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“Congratulations on your race result today! P3 after such a challenging season is surely a feat to be proud of.”
Lewis waved to the fans behind the reporter and nodded, “Definitely, huge thanks to the team. The car’s problems have really sorted itself out and we’re back stronger than ever.”
Lewis was exhausted. Canada was a rush of endorphins but— after waking up early to review data and going to sleep late after simulations— he was done. All that was left was answering a few media questions and chatting with Toto before he could pass out. At least the champagne spraying with Max and Carlos was done. He was sticky and satiated.
“Can you talk about what happened during lap 30 with your overtake of Perez to get into a podium position? Do you think he failed to leave you the space necessary for a safe bypass?” The reporter asked eagerly. She was young, with a shiny SkySports media badge and a youthful enthusiasm about her. She was also one of the only women in the entire paddock so Lewis swallowed down his annoyance at the pointed question and smiled politely instead.
“Well that’s racing for you. It’s not going to be pretty every time and I wouldn’t expect him to get out of the way without a fight. As for the strategy we used, I think switching to those hard tyres during the safety—”
A sharp, full laugh resounded around the shaded area, amongst the overlapping conversations of the circuit, and Lewis’ words dropped off.
It had been so long since that sound was directed at him but, it didn’t matter how far they drifted, he would recognize that laugh anywhere. Lewis turned to see the familiar head of blonde hair walking past the media pen, surrounded by a small group of friends, and promptly forgot whatever it was that he was about to say.
Fucking hell.
Nico was back in the paddock. Well, Nico had really never left— as he had joined Sky soon after retirement— but this time he was outside of the designated press area and was vlogging again. That wasn’t good.
Lewis could deal with awkward small talk in Monaco elevators. He could stand hearing reporters and mechanics talking about Nico amongst themselves when he was around. He was even able to bear the constant comparisons that fans drew about his relationship between other drivers with his and Nico’s ex friendship. He could do this because the 15 years of experience Lewis had in this sport allowed him to compartmentalize and separate “race” from “not race.”
But if Nico was going to set up shop in the Mercedes garage again— where Lewis could hear him talking to his engineers and making comments about race strategies or outcomes again… where he would become indirectly involved in Lewis’ race again— Lewis would lose it.
“… I assume the switch to the hard tyre while everyone else slowed down for the safety car was the right move then?” The reporter smiled nervously, trying to get Lewis back on topic.
Afternoons wasted doing media training rushed back to him in a second and he turned back around, a blush high on his cheeks. “Sorry, got distracted there for a moment. Yes, tyres were great. Congrats to everyone in the garage and back at the factory. Thanks.”
Lewis nodded his head at the stunned reporter and made a hasty exit. She would be alright, he was sure that some camera had recorded his slip and there would be plenty of articles about “7-time World Champion, Lewis Hamilton, Awestruck Over Rival” to write tomorrow. But for now, a cold but comfortable hotel bed was calling his name.
~
In the coming days, Lewis forgot about the interaction. He and Daniel, and Daniel’s plethora of nameless friends, had gone out to a club and the following headache had subsequently blocked out all thoughts (besides “painkillers, where were the painkillers?”). He went over data and he worked out. He walked Roscoe and he chatted with Angela. He went to bed early every day and he crushed the feelings of repetition and loneliness that threatened to come up whenever his mind wasn’t occupied.
He wasn’t lonely by chance, but rather by choice. It was too much work— with all the traveling and training— to keep a steady girlfriend or have a healthy relationship, and all of his real friends were back home in England. Sure he had fair weather friends that he could go out with in every city, but friends who knew him? Friends who were also drivers? Yeah, those were few and far between. There was Daniel (if the activity was loud), Valtteri (if the activity was quiet), Seb (if there was no activity), and sometimes George. That was it.
It was times like these when Lewis had to work especially hard to keep Nico off of his mind. A blossoming childhood friendship crushed under the vines of competition and the innate need to be the best certainly left things without closure. If one thing had been different— if he never joined Mercedes or they didn’t let the pressure of being teammates get to them— would everything be different today? But it didn’t do to dwell on the past. If he never joined Mercedes, he wouldn’t be a multi-world champion. It wasn’t his fault that tensions rose to the heights that they did. He didn’t need racing friends anyway, he had Roscoe, and he forgot about it once more.
~
The British Grand Prix was underway and Lewis was buzzing with adrenaline. He was still hesitant about the safety of the car, but the new speed was able to push those thoughts away and all he could focus on was the feeling of the roaring engine. Plus, he was back home— the Silverstone crowds were cheering for him and the home air wrapped him with confidence.
He was sitting in P5 currently but they were only on lap 15 and, with Ferrari’s reliability, he was waiting for a 2 position gain after a couple of DNFs. As usual, his focus was strictly on the track in front of him and the occasional comment from Bono in his ear, but the sudden waving of red flags from the walls next to him and his race engineer telling him to come into the pit lane sent an unfamiliar chill down his spine.
“What’s going on, man? What happened?” Lewis immediately questioned when Toto came onto his radio and told him to step out of the car. He took his helmet off when he saw George without his, staring at the TVs in the garage with a worried expression.
Nico was in the garage too, standing far enough away to not disturb the mechanics but vlogging the entire thing. He spoke quietly to the camera, widened eyes and rapid words. But Lewis tore his eyes away from him when Toto pointed up at the screen.
“Latifi had a bad crash into the barriers. Apparently, the Williams’ experienced tyre failure and he lost control of the car,” the team principal said. His usual collected demeanor was slightly askew and the mechanics took that as a sign to start checking the team’s own tyres.
Shit. As if Silverstone crashes weren’t bad enough for Lewis, tyre failure here brought back more memories for Lewis. The 2020 Grand Prix flashed before his eyes— a win clinched in the last few laps but with a massive drop in pace and a jittery, easy to mess up car. With the performance of this year’s Mercedes, Lewis didn’t put it past the W13 to experience a similar fate if the same problem occurred again.
Lewis hadn’t felt this kind of uneasiness in a long time. He had been in rule-defying cars for well over a decade and the nagging, subconscious reminder that he was putting his life on the line every weekend had faded to near-nothing at this point.
But the panic attacks had remained.
They usually weren’t racing related and they had definitely calmed down in the last few years as he learned to ignore all the cowardly comments press and “fans” made, but they weren’t completely gone. The episodes— often related to an accidental hate comment spiral he went down— manifested themselves in Lewis snapping at Angela for bringing the wrong brand of vegan noodles and then breaking down after seeing the surprise on her face. She was the only one who knew what signs to look out for.
Well, not the only one.
Nico also knew. A byproduct of growing up alongside one another and experiencing everything from first wins to first insults at the same time was learning how to read the other, below the surface. While the two had been karting together, Lewis learned about Nico’s anxiety and— though Lewis had always been told that sharing weaknesses was a way for others to harm you— he trusted the other boy enough to reveal all his flaws, too. So they helped each other, through their teenage years and during their rookie F1 seasons and even during the early years as teammates.
But then Lewis started winning… a lot. And the praise started flowing in overwhelming amounts. And Lewis had to buy a new bookshelf with his fancy new paycheck to hold all of his race trophies. The panic attacks all but went away and, with it, his best friend.
Correlation not causation, sure. Didn’t stop it from hurting any less.
So, when Lewis watched the crash replay on the twenty monitors of the Mercedes garage, the pit in his stomach and the muscle tension were unfamiliar in the way one forgot a childhood bully. It takes a second to remember at first but, give it a couple minutes, and the feelings will come flooding back.
Fuck, where was Angela?
The physiotherapist was always at his side and Lewis realized he took that for granted every time she wasn’t within a 20 foot radius of him. In theory, Lewis knew that she had other priorities— hell, she was married with children. She was probably on a call with her family or talking to the other trainers, sharing and learning from each other.
All the mechanics and engineers were busy, making sure the car was in good condition and rethinking strategies to account for the lost time, George had left to go check on his old team, and all the cameras were directed at the track. No one was watching Lewis.
He calmly walked behind one of the walls, took his hair out of the little bun, swallowed the bile rising up in his throat, and attempted to breathe the way Angela showed him. Eyes closed, mind blank, in for 5 and out for 7. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there (though, in reality, it was probably just around a minute), leaning against the cool material; he wasn’t feeling any better and, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he flinched hard, eyes flying open.
It was Nico.
Not the Nico that Lewis built up in his head— with an arrogant grin and boastful personality, thriving under his former teammate’s terrible season— but a Nico with an unsure expression and a hesitant voice.
“I wasn’t sure if you would want to see me, but I saw your reaction to the crash and I knew that you would probably start overthinking and getting in your head. I tried to look for Angela first, I assume she would also know how to handle this, but she was somewhere else. I don’t know. I get that I’m probably not supposed to be here— you can tell me to ‘fuck off’ if you want, I wouldn’t blame you— but… you look like you need someone. And I’m someone. Someone who knows you. Someone who can still help, I hope,” Nico rambled, before finally shutting up with a small shrug.
Lewis stared at him during his impromptu speech, eyebrows raised and jaw slightly dropped. Tears welled in eyes— from the anxiety setting in or from the confession, he didn’t know (but he would swear under oath that it wasn’t Nico).
Fuck it.
He stepped forward and buried his face in the crook of the German’s neck, hands clutching the expensive linen shirt he was wearing. The spicy cologne was different than what it used to be all those years ago but the warmth was familiar as ever. Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him infinitely closer. The blonde had an inch on him and, though he never failed to hold it over Lewis when they were younger, Lewis had never been more thankful for how it allowed him to rest his chin comfortably on the other’s shoulder.
They stood there, wrapped up in each other, until Bono came running in, urgently waving him back to the garage to get into the car and go back out onto the track, before suspiciously regarding Nico and heading back to his desk. The crash had been cleared up— Latifi was okay— and the FiA had given the green light to go back.
It was a miracle how much better Lewis felt; his heartbeat was back to normal, thoughts refocused on the race. If Bono thought anything odd of the somewhat compromising position he found the racers in, he didn’t comment on it. God bless that man.
Lewis looked up at Nico, leaning back slightly, with a small smile.
“Thank you, man. Really. I feel a lot better, I appreciate it,” Lewis said, quietly. He pulled up the racing suit from where it was tied around his waist and started stretching his arms, feeling the race flowing through his blood again. “I’ll see you after the race?”
“Yeah,” Nico paused, Lewis continued his preparations but didn’t walk back to the car. “Would you— would you want to come back with me? After the race, I mean. I’m here with a couple of friends and we planned on grabbing dinner… if you want to join?”
Lewis smiled a real smile this time, all laugh lines and gap-toothed. “I would really like that, man. Catch up with you in a bit.”
~
Lewis ended up second at his home Grand Prix.
It was the best result he could’ve hoped for but the highlight of his day wasn’t the podium and the cheers, it was the dazzling smile he received that night at dinner. It was stumbling to the team hotel at 3 in the morning, reminiscing about two boys and their youthful naivety. It was the hard conversations that were recounted at 6 a.m., both definitely too sleep-hazy for such seriousness but wanting to get everything out in the open. It was falling asleep in the same hotel room again, just like 2013, just like Greece, just like karting.
Statistically, it was the worst season of Lewis’ career (with only one measly win scraped by at Austin), but when he got to ring in the New Year with his best friend in Monaco, fireworks exploding all around, he couldn’t help but to count it as one of his favorites.