25. The New Ride #2
“Of course not,” he says with a chuckle. “I’d be sprinting to the track if that were the case. Thursdays are low key. Mostly just meetings, fanzone appearances, and conferences. Which is where I’m heading first.”
We head outside, and Elio signals to the valet.
“Okay.” I peer up at the afternoon sky, the sun beating down particularly hard today. I wish I’d grabbed my hat, but we left in such a hurry.
“Ah, there we go,” Elio says, but I don’t spot his car anywhere. Instead, the valet parks a Vespa in front of us.
My eyes widen. “Um, what’s this?”
“Our ride,” Elio says, grabbing the two helmets from the valet. “Traffic is insane in Monaco, and we’re already late. This is my ride of choice here.”
I feel even hotter all of a sudden. Partly because I’m not sure how this is going to work, given my weight, and partly because I’m going to have to hug Elio from behind for an unknown duration. Why didn’t he tell me in advance so I could mentally prepare?
“Maybe you should go on your own, and I’ll catch a cab,” I say, wringing my hands. “It doesn’t matter if I’m late.”
“What? Come on, it’ll be fun.” He turns to me, holding out the second helmet.
A crowd has formed in front of the hotel, waiting to see Elio leave. I don’t want to cause a scene or attract even more attention, so I take the helmet he’s offering.
Elio sits first, and I hop on next. I was expecting the Vespa to tilt or even crash when I sat down, but I must have underestimated Elio’s strength.
He starts up the engine. “Hold on, Bella .”
I wrap my arms around his waist to secure myself. I’m trying to not hug him outright, but it’s not an easy task. While I really don’t want to fall off, I also don’t want to smother him.
“Tighter,” he instructs.
I strengthen my grip, and off we go. It’s less scary than I imagined, and a lot more stable.
I welcome the wind blowing in my face. Monaco is a dazzling blur of gold and blue, with polished storefronts, rows of luxury cars, and sleek yachts bobbing in the marina.
The narrow streets wind between pastel-colored buildings perched on the cliffs, offering fleeting glimpses of the sparkling Mediterranean as we zip through the chaos with surprising ease.
Elio wasn’t kidding about the traffic here. The race is in three days, and most of the roads are already congested. Thankfully, we make it to the circuit in just under ten minutes.
The walk to the paddock takes easily another ten, but Elio arrives just in time for the start of his conference.
I’m actually not allowed in the conference area, so I wait outside, taking in this new layout.
What’s crazy here is that the race takes place right in the middle of the city, so the paddock is crammed here as well.
They’ve erected grandstands, and of course the famous team motorhomes, to create the familiar scene.
It’s hard to believe these are the exact same buildings since they ship them around from race to race, especially given that the conditions are so different here, but I do recognize them.
The sun is still scorching the city, and I find a spot with meager shade to wait until Elio is done.
A while later, the door opens, and a stream of people—including drivers from other teams—emerge from the building. Elio is chatting with two guys, a tall blond with blue eyes, wearing a white cap, and a brown-haired guy with green eyes, who’s wearing a black cap.
Elio notices me, and they all walk my way.
“Guys,” he begins. “This is Lucy. She’s a reporter for Pulse Sports who’s doing a piece on me. Lucy, this is Magnus Andersen, racing for Apex Dynamics, and Alec Murray, from Blackstorm Motorsports.”
“Hi,” we all say at once before shaking hands.
“Nice to meet you,” Alec greets me with a distinctive Scottish accent.
“Likewise. Do you mind if I take a picture of you three for the article?”
“Oh, sure,” Magnus says. “Good idea.”
I snap a photo of the three of them, and we start chatting.
“You’re coming to the Golden party tonight, right?” Alec asks Elio.
Elio glances furtively toward me, then back at his friends. “I’m not sure, actually.”
“Are you serious?” Magnus gapes at him. “You’re like the king of that party. They probably have a monument erected in your honor somewhere.”
Elio dances on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah, they just might.” He chuckles. “I’ll see, but I want to stay focused this weekend. Save the partying for after the win, you know?”
“That’s—wow. I have no words,” Alec breathes out, shaking his head before glancing at his smartwatch. “Well, I gotta go. See you tonight, or maybe not?”
“Bye, guys,” Elio says before turning back around.
I sidle up close to him. “You don’t have to skip parties because of me, you know. I can understand if you don’t want every moment scrutinized while I’m here. Feel free to go.”
“Oh, no.” He scratches his head. “I meant what I said. Those parties are fun, but they also might be the reason why I’ve never won this race, and that has to change. Besides, as I get older, I’m starting to appreciate staying in more.”
“I guess I’ve always been old,” I say with a chuckle. “Where to now?”
“Let’s head over to the garage. Pat’s there, and I have a couple of engineering meetings to attend.” He peers at me. “Aren’t you hot? Do you want my cap? I can grab another one.”
“I’m okay. Plus, red and yellow aren’t exactly my colors. It would throw off the entire outfit.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Really? That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“I thought you, of all people, would appreciate a well-coordinated outfit. Maybe I should get a cap from another team. Is there a pink one?” I ask, glancing down at my pink dress.
He arches an eyebrow. “There isn’t. Wear mine.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, screwing it back on.
We walk along the paddock, and of course, fans are already clustered behind a barricade. They’re all calling his name, hoping to get his attention.
He glances at me. “Do you mind if we stop for a minute?”
I smile. “Absolutely not. ”
As I follow him, the fans' applause and cheers create a buzz of excitement around us. Elio moves with ease, signing autographs and posing for countless selfies. His smile never wavers.
He’s mid-selfie with a boy of maybe ten years old when the kid’s phone rings.
“Oh, it’s ringing,” Elio says, raising his eyebrow before tapping the screen and lifting the phone to his ear. The boy practically vibrates with excitement, his voice pitching high as Elio takes the call.
“It’s my friend!” he squeals.
Elio grins. “ Pronto , sorry, Jackson’s not available right now. He’s a little busy taking a photo with me. Who am I speaking to?”
The crowd bursts into laughter, and Jackson’s thrilled shriek echoes behind him.
“Yes, it’s Elio Spinelli,” Elio says, nodding playfully at the boy. “I hope you can make it next time too. But for now, I need to finish up here. Ciao! ” He ends the call with a flourish, handing the phone back to the boy before leaning in for their interrupted selfie.
Watching Elio interact with his fans, especially the younger ones, stirs something unexpected in me. There’s warmth and authenticity to his patience, and I can’t help but think what an amazing dad he’ll be one day.
I can almost see him crouching to tie tiny sneakers, or whistling as his child zooms past in a kart.
Then the warmth fades, leaving a tight knot in my ch est as he leans in and kisses the mother of his child on the forehead.
The simple act of affection—even if it’s just a fragment of my vivid imagination—stings in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
As much as I wish it could be me standing in her place, I know it won’t be.
And the realization hurts more than it should.