’re friends, Schumacher?" I pulled my suit out from where I had it stored and laid it over my leggings and T-shirt.

"Sorry, I know I should’ve called, but you know… Dad," he sighed.

"I know, Mick. You don’t have to explain anything to me," I turned to him, giving him my full attention, and he smiled wistfully.

My friendship with Mick wasn’t something I had planned; in fact, it was a strange accident back when we used to race together in F3. Before the Baku race in 2017, I had to use the restroom and, to avoid holding things up, I ran into the nearest one. I took off my helmet to go into the stall and came out to wash my hands without it, thinking no one would come in since everyone was already getting ready for the race—but I was wrong. A rushed Mick came into the bathroom, and his already big eyes seemed to take up half his forehead in shock.

"I can explain after the race," I said first.

"Okay..." he replied, still stunned by the news. After a great race, we met again at one of the paddock cafés.

"So..." he took a few seconds to say something once he sat in front of me, but even trying, no words came out of his mouth.

"I thought it’d be easier, but there’s not much to explain," I swallowed hard from nerves, and Mick slowly nodded, still amazed.

"How did it happen?"

"When I realized I didn’t want to be seen as the only woman on the track but as a driver like the rest of the guys," I explained, confused by my own words. I had never told anyone that and never planned to—except Mick at that moment. "It doesn’t affect anyone, and I race under the same conditions as the others."

"Then why don’t you tell everyone that you’re... a woman?" he asked, the echo of his surprise present in each word and his hesitant tone.

"Because I’ve already accepted that no matter how much inclusion and equality they promote, if they find out Capri Persson is a woman, they won’t see Capri Persson anymore. They’ll see ‘the girl on the grid,’" I explained without looking him in the eyes, fixing my gaze on the coffee I had ordered but wasn’t drinking.

"Aren’t you proud of being the girl on the grid?" he kept asking, innocently.

I thought about it for a few seconds, looking out the window at the rest of the paddock.

"No," I shook my head. "I want to be Capri Persson."

Mick sighed and nodded, never taking his eyes off me, as if still processing everything. He was the first to make me understand how heavy it was for the world to accept certain truths about Capri Persson. But Capri wasn’t an alter ego—it wasn’t a game to me. My real name is Capri América Persson, and I wanted to be recognized as such. Not as the only woman on the grid, because no one recognizes Ayrton Senna for being a man on the grid. Everyone recognizes the name, the legacy, the story—not just a label.

"I guess now that I know, I’ll have to sign a few things, right?" he asked, a little worried.

"You know too much now," I narrowed my eyes at him, jokingly threatening, and he laughed. "We can be friends, and that’s enough. Let’s not make it bigger."

"Okay, sounds good," he smiled, placing his hands on the table to get up.

"Mick," I called, and he turned to see me holding my pinky up toward him. "Do you solemnly swear not to disclose anything discussed in this private meeting of two premature friends?"

Mick smiled, showing all his teeth with that contagious grin.

"I swear on my family," he said, linking our pinkies.

"You’d better. Now you know too much. It’s our friendship or your death," I joked, and he laughed so loudly that everyone in the café turned to look at him, and he quickly covered his mouth.

"You’ve got a great sense of humor when you’re not trying to kill us on the track."

After that, Mick was the only person I could lean on, but then I moved to F2 and then F1, and he stayed in F2. We couldn’t see each other often, and I accepted that making friends in the paddock was tough. We didn’t have time to meet outside races, and when everything happened at the end of last season, Mick checked in on me, but his father was going through health issues he didn’t want to talk about. Then he moved from Haas to Mercedes, and we lost touch. It was like realizing your high school friends now had completely different lives from yours, and despite the friendship, they were strangers. It was accepting that we’d grown up, that we weren’t 17 or 18 anymore, and that we didn’t race together anymore.

"Don’t you want to talk about it?" he asked as I zipped up my suit.

"No, I don’t want to talk about it."

"It wasn’t a bad season, anyway. You were runner-up," he crossed his arms.

"Are you going to keep talking about what I said I didn’t want to talk about?"

"Sorry, I forgot you’re a trust-issues character written by Taylor Swift," he raised his hands in defense as he began to pace the room.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Too much time with Laila," he muttered, and I laughed.

"I love Taylor Swift, but this isn’t about my trust issues. How would you feel if, in the last lap, the last corner of the entire race, of the entire season, you crashed into the wall when you were just seconds—milliseconds—from the finish line and becoming champion?" I challenged, getting worked up. Mick handed me my helmet. "I was so close, Mick. So damn close..."

"Things happen for a reason. God must’ve wanted it that way..."

"I don’t believe there’s a God out there, Mick. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the perfect comfort for other drivers, for you, for everyone. But not for me. God was never there for me, and I stopped believing in that a long time ago," I took the helmet and put it on while Mick watched me and adjusted the cables.

"You must believe in something when you go out there," he suggested.

"No," I shook my head simply. "Ordinary people need to believe in something to keep from being afraid."

"Let me guess—you’re not ordinary?"

"No, Mick," I laughed, knowing exactly what I’d say. "I’m not afraid."

"Whatever you say," he chuckled, and I took a deep breath, getting ready to leave. "There’s a party on Sunday, just a regular thing. Everyone’s going," he said.

"Okay, sounds fun. I hope you have a good time."

"Yeah, I hope so too—because you’re coming," he replied, adjusting the collar of my suit.

"No, I don’t think so."

"That wasn’t a question, Capri."

"I don’t have anything decent to wear." That was partly true. If I knew there wouldn’t be any important events that weekend I had to attend, all the clothes packed in my suitcase were either sportswear or team-branded outfits. Not much else.

"Well, I’ll take care of that with Laila, because I’m sure you'll tell me you don’t have time to shop for anything. You're going to that party whether you like it or not."

"Reasons?" I stopped him before he could cross the door convinced the conversation was over. No way. Mick looked at me, confused. "What are the reasons I should go?"

"There are plenty of reasons."

"Then pick the best one to convince me."

"That you start seeing the other drivers as your teammates, not your enemies," he crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.

"Good thing I told you to use the best one."

That Friday's practice went pretty well, we had done a great job and Nyck had managed to escape his streak of bad luck, setting a record for the fastest lap count of his season so far. It was a big achievement for my teammate, so when I got back to the garage, I didn’t hesitate to give him a thumbs-up. That was as far as I’d go. Franz and the team looked happy and confident, and we were all excited about the results since the cars didn’t have any issues requiring major changes. Saturday's qualifying session was perfect — I placed behind Alonso and ahead of Max, securing third position. The race atmosphere already felt as close as victory, but everything went to hell in the pits on Sunday.

When you're going 375 km/h, you never imagine that your worst enemy will be the moment when everything stops. Pit stops are one of the most normal things in F1 — necessary and part of the strategy — but your car refusing to move? Not normal.

"What’s happening?" I almost screamed inside the car in the pits with the entire crew around me waiting for me to go. I changed gears, hit the accelerator, but nothing happened. I could hear the cars passing on track and mentally counted the positions I was losing. Your mind splits into hundreds of pieces to think separately and form conclusions while trying to get the machine working.

"What the fuck is going on?!" I shouted over the radio and exchanged glances with Franz and John from their spot across the pit lane.

"Keep trying, we’re working on it," John said over the comms.

"Well, it doesn’t look like it, because this shit isn’t working!" I cried out in frustration, pressing every button I could to get the car started.

I couldn’t lose my position — and I already had. I couldn’t drop below fifth — and I was already tenth. I hadn’t worked so hard all weekend just to end up here. I wasn’t getting out of that car until I crossed the finish line in first place. I wasn’t going to give up.

I had never retired from a race in my entire F1 career until... that day.

I had a flashback — one of those no driver should have in the middle of a race, especially not while trying to revive a dead car. But seconds felt like years in that moment, and I hadn’t felt anything like it since Abu Dhabi. The sound of the cars flying by, the panic in my chest, the heat on my neck and ears, the pounding heartbeat, the wildfire growing silently inside. I had never retired until Abu Dhabi. I had never given up until then, and now... now everything came rushing back like it was the first time.

But unlike back then, I didn’t step out of the car defeated. Somehow, I found the solution buried in those bad memories and that overwhelming desperation that clouded my ability to process the present. Without saying a word and in less time than a regular pit stop, I was back on track.

If I had been just any other driver with 26 laps to go and a massive disadvantage from last place, I would’ve started praying. But I didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense, so I started racing.

Even Nyck was four positions ahead of me. In moments like that, you can’t think about failure. You can’t dwell on the frustration spreading through your system like bad medicine administered in the pits. You can’t focus on the rage flowing through your body like fuel in the car. You can’t overthink.

"Distances," I asked over the radio, and John replied immediately. I had already passed Magnussen and Albon was ahead, with 25 more laps and a goal to chase.

"Don’t mess this up," I whispered to myself. "Don’t you dare, Persson. Not again."

"Good, Capri! Good!" John shouted over the line when I pulled off a double overtake on Sargeant and Leclerc. "Nyck is ahead of you, we’ll tell him to let you pass."

"No. I’ve got 25 laps ahead of me, I can waste one on him."

"Capri..."

"Let him build his confidence, okay? He needs it." I concluded, and I wasn’t lying. I wasted half a lap battling Nyck, and although it meant nothing for the competition, I knew he needed that. How would he feel after seeing I couldn’t take down the rest of the grid, and now the two of us were fighting for position? It’s not the same comparison — I don’t even know if Lewis had the same intention back then — but I remember the first time I felt like a giant for fighting Hamilton for a position. I gave it everything, and I wasn’t going to back down — and neither was he — and although he passed me and I ended up third... I had made things hard for Hamilton, and no rookie gets to enjoy that. But I sure did.

Ahead were Ocon and Gasly — another double overtake — before I reached Carlos Sainz Jr. Son of a bitch. He was good, I wouldn’t deny it — extremely good. But not good enough. When I passed him, he tried to take the position back from the outside, and that’s when his confidence crumbled. If you’re going to break the rules, at least do it right.

Twenty laps to go. Ten places to steal. I couldn’t fail.

"Capri," John called. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Your heart rate, Capri."

"That’s what happens when you actually race, John. If you don’t have anything important to say, we’ll talk later."

I hated those unnecessary interruptions, but he was right. The moment he mentioned it, I became aware of the sensation — like my heart was about to burst out of my chest, like I didn’t have full control of my head, and while I raced, I fought my thoughts, my memories, that memory. I passed Zhou and had a flashback, overtook Piastri and another memory came rushing in.

It felt like I was driving straight and brakeless back in time, to that moment, that pain, that disappointment, that irrational force I couldn’t fight. It was bigger than me. Stronger than a race car at nearly 400 km/h.

"That was brilliant, Capri! Keep it up!" John exclaimed with excitement, and I didn’t even understand what had happened until I checked one of the mirrors. Triple overtake on Hulkenberg, Norris, and Pérez. Impossible. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to focus on the race, on the data John was relaying, on feeling the car as an extension of myself.

"P5, Capri, that’s amazing. Six laps left. Stroll is 0.132 ahead. If you pass him, it’s enough. You’ve done an incredible job in 20 laps."

"It wouldn’t be incredible if I finish fifth," I replied, and I could picture John shaking his head. "Positions?" I asked.

"Verstappen leads, followed by Hamilton, Alonso, and Stroll."

"Come on, Capri. Do it," I told myself, holding back tears. I couldn’t control it anymore. I gripped the wheel tighter so no one would see my hands shaking. Sometimes I couldn’t breathe, and I found comfort in the strategy John and the team had prepared for me. I passed Lance quickly, then Fernando. Just 3 laps left. Lewis and Max. My tears mixed with sweat as I fought sentimental thoughts pulling Abu Dhabi back into my mind like a magnet.

"Capri, you’re doing an excellent job," I heard John say again and again between race data. It was the final lap, and once again it was Max and me, at war for first place. There was far more at stake than anyone could see. Would these tormenting memories help me understand how much it hurt to lose against Max? Would everything I had endured over the past 26 laps help me learn I couldn’t keep coming second to Max Verstappen? Did I need anything more to pressure myself?

Apparently, I did. And that "more" was about to show up. The gap between our cars was almost nonexistent, but Max wouldn’t let me through for anything. He made aggressive moves, and I tried attacking with equal aggression, but nothing worked. I could hear the crowd’s screams getting closer, and I tried. I gave it everything I had to overtake him, but our tires made contact, forcing me to fall back by a few hundredths — giving Max a quarter of a second lead over me. And as we reached the finish line, I saw him cross it first.

This time, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I didn’t wave as I got out, I didn’t even celebrate. I ran to the motorhome and ripped off my helmet, struggling to breathe. The look of panic on Jean’s face burned into my memory as he called the medical team. It would have been less ridiculous if they had diagnosed me with a terminal illness right there, but my soul sank when, in less time than my pit stop had taken, the team doctor said I had suffered a panic attack.

There I was again. Me and my worst enemy, living in the same body. Me and my greatest fear.

🚥PREVIOUS: 03. ABOUT THE TEAM

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

"I know there’s a good chance I’ll get this back because you refuse to go, but either way, I’d like you to keep it. I also know what you’re thinking—don’t worry about the money, although I stand by the fact that women’s clothing should be cheaper and equivalent to men’s. Think of it as a nice gift from me and Laila, who took over two hours to decide which one would suit you best. If only she knew the only thing you wear are pants and a uniform with that helmet. I hope to see you there and good luck with the race.

—Mick."

That’s what the card said—the one that came with the elegant white designer bag left in my room while I was out. I reread it a couple of times while watching the sunset through the hotel window, overlooking the track, biting my nails. I took out the dress the friendly couple had given me, folded perfectly and meticulously in a box with special paper. It was a black strappy dress with rounded edges at the neckline and small, neat sequins that gave it a special shimmer, almost invisible in the dark. Not bad, I suppose. I didn’t usually wear dresses; when I had to dress up, it was always two-piece suits—comfortable outfits that didn’t show too much. The one Laila had picked for me fell below the knees and was fitted at the torso. When I tried it on, I complimented her good taste, but I felt incredibly strange. Deep down, though, I knew it wasn’t because of the dress.

A damn panic attack in the car had cost me the first place.

As soon as the team’s medical staff left the motorhome room that evening, having concluded from what I told them that it had just been a panic attack, Jean stared at me in silence, her face pale. I knew she was dying to say “I told you so” for all the times she’d told me to see a psychologist after last season’s finale. But I always brushed it off, even if that didn’t mean I didn’t care. It was extremely and stupidly important to me, and that’s why it felt ridiculous. What am I supposed to say when I sit in front of a psychologist and they ask why I think I’m there? “I lost an important race and came in second”? Seriously? It seemed too absurd to consult someone else over something I knew I could fix myself. And the only way to fix it on my own was to face it and overcome it. The only way was to win, no matter how much I lost in the process. Because the thing is... I had already lost everything in that last corner, so everything I was risking was just the ghost of what I’d already lost and still believed I had.

“John was calling you over the radio seconds before the end, and you didn’t respond,” Jean said, leaning back against one of the walls in front of me, arms crossed. Someone knocked on the door.

“Persson, it’s me, Franz,” came a voice from the other side. Jean didn’t give me time to answer.

“Give us a moment, Franz,” she replied, still by the closed door and unmoving. She paused, and the silence allowed me to hear how hard my heart was trying to calm down. “Is this how it’s going to be all season? Or are you going to take responsibility and admit you need help?”

All I could do was look her in the eyes. No words would come out.

Jean shook her head and left the room, giving Franz space to enter, followed by John. I hadn’t even taken off my race suit.

“What happened?” Franz asked, pulling up a chair to sit across from me, elbows resting on his knees.

“It’s nothing. It won’t happen again,” I downplayed it. “We made up for it in the pits anyway, we should be celebrating,” I pretended everything was fine, because it’s weird when your boss and your engineer look at you confused, completely baffled. How was it possible that I had overtaken 19 positions in 26 laps and ended up like this? I was sure both had been informed about the verdict on what had happened, but I didn’t know how serious they thought it was.

“We’ll review what happened and talk to the team, okay? Other than that... I only have congratulations for you, Capri. Big and heartfelt congratulations. What you did out there today was priceless,” Franz smiled, trying to cheer me up. I smiled back with tight lips, knowing I had a long write-up about my perspective on the race waiting for the press.

"It would’ve been way better if I had just overtaken Max and hadn’t frozen up like that," I thought while smiling. And a few hours later, that’s all I could think about, sitting on the bed in my hotel room, wearing the dress Laila and Mick had bought me for the after-race party. My hair was a mess and my face was hiding a bitter mix of guilt, disappointment, and pain.

I didn’t want to sleep that night. If the memories came while I was wide awake and lucid, I couldn’t imagine how they’d hit me in my dreams. But I also couldn’t bring myself to sit in a corner of the room in silence and relive that moment over and over again involuntarily. Training all night would kill me, not to mention I doubted they’d let me use the hotel gym all night. Walking until dawn wasn’t an option either, so I looked at the champagne bottle that had been brought to my room as a congratulatory gift and opened it, still in the dress, hair undone. I took a long gulp, holding my breath, until I felt it was enough. Half the bottle was already in my system.

I turned on my phone and called Mick.

“The dress is beautiful,” I said when he answered. “But I won’t be able to wear it if you don’t send me the party address.”

“Are you serious? I’ll send it right now. Want us to pick you up?” he asked excitedly.

“I’ll let you know when I get there. See you soon,” I hung up and took off the dress to shower. I wasn’t ready to face this night alone.

If there was one thing that made me feel like I didn’t belong in the world of racing drivers, it was the excessive, grotesque luxury they all lived in. The watches, the brands, the outfits, the attitude, the houses, the apartments, the parties, the cars. Insanely fast machines that spent most of their time locked away in garages because they were too expensive to drive, waiting for extravagant parties to make their grand appearances.

When Mick sent me the address, I didn’t hesitate to look it up first. It wasn’t a nightclub, nor an event hall—something in between. It was the top floor of one of the most luxurious buildings in the city, with a view of everything and a huge rooftop. After my shower, I called a cab, and when I arrived, the street was overflowing with luxury and high-end cars.

A racing driver’s salary depended on performance and team, and ranged in the high six or seven figures. Most blew it all on extravagance, and while I wasn’t exactly an exception, I still wasn’t fully aware of how much I earned—partly because I preferred to donate to charity, and partly because I didn’t manage my accounts. After a long debate, Jean and I agreed on hiring a financial advisor to handle that. I did have a lifestyle to maintain alongside my career, but I didn’t need the other things most drivers relied on—like their carefully crafted image.

I couldn’t deny it felt weird getting out of a taxi on a street corner while everyone entering the building stepped out of absurdly expensive sports cars. But I had nothing to prove—I was just one of the crowd tonight, and my goal was to keep the tormenting thoughts at bay. As long as I kept them away, I could handle this.

Lewis Hamilton stepped out of his iconic Ferrari and handed the keys to the valet while discreetly smiling at a few cameras. I could tell he thought I was a fan trying to get a picture with him as we entered, but when I didn’t follow the expected script, the moment turned awkward. At the reception, Mick was waiting to hand me my VIP pass. There wasn’t a word strong enough to express how much I hated all of this.

“Laila’s upstairs,” he warned me as he put the wristband on and greeted Lewis, who waited for him to go up in the elevator. I got through security quickly and followed the two drivers. “Lewis, this is...”

“America,” I jumped in, seeing the uncertainty in Mick’s eyes.

“Pleasure,” said Lewis with a smile, shaking my hand. “Have we met before?” he asked, frowning as he studied my face in the elevator.

“I’ve worked for AlphaTauri for a few years,” I admitted.

“Oh, cool. They’re having quite a season. Congrats on today, by the way. Persson never ceases to impress,” he praised, and Mick had to hide his smile by looking ahead.

“Yeah, he’s really good,” I nodded. “But he could’ve finished first today.”

“I don’t know if my contract allows me to say this, but between us, I think Capri Persson is one of the best drivers out there right now,” Mick added warmly, and Lewis laughed like it was a joke. I glanced at Mick, a bit confused, and he winked at me. Sometimes Mick’s warmth and innocence were exactly what this harsh world needed.

The three of us walked down a hallway to the party, and we could hear the music from three floors down in the elevator. Greetings and praise came quickly for both drivers. Today’s podium had been special—after the photo with the trophies (Max first, me second, Lewis third), an outlet had published an article titled: “Capri Persson and the End of the Verstappen-Hamilton Dispute.” In short, it talked about how my presence in AlphaTauri was widening the gap between the two drivers and teams, even leading to alliances to stop Persson’s meteoric rise. It was funny to read the circus that was sports and media journalism—how harsh they were on everyone and how dramatic their headlines were for mostly mediocre, often false stories. But I couldn’t deny that I’d read it again just to boost my mood and confidence after this rough streak.

Mick led me to Laila, and I was genuinely happy to see her. Even though it killed me that Mick had to lie to her about all this, he had accepted it was something he had to do and promised to keep the secret from the moment he agreed. That was probably the heaviest burden of all—that those who knew the truth had to lie so shamelessly to the rest of the world. But he kept saying it was something everyone agreed to for Capri.

“God, you look stunning in that dress,” Laila said, taking my hand to admire me.

“Me? Have you looked in a mirror? Laila, you look absolutely gorgeous,” I replied.

“Oh, don’t say that twice, you’ll boost my ego.”

“I’ll say it as many times as needed, babe. If Mick doesn’t treat you right, you know my number,” I joked, and Mick widened his eyes in mock surprise as we laughed.

“Could you two stop flirting in front of me?”

“Micky!” we heard someone yell through the crowd and music. With his iconic smile—better known as “the grid smile”—Daniel appeared, greeting people on his way to us.

“Danny!” Mick hugged him as soon as the Aussie reached us. “You know Laila,” he pointed to his girlfriend, and she greeted him. “This is America, she works for AlphaTauri.”

“I’m Daniel, but call me Danny,” he said, smiling as he looked at me, and when I offered my hand, he pulled me into a hug—or more like an awkward shoulder bump. Someone else called for Mick, stealing his attention, and Laila told me to find her later to dance as she walked away with him. Danny leaned toward me.

“How have I never seen you around? There are always engineers, mechanics, drivers, assistants... Are you new?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’ve worked with the team for a while, but I don’t usually come to places like this.”

“What’s your role?” he asked, nearly shouting over the music.

“Assistant.”

“To...?” Daniel frowned.

“Capri Persson,” I answered confidently. That was the story the world believed about America, and that was the story I had to maintain—at least for now. Daniel made a funny face, sympathizing with me before laughing.

“Rough day?” he asked, amused.

“Horrible,” I confessed, and somehow it was extremely easy to talk to Daniel.

“Let me take care of that,” he licked his lips and smiled mischievously. “May I?” he asked, taking my hand, and for a moment, I panicked about what might happen next. Half a bottle of champagne had brought me here, and now I was questioning whether it was a good idea to mix my low alcohol tolerance with my blind obsession with bad decisions. But Daniel was a gentleman when he asked if he could take my hand and pull me to the bar.

“For an assistant, you still have a lot of hair—and very beautiful hair, by the way” he joked, and I nodded. I had indeed suffered major hair loss that winter.

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“No?” he raised an eyebrow. “Order whatever you want, it’s on the house,” he offered, and though I hesitated, I couldn’t resist.

“Something strong,” I told the bartender, raising my voice over the music, and turned back to Daniel. “Capri’s not a monster,” I added.

“You know him?”

“I guess,” he smiled without showing his teeth, and our drinks were placed on the bar. Thinking about Capri made me think of Abu Dhabi, of that afternoon. Thinking of Capri meant thinking of the second after Verstappen. It meant thinking about everything I had lost—and was still losing. It meant remembering the pain of the lonely winter and the anxiety in the car.

After a big gulp of whatever I had ordered, I didn’t want to think about Capri anymore. I didn’t want to think about racing, or drivers, or second place finishes, or panic attacks.

“Uhh, I love this song,” Danny exclaimed, moving his shoulders with joy, and I smiled.

“What are you waiting for?” I held out my hand, and Daniel smiled playfully as I pulled us to the dance floor, under the colorful lights and shiny disco balls. I didn’t recognize the song, but America didn’t need to recognize the song to dance. America didn’t hesitate to dance with strangers in public. America was fun, sarcastic, and outgoing. America didn’t think about racing or failure. America didn’t look much like Capri. And instead of thinking about the problems that created, I let go on a dance floor full of strangers—people I probably worked with every weekend—in a Melbourne club.

I don’t know how long we stayed in that time warp, dancing freely, face to face, without any physical or eye contact. We were both in our own little bubbles, feeling the effect of that first drink, yet never straying far from each other, like we had silently agreed to some unspoken deal. When the music softened, I gathered my hair in my hands to get it off my face and let my neck breathe.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the group,” Daniel whispered in my ear, and I froze. I wasn’t very interested in talking to anyone I competed with, and although Daniel was the exception—being Red Bull’s reserve driver this season—I didn’t plan to take things further. But I was slightly tipsy and needed air, so I didn’t mind taking his hand and letting him lead me to the big rooftop.

Outside, a fresh, soothing breeze wrapped around me like a blanket in bed, and I breathed deeply, following Daniel toward a more private area of the venue—couches arranged in circles, a VIP bar, and a space full of drivers, mechanics, and people from the business.

“Danny!” someone called out excitedly—and I immediately recognized the voice.

It was Pierre.

“Pierre Gasly!” Daniel exclaimed with a laugh, and everyone turned to look at us. Daniel was still holding my hand over his, and when Pierre approached us, he gave me a curious and confused look.

“I know I know you,” he said, squinting at me.

“That was fast,” Carlos laughed, pointing at our joined hands. He immediately held out his open hand to Checo Pérez, who shook his head and pulled out a few bills to hand over. “Ricciardo first to fall. You never disappoint, Danny. You just made me a few bucks.”

“No, no. It’s not like that—this is América,” he said, unlinking our hands and placing his on my back. Now it was Checo who held his hand out to Carlos to get his money back. “She’s Persson’s assistant.”

“Of course!” Pierre said with a smile. “Sorry, must be the alcohol—I didn’t recognize you,” he said, stepping forward to greet me.

“Persson?” Lando frowned, seated next to Carlos.

“Can you believe it?” Danny laughed.

“There are some bad jobs out there, but choosing to be Capri Persson’s assistant… that takes guts,” Charles admitted, leaning toward us to offer me his hand. “Charles, nice to meet you.”

“Hard not to know,” I smiled back. “You were pretty easy today.”

“Oh, she knows her stuff,” Carlos joked. “Carlos, but you can call me whatever you like. I already like you a lot,” he added, also reaching out to shake my hand. I pressed my lips together with a smile. “Come, sit with us. We need to interrogate you about Persson.”

“Leave her alone. Can’t you see she needs a break?” I heard from behind me and quickly turned around at the sound of her voice. Carmen smiled at me and came over to hug me in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Am.”

“Thanks, again,” I sighed, and she waved it off with a flick of her hand.

“Well then…” Daniel interrupted. “Where’s the champ?!” he exclaimed, and a change in the lights signaled his arrival. Everything happened quickly, and seconds later Max stepped onto the rooftop with the trophy in hand, and everyone clapped and praised him.

I stood frozen right there. América couldn’t help it. Nothing and no one could stop it. Because there was a bitter feeling in my chest and the memory of my hands tingling in the cockpit and that night in Abu Dhabi watching the car burn in front of my eyes, just meters from the finish line, watching the streamers fall on the track and the fireworks explode in the dark sky over the champion.

Male ego was one thing. It completely thrived in a competition like this. They would all yell, stomp, and complain if necessary. That male ego was so shallow and praised that no one would ever dare to crush it. But female disappointment was something far more powerful.

Male ego created drivers filled with rage and ambition, ready to destroy every piece of their car if they lost. But female disappointment—my female disappointment—watched my car burn in flames while the man crossed the finish line. This female disappointment observed and brewed in silence; it was stealthy, not aggressive nor obvious. This disappointment killed you slowly and painfully, only to leave you dying in the ashes from which it forced you to rise again. There was no rage or ambition—only the crack and grief of my disappointment.

And there I was. Feeling the flames of that female disappointment burning inside me. That winter had completely consumed me, and I had gathered every ash with what was left of my soul to rebuild myself in solitude and coldness. But now I could feel the phoenix flames of my disappointment stretching out as I watched him walk past me with that smile, that trophy, and that… male ego.

I don’t know what I would do if I don’t win this championship. But that night, I knew exactly what I would do, because I didn’t want to return alone to that hotel room, sunk in memories and disappointment from a grief I thought I had already overcome.

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