Judas crawled into P4 after the ferrari penalty. While not as good as his other results, he still seems cheery in regards to the future. Post race, he's quoted as saying "Miami, while beautiful, seems to play harshly against my weaknesses."
First podium of the year for Lydon, by a small margin. He finds himself in P3. He's quiet on the radio. When congratulated by Zac, the only reply is "I need to do better."
Frustrating was a way to describe the podium. There were champagne, streamers, and trophies. Yet, throughout the whole thing, Lydon had a fargone look on his face.
The ginger barely moved around the stage, the streamers engulfed his frame. Metallic aqua clung to his face, his arms, they had tangled around his legs when he tried to free himself. Every pull led to more knots, more tangles, more of a clinging nightmare. Champagne spray soaked the ground around him. The stinging liquid burned into his eyes as Lando turned to drench him.
"Ugh! Would it just fuckin'-" Lydon's back hit the ground before he knew what happened. The glass champagne bottle shattered next to him. Fizz splashed into his hair, his suit.
Is this what victory was meant to feel like? Like sinking a pit, pulling his lungs, his heart, his pride down into it?
Pressure built behind his eyes, and he shoved a hand onto the sticky ground, forcing himself to sit upright. Each breath hurt, forced and tight as he whipped his face away from his teammate. Away from the cameras. He could feel the way his face burned. Red from racing, from embarrassment, from the shame of always coming second in this team.
"This is fuckin' stupid." He muttered. His free hand rubbed from his cheek to his eyes. Any salty tears were disguised with the smear of alcohol.
I hate being second place, but it's not my place to say anything.
Lydon didn't stay for the rest of the celebrations that night.
