Leo turned back toward the garage.
Anya was standing at the entrance. She had a jacket over her team kit and a coffee in her hand and she was watching him with the expression she had been wearing since the time locked in — not the professional face, not the team principal face.
The face of someone who had been doing this for eleven years and had stopped expecting to feel the thing she was feeling and was now standing in the Albert Park paddock at dusk trying to decide what to do with it.
He walked toward her.
"Press conference in twenty minutes," she said.
"I know."
"They'll ask you about the car. About the team. About—" she paused. "About you. About what you did today and how you did it."
"I know what to say."
She looked at him for a moment.
"What will you say?"
