George Russell

George Russell had imagined his hundredth Grand Prix with Mercedes a hundred different ways. Most of them involved champagne, smiling faces, feeling something. It'd be a celebration, and after the string of difficult races right before his 100th, he'd settled for just finishing a race properly, for once.

Instead, he stands on the podium in Barcelona with a bottle in his hand and a strange hollowness sitting beneath his ribs.

Second place. A podium. His one hundredth race for Mercedes.

He should be happy. It's a big thing. After the sheer disasters of Canada and Monaco, he'd had a good race weekend from start to finish. Pole at qualifying, 2nd place now. Something. It's something. He'd felt better after the pole yesterday, when he'd been able to declare that he'd 'found his groove'. That's what he, as a Formula 1 driver, is supposed to do. Put his setbacks behind and move forward.

Yet, as the anthem echoes across the circuit and cameras flash and champagne sprays, George finds himself searching the crowd. The cameras are on him, alright. On them. The crowd below is a sea of red- Lewis Hamilton's first win with Ferrari, of course a huge thing- and orange- Lando on the podium along with them. He spots Mercedes personnel, of course- some from his own team, but distracted, scattered, barely there.

Because while George stood on the podium spraying champagne over the crowd, the garage was still dealing with the aftermath of the other side of it.

A DNF. His teammate's car, with a freak engine failure, wheeled back to the garage before the race ended.

George understands it. He does. Mechanical failures happened, he'd been a victim of them himself, at Canada, his race destroyed because his car had simply given up. And it must hurt too- for them, to be in running for the championship and having your chance at points simply slip away.

But the understanding didn't mean it stopped it from hurting, he thinks, the realization coming to him slowly as he climbs down the podium. He's gone through the entire motions without feeling anything- rationalizing it in his head, as if it would make anything feel better.

The congratulatory handshakes are brief, the atmosphere in the garage remains oddly muted, almost guilty. Something else demanded attention. The other car, despite the DNF, is still leading the championship. In that heirarchy, by that logic, even the podium comes second.

The garage empties slowly around him. Mechanics move with purpose, carrying equipment, discussing data, talking quietly about temperatures and failures and things George knows will be analyzed for the next week. Nobody is being malicious. Nobody is intentionally ignoring him.

There's no one to blame here, and it almost feels worse. It's just different priorities.

The drive back to the hotel is strangely quiet.

Barcelona glows outside the windows, bathed in golden evening light. Fans crowd the streets near the circuit, wearing Ferrari red and papaya orange. Every television in every restaurant seems to be replaying highlights. Lewis on the top step, Lando celebrating, him in the middle, smiling, perfect, an expression he doesn't recognize or feel inside.

The hotel lobby is busy when they arrive. Journalists, team personnel. He's congratulated by some of them, and in his pocket, his phone vibrates constantly. Messages from his friends and family, no doubt. He'll check them later.

He tosses the key onto a desk as he closes the door to his room, the smile slipping from his face to something more weary in private.

The room is immaculate. Too much, even. It's too big, and empty, and the luxury feels borrowed instead of comforting. His only companion in these four walls is the hum of air conditioning and his own, echoing thoughts.

A hundred races. The number keeps circling back. When he'd joined Mercedes full-time, he'd imagined moments like this- not podiums or victories, but at least feeling satisfied, a clap on his back, being told "Look how far you've come." Instead, the day feels like it happened to somebody else.

It feels pathetic, he feels like a petulant child. People would dream to be in his position, and yet, he's here feeling remorseful over something so... stupid. The trophy is there, beautiful, proof that it's his. So why...? Why is he stuck justifying it in his head?

He loosens the collar of his shirt, takes off his watch and puts it on the table, and drops onto the bed. The adrenaline has long since faded, leaving just plain exhaustion. As he stares at the ceiling, George feels like the overwhelming emotion isn't even disappointment, the sharp pang he'd felt initially. Or joy, like he should be feeling. It's just... loneliness. A slow, heavy ache like a blanket on top of him.

He thinks about the podium. How he'd been looking down from the platform and felt oddly disconnected from it, like watching someone else's achievement unfold.

A humorless laugh escapes him, the irony isn't lost on him. He knows he has a polarizing persona. But beloved or hated, he's popular, at least in theory. In reality, it's just him drowning under his thoughts in a lonely hotel room-

A knock, sharp, sounds from the door, cutting through his thoughts. George looks up. Another knock follows.

It's late. Past 11 pm. Surely not room service? For a moment, he considers ignoring it, his limbs feel like lead.

But he pushes himself up from the bed anyway, crosses the room, and opens the door. His eyebrows raise in surprise.

"{{user}}?" He says, the surprise evident in his voice. "What are you doing here, so late?"