2. Attractive
Attractive
Elio
The arrival of Lucy Williams triggered a whole new rush of adrenaline—just when I was starting to find things boring around here.
She follows me through the organized chaos of the garage, her eyes darting around like she’s cataloging every detail, until we reach the office section, where Pat has claimed one of the meeting rooms as his lair.
He’s on the phone when we step inside, though he’s waving us in.
A slight frown clouds her features, but she nods, stepping aside and leaning against the wall of the narrow corridor. “Sure.”
I saunter into the meeting room, sinking into the chair opposite Pat and feeling the tension in my shoulders as the door closes behind me.
“Sorry about that,” Pat says, putting the phone down. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for FP1?”
“The girl from Pulse Sports is here.”
“Right.” He claps his hands together, his face lighting up. “The feature.” Then, his enthusiasm dims as he tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “You forgot about it, didn’t you?”
I wince. In my defense, Pat talks a lot. And fast—despite not even being Italian. I can’t catch every word that flies out of his mouth. I need to focus on my performance.
He sighs. “Well, anyway, it’s one of those ‘a week in the life’ things. She’ll shadow you every day until the Monaco race.”
The words land like a gut punch. “Wait, what? Monaco is in two weeks.”
“We wanted the feature to showcase two races, and their schedule didn’t work with any back-to-back races this season.”
I slump in my chair, sighing. “Fine. So, how’s this going to work?”
“She’ll tag along to whatever event or plans you have each day. You’ll pose for some photos, give her a few interviews, that sort of thing.”
I lean forward, my elbows on the table. “You’re kidding, right?”
Why on earth did I agree to this? Having someone poking around my private life is the last thing I want.
“Wishing you actually listened to me right about now, aren’t you?
” he says, giving me a pointed look. “As I explained before, this feature is a major deal for you, and it’s equally important for Rossi.
They actually initiated the idea. You’re their star driver, and people want to know everything there is to know about you.
Something beyond seeing you parade around with gorgeous girls on your arm. ”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that.” I grin, leaning back in the chair, but the edge in his tone tempers my amusement.
He scratches his bald head. “I’m serious, Elio. You might have won more Driver Championships than anyone on this grid, but you know as well as I do that Formula 1 is about politics. Popularity is becoming an even more important factor than winning races.”
I blink back. “Seriously?”
Pat’s blue eyes soften, but his voice remains firm. “It’s the reality of the sport. You know it. Our competitors do too. Just look at the social media campaign Apex has around Magnus.”
“How could I miss it?” I mutter, shaking my head. “I don’t even use social media, and I can’t escape the guy.”
“Exactly. That’s a testament to the power of a strong online presence. You have to get in that saddle now. I shouldn’t have to remind you that your contract is up for renewal at the end of the season.”
I glare at him, my frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Are you serious? You think that’s what will tip the scales? Not the fact that I’ve had more podiums than anyone else this year, and we’re first in the Constructors’ Championship?”
“No,” Pat says as he leans forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “But it matters just as much. If you keep dominating on the track and build your personal brand, you’ll be invincible.”
The words hit me hard, and suddenly, I’m laser-focused. After being vulnerable from an early age, unable to envision a future, invincible is what I’m always aiming for.
When I drive back to the garage after the first free practice of the weekend, relief washes over me. Our major overhaul since the last race had me eager—and just a little apprehensive—to see how the car would handle.
“So, how was it?” asks Danny, one of the engineers, as I hoist myself out of the car.
I tug off my helmet, feeling the dampness of sweat on my forehead as a wide grin spreads across my face. “Pretty great, man.”
Danny pumps his fist in the air before pulling me into a quick, enthusiastic hug. Around us, the crew breaks into cheers, their hard work validated. I let my eyes rove the garage, catching sight of a few grease-streaked faces lighting up with pride, their passion matching my own.
“ Grazie a tutti! ” I say, raising my voice to carry over the clamor as I address the crew. “The suspension feels better, and there’s way less understeer. Amazing work.”
As I chat with the group, providing more detailed feedback, a flicker of yellow dances in my peripheral vision.
Amid the sea of red uniforms, it’s impossible to miss—not just the bold color, but the woman wearing it.
Lucy Williams. Those wide green eyes that pull you in the second you look at them, a soft, flawless face framed by shoulder-length hazelnut hair, and a body with all the right curves in the right places. She’s impossible to ignore.
“Hey,” I call out, striding toward her. “Did you watch the practice? What did you think?”
She straightens her shoulders, her lips parting slightly, as if caught off guard. “Um, I got here kind of late,” she admits, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was talking with your agent. Everything’s a go for the feature.”
“ Perfetto . So, you just . . . follow me around now?” The thought isn’t quite as unbearable as it was earlier.
She nods, shifting her weight fro m one foot to the other. “What do you usually do after practice?”
“Right now? Lunch. Then, FP2.” Her brow furrows, and I can’t suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. “You have no idea what that means, do you?”
She blushes, glancing around as if to make sure no one heard me. “Well . . .”
“Looks like someone didn’t do her homework.” I tut. “Who’s unprofessional now?”
Her blush deepens. “I—It’s not exactly my sport. I tried to watch an F1 documentary on the plane, but I fell asleep. It was kind of boring.”
My eyebrows shoot up as she wrings her hands in front of her.
“I’ll do my best,” she continues, her words coming out in a rush. “But yeah, it’s not my forte. It’s more his thing. Actually, I should probably get him an autograph or something while I’m here.”
Ah, here we go. Time to watch this gorgeous girl tell me she wants a signed poster for her husband.
“My colleague was supposed to be the one doing this feature. He covers all the motorsports, but he recently had a health scare.”
I pause, her words sinking in. “Wait. Your colleague?”
“Yeah.” She scrunches her eyebrows, looking a little confused.
I clear my throat. “So, not your husband or your boyfriend?”
“What? No.”
“Great, ” I say, clapping my hands together with a grin. Eager to change the subject, I add, “Well, let’s grab lunch, and I’ll show you around before FP2. That’s the second free practice, by the way.”
As we leave the garage, she nods. “Oh, that makes sense. How many practices do you have?”
“Three, with two on Friday. The one I just did, the one after lunch, and then another one on Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon is qualifying, and the race is on Sunday.”
Her lips curve into a cheeky smile. “Well, at least I knew that one.”
“Phew.” I feign relief, pressing a hand to my chest. “You’re not a total lost cause, then.”
She laughs softly as we approach the pit lane.
“So, we just left the garage,” I explain, gesturing behind us. “I’ll give you a more detailed tour later. Right now, we’re headed to the motorhome. That’s where most of the team hangs out during the weekend. Offices, cafeteria, and a hospitality suite—it’s all there.”
“Hold on, let’s try that again while I film.
” She pulls her phone from her bag with practiced ease.
“I don’t know if your agent mentioned it, but I’ll be taking pictures and filming you throughout the coming days to give the fans something special.
At the end of each day, I’ll upload a compilation with media and a write-up to a dedicated page on our website. ”
I give her a wink. “ Va bene. We’ll do it again.”
Soon, we exit the secure area tha t hosts the garages and stroll into the paddock, and I explain some of the things we see around us. But as usual, the moment I leave the garage, fans are clamoring for my attention, handing me their caps and posters to sign and posing for selfies as I pass by.
“Sorry about that,” I say once we slip through the doors of the motorhome. The contrast between the commotion outside and the relative calm in here is stark. “It’s always a bit crazy around here. The worst being race day, of course.”
“It’s hard to wrap my mind around how popular this sport is. Frankly, I didn’t even know you existed until a week ago.” She winces, a blush coating her cheeks. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? I shouldn’t have said that.”
I laugh. “No, it’s okay. Your honesty is refreshing. Sometimes, I’m so immersed in this world, I forget what it’s like not to be a part of it. Especially here, in Italy. Formula 1—and Rossi Motorsports—is more than a sport. It’s a religion.”
Her gaze sharpens with interest. “Wow, okay. I’m looking forward to seeing more of this firsthand.”
We each grab a tray in the cafeteria section of the motorhome, the aroma of freshly made pasta and roasted vegetables permeating the space.
“Have you ever watched a race before?” I ask, scanning the options before settling on grilled chicken and pasta.
“Total newbie,” she says with a chuckle. “Like I said, racing isn’t really my thing. I’m a hockey fan through and through.”
“You are? I have a good friend who’s a hockey player. Caleb Hawthorne. He plays for the New York Raptors. They just won the Stanley Cup. He’ll actually be here on Sunday.”
Lucy’s face lights up. “Oh, yeah. Great center, and great guy all around, from what I’ve heard. Too bad he plays for New York.”
“And you are from . . .”
“Chicago. Best city on earth.” She grins.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Never been, but they say you guys are defiling our pizza over there.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “We’re just making it better.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” I say, smirking as I load my tray.
“I must say, though, I look forward to tasting a real Italian pizza.”
“ Sì! You’ll love it.”
She eyes my tray as we sit down at a table. “So, what does a Formula 1 driver eat before a race?”
I wave to a few people as they pass by and give some curt nods.
She follows my gaze, and a frown pulls at her lips. “Oh, sorry. You probably have other lunch plans. I kind of—”
“No, I don’t. I usually eat alone. When I’m in the paddock, I’m always working and available except when I’m either taking a break in my driver’s room or having lunch. These are my sacred moments, and the crew knows not to disturb me.”
“And you don’t mind me eating with you?” She bites her lip. “Last thing I want is for this project to mess with your routine.”
I catch her green eyes. “ Tu tto bene . I don’t mind having you around. As long as you never bring up Chicago ‘pizza’ again.”
She laughs, throwing her head back, and something stirs in me. Yeah, I absolutely won’t mind breaking my usual routine for her. There’s something magnetic about Lucy—her candor, maybe, or the way her expressions seem to demand your attention.
“Here it is,” I say, showing her my plate. “Lunch of a champion. Should I pose with it for the article or something?” I ask, picking up the plate and holding it next to my face in a goofy way.
In the span of a nanosecond, she whips out her phone, points it at my face, and stows it again. I set my plate back on the table.
“Wow. Those are some fast moves you’ve got there.”
“Comes with the job,” she jokes. “Always have your camera ready for the perfect shot. So, chicken, pasta, and veggies, huh?”
“ Sì . I usually rotate between chicken and salmon during a race weekend. And risotto instead of pasta.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s insane! I can’t imagine always eating the same stuff. I know all athletes do that, but it always baffled me. I could never.”
“Yeah, I see that about you.” I glance pointedly at her tray, which looks more like a sampler platter.
“I like to have options,” she says with a shrug before digging in. And honestly, I love that she got such a big plate. Most girls I know are more into salads and raw vegetables. She swallows her bite and continues, “So, are y ou a no-sugar, no-alcohol guy during the season?”
“Not entirely. The F1 season is very long. It starts in February or March and ends in late November, usually. So it’s almost the entire year. I generally only avoid sugar and alcohol during race weekends or when we have back-to-back races.”
Lucy sits back, looking intrigued. “Wow. I didn’t know the season was that long. This sport is more intense than I thought.”
“It is,” I say, cutting a piece of my chicken. “My entire life is intense.” And it’s everything I’ve always wanted to do, despite being the very definition of a pipe dream. Yet here I am.
“You’ve won six championships already at just thirty years old. I understand that’s quite an impressive feat. Why do you think you’re so successful?”
“Probably my good looks.” I wink at her before popping a cube of zucchini in my mouth.
She drops her fork, her shoulders sagging in mock exasperation. “Just when I thought you could actually be professional.”
“I’m kidding, although I am extremely good looking. As for my success, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.”
She nods. “That’s true.”
“See? I knew you found me attractive.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I meant about you being the right person to ask. And I don’t have to. Find you attractive, that is. You seem to love yourself plenty on your own.” She levels me with a stare, but I can see the c orners of her lips twitching, threatening to crinkle into a smile.
Yeah, this is going to be a fun weekend.