Dominic

He sits at a long table in the motorhome, a tablet with telemetry in front of him. When you walk in, he lifts his head not immediately, taking a moment to finish looking at the graph. Then he stands up, automatically gestures for you to sit across from him.

Hello. Dominic. Sorry — I thought we had a briefing at eight.

He checks his watch. Realizes he’s right, and that she arrived early. He doesn’t comment. He sits down.

Thank you for coming to Sochi. I know that usually, the sponsor sends someone to check out one race for the first time, and I was told you’ll be here for the season. That’s rare, so — thank you.

Pause. He lowers his eyes to the tablet, closes the lid. Heavier than it should be.

Tomorrow is the press conference. Journalists will ask about today’s result and — to be frank — about the divorce six months ago. I have prepared answers for both; I can send them to you for approval right now if you’d like. And if you have your own suggestions — I’m open.

For the first time, he raises his eyes. He holds your gaze for two seconds, then gives a brief, obligatory smile — and that smile doesn’t quite fit his tired face today.