Forgotten on the Grid

Miami GP weekend

The Ferrari garage hums with energy—air guns clicking, telemetry screens alive with data, the scent of rubber and heat hanging in the air like tension before a storm. It's Friday in Miami, just after FP2, and I shouldn't be nervous. I'm not driving this weekend. I'm just here—part of the Ferrari Driver Academy. Supposedly.

Seb walks ahead of me, nodding politely at old faces, his old team. I follow a step behind. It's like walking next to royalty. Everyone lights up when they see him.

"Seb, welcome back!"
"Legend—how long are you staying?"
"Still remember where we keep the good coffee?"

There's laughter. Shoulder pats. Smiles. And none of them are for me.

I linger at the edge of the garage, trying not to feel out of place. I have the pass around my neck—Ferrari red, Driver Academy badge hanging just below my chin. It should mean something. But it feels like paper and plastic. No one even asks my name.

Someone brushes past me to offer Seb an espresso. Another team member jokes about how they should put his name back on the car.

I look up at the monitors instead, pretending to study Charles' lap data. I'm good at pretending I'm busy. Good at pretending I belong.

A quiet voice interrupts my spiral. "You've got your badge on backwards."

I glance over. Dino. He's leaning casually against the wall near the back of the garage, hands in his pockets, smirking. No Prema shirt today—just jeans and a plain white tee, his own badge tucked under his jacket. Just here as an observer like me.

I roll my eyes and flip my lanyard. "Thanks."

"Don't worry," he adds, softer. "They didn't talk to me the first year either."

I smile a little, but it fades just as quickly when I catch sight of Arvid across the paddock, dressed head-to-toe in Red Bull navy, joking with a group of people like he owns the place. Everyone gravitates toward him, like it's easy.

Everything's easy for him.

A soft hand touches my shoulder. Seb.

"Come with me," he says, his voice low.

He leads me to a quieter corner of the garage, behind the engineers' station, away from the noise.

"You alright?" he asks, eyes searching mine.

"I'm fine," I lie, because I'm used to it.

He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't press. Instead, he glances over his shoulder toward the crew that just brushed past me without a second glance. His voice drops, measured. "They're caught up in the past."

"I'm invisible," I mutter.

"No," Seb says, gently but firmly. "You're just early. They don't see you yet—but they will."

I look at him and, for a second, I believe it. Not because the garage suddenly turns toward me, or because the badge suddenly starts glowing with importance—but because Seb says it like it's already fact.

And Seb doesn't say things he doesn't mean.

—————

It's worse than I imagined.

The grid on race day is a zoo—hot, chaotic, crammed full of people with egos larger than their paddock passes. Heat radiates off the tarmac, and the air smells like rubber, perfume, and money. Cameras dart in every direction, hunting for a famous face. Someone brushes against my shoulder and doesn't even look back.

I try to stay close to Seb. That was the plan—stick by him, blend in, let the world see I belong here, even just for a moment. But the second we step onto the grid, he's gone.

Not gone, exactly. Just... absorbed.

"Sebastian! Look this way!"
"Quick quote for RTL?"
"Seb, just one photo—stand between Charles and Carlos!"
"Mr. Vettel—over here, sir!"

The wall of people around him grows thicker. I don't want to push. I don't want to shout. I try to stay patient, try to look calm, but I'm already losing sight of him.

A Red Bull content team walks past. Someone with a clipboard shouts into a headset. Photographers squat low for the perfect grid shot and stand without warning, nearly knocking me off balance. I step sideways to avoid them—and just like that, Seb is swallowed completely by the crowd.

I pause for a second, scanning for his familiar profile. Nothing. My badge might as well be invisible.

A woman in stilettos walks straight into me, doesn't apologize. I mumble something and move to the side. I keep trying to weave my way out, but every direction is more bodies, more elbows. I'm stuck.

"Need a rescue?"

The voice is warm, light, and just familiar enough to make me look up. Paul Aron stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets like he's got all the time in the world.

I exhale. "You have no idea."

He laughs gently and gestures with his head. "Come on, let's get you out of the traffic jam."

I follow him through the gaps in the crowd, neither of us saying much at first. He doesn't rush, just guides—making space, nodding to people he knows, casually moving through a grid that still feels like a battlefield to me.

We stop near the rear of the pit wall, out of the spotlight but still close enough to watch the whole thing unfold. I roll my shoulders, grateful to breathe again.

"Thanks," I say, brushing the hair off my face. "I lost Seb and got swallowed by the circus."

"Yeah," Paul replies, glancing back toward the crush of people. "He's the main attraction today. Again."

There's no bitterness in his voice—just honesty. Like he gets it.

I nod, slowly. "It's just weird. Being here, but not... really here."

Paul gives me a look—curious, not pitying. "You'd be surprised how many people feel that way on this grid."

"I'm not even in the car," I mutter. "Feels like I don't count."

"You do," he says, simply. "You just don't fit their narrative yet."

I blink. That feels like something Seb would say. But coming from someone my age, someone who's seen the same ladder from a few rungs up... it lands differently.

"You're Driver Academy, right?" he adds.

"Yeah."

"Then you're exactly where you need to be," Paul says. "You just haven't been handed the mic yet."

He doesn't say it to make me feel better. He says it like it's a fact.

I nod, more to myself than to him. A mechanic brushes past with a set of tires and we both step aside instinctively. The race start is minutes away.

"You watching from the garage?" he asks.

I shrug. "Wherever there's space, I guess."

"Well, if you end up near the Red Bull side, try not to cheer too loudly," he smirks.

I smirk back. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"See you around, Lydia."

He walks off before I can reply, disappearing into the blur of race day like he was never stuck in it to begin with. I turn back toward the Ferrari garage, still alone, still unnoticed—but somehow, not quite invisible anymore.