77

Marianna POV

Duane comes to the motorhome straight from the podium, still with champagne in his hair, and sits on the treatment table. He doesn't mention the P3. Doesn't mention the shoulder, either, except to answer my questions accurately.

The AC joint has held up better than I expected. The inflammation is significant but not structural, no new instability in the joint line, and the taping has done its job well enough that I feel something close to professional satisfaction looking at it. The neck is tighter than this morning—forty-odd laps of high-G cornering with a compromised shoulder girdle will do that—and I spend extra time on the suboccipitals, pressing slow circles into the base of his skull while he sits very still and breathes through it.

"The split strategy worked," I say.

"Mm."

"Patrick will want to know your assessment of the tire behavior in the last stint."

"I'll debrief in the morning."

"It's a long drive to the airport."

"I'm not driving," he says. "Henri is."

"Henri is a gift to this world."

"He'd be horrified to hear you say so."

I finish the neck work and move to the upper trapezius, which has been carrying extra load since Silverstone Turn 3 yesterday. Under my hands it's the texture of something that has been working very hard for a very long time, and I work through it carefully, following the muscle fiber direction the way I've learned to, reading the tissue the way he taught me to read his silences—by paying attention to what it's doing rather than what it says it's doing.

"Third is good," I say, eventually.

He doesn't answer right away. Outside, the motorhome is emptying out—I can hear the organized chaos of a team packing down after a race weekend, equipment cases being moved, voices in two languages crossing the corridor.

"Third with a seven-out-of-ten shoulder in mixed weather," I add.

"Eight," he says. "It was eight by lap twenty."

I pause. "You didn't tell them."

"It wasn't stop-the-car eight."

"You said you'd tell them—"

"If it was above eight," he says. "Eight is not above eight."

I look at the ceiling of the motorhome, which is white and offers no assistance. "This is a technicality."

"It's mathematics."

"Duane."

"The race was fine. The shoulder is fine. You're about to tell me it's not fine."

"It's not fine," I confirm. "It's manageable. Which is different." I resume working. "When you get to Belgium, find a pool. Forty-eight hours of aquatic therapy will do more for the inflammation than anything I can do with my hands right now. Cold water, fifteen minutes, three times a day."

"I know aquatic therapy protocols."

"Then do them, instead of just knowing them."

He makes the sound that means he heard me and is reserving the right to make his own decisions about it, which is as close to compliance as I'm probably going to get.

I finish the treatment. Step back. Look at him sitting on the table in the emptying motorhome, champagne dried in his hair, racing suit half-unzipped, the specific tired quality of someone who has spent their body's currency wisely today and is now checking the balance.

"Your flight's at nine," I say.

"Eight forty-five. Henri's already outside."

"Mine's not until six tomorrow morning." I start packing up the kit. "I'm staying at the circuit hotel tonight."

"I know." He watches me fold the towel, cap the massage oil, return the tools to their case in the order I've developed over a summer of doing this. "The team has a room reserved for you. Same manor house."

I look at him. "You arranged that."

"The team arranged it. As part of the Kinetic deployment."

"Duane."

"The team," he says firmly, "arranged it."

"Okay," I say. Let it go. "Thank you. The team."

He stands, rolling his shoulder experimentally the way he always does at the end of a session, taking the private inventory. Thirty-five degrees of external rotation—down from forty-five this morning, but under the circumstances, acceptable.

"You should go," I say. "Henri's waiting."

He looks at me across the small functional space of the motorhome treatment room. The champagne in his hair. The tape job visible at his collar. All the evidence of a Sunday that could have gone worse.

"I'll call from Spa," he says.

"I know."

He moves toward the door. Stops, hand on the frame.

"Marianna."

"Yes."

He doesn't turn around. Just stands there for a moment, and I've learned enough of his grammar to understand that sometimes the things he most wants to say arrive last, when he's already leaving, when there's a door between him and having to watch someone receive them.

"Thank you," he says. "For coming."

"It's my job," I say.

He nods once. Goes.

The manor house room is smaller than Montreal, which I find I prefer. The view is a garden rather than a river, dark now, the topiary shapes just visible in the low security lighting. Someone has left the bedside lamp on, which makes the room warm and specific, the kind of lamp light that's friendly to people who arrive tired and need somewhere safe to land.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Take stock.

My shoulder is fine, which is a stupid thing to assess about yourself when you've spent the day thinking about someone else's, but my body apparently wants acknowledgment. My feet hurt from standing for most of a race on concrete. My brain is doing that post-adrenaline thing where it runs slower and louder simultaneously, thoughts moving through treacle, too many of them present at once.

I text Jill: He podiumed. Shoulder held. I'm in England in a very nice room with a lamp someone thoughtfully left on.

Jill: The lamp detail is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that message

Me: It's a good lamp.

Jill: How are you

I think about it honestly, which is something I've been practicing.

Me: Full. In the way where you've had a big day and your body knows it was significant before your brain catches up.

Jill: Is that good full or overwhelmed full

Me: Good. I think just good.

Jill: Good she says, and I can hear her smiling through the punctuation.

I sleep better than I have any right to, in the small warm room with the friendly lamp, and in the morning Henri drives me to the airport in his characteristic silence and I fly back to Miami feeling like someone who left a version of herself in a grey British weekend and isn't entirely sure she wants it back.