Chapter Text
The next races are, thankfully, uneventful.
In Imola, Ewa brings home a solid P5 in the Sprint and a P4 in the Race—no drama, no crashes, just clean, consistent driving. Miami is a bit messier, but she still manages P5, which is enough to push her up to third in the championship standings.
Not bad for a rookie.
Which, of course, means she’s not allowed to enjoy it in peace. In Imola, she's bombarded with questions about her “little party moment” after Australia. Every press conference, every interview—same smirks, same loaded questions. The PR team makes her give a vague, carefully-worded answer that she rehearses until she could say it in her sleep.
Then comes Miami, and with it… whatever that awkward driver parade was supposed to be. She still doesn’t fully understand what happened—just that she had to wear a helmet covered in sponsor logos while standing next to a rapper she didn’t recognize and a giant inflatable flamingo that she pretended didn’t exist.
It’s safe to say that the week off before Spain is more than deserved.
Which ends up not being as relaxing as she’d hoped.
Her phone buzzes with messages from old friends back in Poland—people she hasn’t seen in months. They ask when she’s coming home, if she’s forgotten about them, if she’s too famous now to answer texts. She sends a few awkward replies, says she’ll visit in the summer. They heart the messages, but she knows they don’t really get it.
They’re going to school. Throwing parties. Doing teenager things.
And her? She’s training every morning, flying across continents, getting dragged through press lines and sim sessions and debriefs. She’s fifteen and can legally drive a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers an hour—but not a scooter in her own country.
The absurdity of it all would be funny if it didn’t make her feel so completely out of place.
And it’s not just her friends.
The drivers say she belongs. The media says she’s holding her own. Even Vito tells her she’s “doing great” with a proud grin when she passes him in the paddock.
But she still feels like a guest.
They’re all older. Richer. Sharper around the edges. They’ve been teammates, rivals, legends in the making since karting.
She’s just… Ewa.
Jan’s daughter. Vito’s godchild. The kid who still gets asked for her age when she tries to check into a hotel alone.
And the worst part is—she starts trying to change that.
In Spain, she watches how the other drivers handle interviews. Calm. Detached. A little boring, maybe, but polished. Like nothing can touch them.
So she tries to match it.
During media day, she listens carefully to how the other drivers answer questions—calm, polished, a bit dull—and tries to mimic their style.
But she gets so wrapped up in
how
she’s speaking that she barely registers
what
she’s saying.
Half her answers come out half-baked, confusing, or just plain strange. The journalists give her puzzled looks.
Sebastian, sitting next to her at the press conference, gives her a quiet side-glance that feels a lot like concern.
“What was that all about?” he asks the moment it ends.
“It was nothing,” she mutters, brushing him off with a shrug, eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
“You sure? You seemed a little nervous… and kind of all over the place.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another shrug. More deflection.
Then she turns and walks away, not wanting him—or anyone—to see through the carefully constructed
I’m just a chill guy
mask she’s wearing like armor.
She doesn’t talk about how she’s feeling.
Not to Sebastian, not to the team, not even to herself, really.
She just keeps up the same laid-back, too-cool-for-this attitude she’s known for, brushing off any concern with a joke or a smirk. But inside, it still feels like something’s off.
And it shows on track.
Qualifying lands her in P7. Not terrible. Not amazing. Just… meh.
The team seems satisfied enough, but she knows she wasn’t driving at her best.
And then Sunday comes.
Lap one, turn four—she’s too distracted.
Trying to defend her position while overthinking every move, she misjudges her braking zone and clips the back of Lewis Hamilton’s car.
It’s not a massive crash—thank God—but it’s enough to send her bouncing off into the gravel, tires spinning, the whole field flying past her.
By the time she gets the car under control, she’s dead last. Dead. Last.
The rest of the race is a desperate attempt to claw her way back up the order. She fights hard, overtakes where she can, tries to keep her head down—but the pace just isn’t there.
She’s in her own head too much, second-guessing everything.
She manages to climb up to P14 by the time she heads in for her final stop.
And then comes the cherry on top: a five-second time penalty for speeding in the pit lane.
By the time the checkered flag waves, she’s in P16.
No points. No celebration. Just quiet frustration and a headache she can’t shake.
Back in the garage, she hides behind the data screens and drinks her water in silence, pretending it doesn’t bother her.
But it does.
She keeps her answers short. Says the right things. Doesn’t flinch when they ask about the contact with Lewis or the pit lane penalty. Doesn’t smile either.
The media want soundbites. She gives them static.
While waiting for her Sky Sports interview, she finds herself next to Charles, who’s slumped against the wall, still wearing his cap low and looking about as done as she feels.
“Nice day at the office,” he mutters, catching her eye.
She huffs a laugh, soft and humorless. “Didn’t think I’d be fighting you for worst day award.”
He glances over at her. “You okay?”
Ewa shrugs, playing with the sleeve of her suit. “Just one of those weekends, I guess.”
Charles doesn’t push. He nods, looks back at the screen across the room showing race highlights. They both wince when the footage cuts to her car hitting Lewis.
Silence again.
“Hey,” he says after a beat, quieter this time. “You know this doesn’t mean you don’t belong, right?”
That one almost gets to her.
She gives another shrug, this one more defensive. “Sure.”
But he doesn’t say anything else, and that’s good.
Because if he had, she might’ve actually said what she was thinking.
And she’s not ready for that.
The silence in the car isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Ewa stares out the window, one leg curled up on the seat, helmet bag still on her lap. Her dad is focused on the road, but she knows he’s been watching her out of the corner of his eye since they left the track.
They’ve barely driven five minutes when he finally speaks.
“What happened today?”
She doesn’t answer at first. Not because she doesn’t have an answer, but because she isn’t sure how to explain any of it without sounding pathetic.
“Bad day,” she mutters.
“Ewa,” he says, voice flat, but not unkind. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
She stays quiet again.
He lets it sit for a second, then sighs.
“You’ve been off since before Spain. You barely made eye contact all weekend. And that media conference? I’ve seen you handle worse. Something’s going on.”
She clenches her jaw. Tries to pretend like the knot in her stomach isn’t tightening again.
“I’m fine,” she finally says, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.
Her dad scoffs under his breath. “You might be able to fool Vito or the others, but not me.”
That shuts her up properly. Because he’s right, and they both know it.
After another pause, he adds, “You’re overthinking again.”
She sighs. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” he cuts in. “I know that look. The same one you had during your karting years when you started worrying about what everyone else was doing instead of just driving.”
She leans her head against the window. “I just… don’t want to mess it up.”
“Well, you are messing it up by trying to be someone you’re not.”
That stings more than she thought it would.
He must notice, because his tone softens slightly. “Look. You want to stop spiraling? Then do what you did in Jeddah.”
She blinks. “You mean the whole ‘mental bubble’ thing?”
“Exactly,” he says. “That’s when you were at your best. You tuned out the noise, focused on the racing. That’s what you need to do now. Forget what the other drivers sound like in interviews. Forget the fans, the press, even me and Vito.”
His eyes flick to her, just for a second. “Just drive. Like you used to.”
For a moment, she just stares ahead, processing it.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe she just needs to remember who she is — not who she thinks she’s supposed to be.