CHAPTER NINE
◆◆◆
Lucas
The summer break arrived like a mandatory pit stop for the soul.
Three weeks of nothing—no simulators, no debriefs, no media pen.
Lucas spent most of it in the mountains near his parents’ holiday home in the French Alps, running trails until his lungs burned, trying to shake the itch that had settled under his skin.
The contract was signed. Seat secure. But every quiet moment brought Mia back: her steady voice in the plane cabin, the way her eyes had held his when he’d almost crossed the line in Miami, the careful distance they’d both maintained ever since.
He kept telling himself it was nothing. A drunken misstep. Too much tequila, too much adrenaline, too much everything.
Back at the factory in late August, he noticed her first. She was quieter in meetings. Her usual clipped efficiency edged with something tighter. He caught her once in the corridor, phone to her ear, voice low and strained: “Yes, I understand the numbers. I’ll handle it.”
He didn’t ask. Didn’t know how without sounding like he cared too much. He told himself he didn’t. It was just habit now—she’d been in his orbit for months. Of course, he noticed when she looked off. Nothing more.
He didn’t ask. Not then.
Spa was wet and brutal. He finished P7—his best result of the season.
Points again. The garage cheered like they’d won the championship.
In the media pen afterward, he gave credit where it was due: “The strategy call was spot-on, but honestly, it’s the unsung heroes in Comms who get me to the grid ready to fight.
The prep sessions, the quiet words before lights out, the way they keep the noise out so I can focus—they don’t get enough credit.
Those guys are the difference between binning it and bringing it home. ”
The clip circulated fast. Fans ate it up—loved the nod to the “behind-the-scenes crew.” Sponsors loved the humility angle even more.
But the next week, before they headed to Monza, the rumour hit the team WhatsApp like a grenade: management was reviewing PR and Media staff contracts.
Cost cutting. “Streamlining operations.” The department was being restructured—Claire would now handle media duties for both drivers to consolidate resources, while the remaining Media team absorbed all social-media responsibilities.
Mia, as the most recent full-time hire in the driver-support stream, was first on the redundancy list. Last in, first out.
Lucas found her in the office, staring at her laptop like it had personally offended her. She looked up when he entered, face carefully blank.
“They’re making you redundant?” he asked, door clicking shut behind him.
She exhaled. “Considering it. Pure numbers. Claire’s taking both drivers now, and the socials crew can cover the rest. I was the last hire brought on specifically for driver media support. Budget doesn’t stretch anymore.”
He felt heat climb his neck. “Because you’ve been doing your job too well?”
“Because I cost more than the consolidated model. Optics on the balance sheet, Lucas. Always the balance sheet.”
“Bullshit.” He stepped closer. “I’ll talk to Marcus.”
“Don’t. Makes it worse.”
“I’m doing it anyway.” He held her gaze. “You fought for me. I’m fighting for you now.”
* * *
Mia
The moment Lucas said it—I’m fighting for you now—and walked out, the room felt too still.
Mia stared at the closed door, fingers numb on the edge of her laptop.
Not just gratitude. Something sharper. The way he’d looked at her—like losing her would cost him something real—stirred the same confusion she’d been trying to bury since Miami.
She told herself it was loyalty. Professional respect. Nothing more.
She’d fought so hard this past year. Lucas had been a wall at first—cold answers, clipped dismissals, every press conference a minefield.
She’d stayed late rewriting talking points, coached him through mock interviews, gently pushed him say more, to crack a dry joke instead of shutting down.
And slowly, painfully, it had started to work.
He was opening up, becoming more comfortable in his own skin.
The P7 in Spa wasn’t just points; it was proof that the version of him she’d helped coax out was real.
She couldn’t help feeling partly responsible for that shift, proud in a quiet way she hadn’t expected.
She wanted more time. More chances to help him build on it. More races where she could watch him grow, more moments where their eyes met across the garage and something unspoken passed between them.
And it wasn’t just him.
She loved the team—the chaotic energy, the late-night debriefs that ended in laughter, the way people looked out for each other even when they were exhausted.
After years of isolation in Oxford—head down in books, the world narrowed to lectures and libraries—this job had finally given her a place.
Real friends. Dana’s steady support, the easy banter in the media room, the sense that she belonged somewhere loud and alive.
Now it was slipping away before it had even rooted.
The thought made her throat close. She forced herself to breathe, to stay professional—head down, keep working, pretend the email wasn’t there.
But inside, the disappointment ached: she’d found something she loved, something that felt like home, and it was ending too soon.
* * *
Lucas
Marcus Lang’s office was at the end of the admin corridor—sparse, functional, walls lined with framed photos of podiums from three different decades.
The Team Principal was in his mid-fifties, silver at the temples, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the kind of man who’d started as a mechanic in the early 90s and clawed his way up through sheer stubborn competence.
Everyone knew the stories: he’d once pulled an all-nighter rebuilding a gearbox himself during a wet Imola weekend in ’98; he’d fought to keep a young reserve driver in the seat when sponsors wanted glamour instead; he’d also unceremoniously shown the door to two high-profile engineers whose egos had started costing results.
No nonsense. Looked after his people—until the numbers or the performance said otherwise.
Lucas didn’t sit. He stood, arms folded, voice low but unyielding.
“You cut Mia, you lose the only person who’s kept me from being a PR disaster since Melbourne.
Every point I’ve scored this year, every press conference that didn’t end in a one-word answer, every sponsor call that actually went somewhere—she engineered that.
Claire’s good, but she’s stretched across two drivers now.
Mia’s the reason my off-track performance matches the on-track one.
If you want me to keep delivering both, you keep her. End of discussion.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, studying Lucas with the same measured gaze he used on telemetry traces. He didn’t interrupt. When Lucas finished, the older man tapped a pen once against the desk.
“You’re willing to stake your seat on a Communications Assistant?”
“I’m staking it on the fact that I’m finally not the problem child in headlines. That’s worth more than one redundancy saving.”
A long silence. Marcus exhaled through his nose.
“I’ve seen a lot of drivers come through here, Lucas.
Some burn bright and disappear. Some learn to last. You’re starting to last. But this isn’t personal—it’s a significant line in a department we’re trying to shrink by twenty percent.
Claire’s taking the load. The socials team can handle the rest.”
“Then find the money somewhere else. Or explain to the board why their improving second driver suddenly goes back to monosyllabic answers and sponsor walk-outs. Your call.”
Marcus held his gaze for another beat. Then he gave a single, curt nod.
“We’ll review the restructure. No promises. But I’ll look at the line items again.”
The news came via email that afternoon: Mia’s contract renewed. The redundancy list quietly adjusted—someone from the general media support pool instead. No mention of the conversation. No apology. Just a brief line about “reprioritisation of resources in line with performance objectives.”
* * *
Mia
The rest of the season blurred: Singapore’s heat, Austin’s chaos, Mexico’s altitude, Brazil’s rain, Vegas’s neon glare, Abu Dhabi’s finale.
Lucas looked to finish the year P12 in the drivers’ standings.
Not championship material, but respectable.
Enough to secure the seat. Enough for the team to stop whispering about étienne Laurent.
Abu Dhabi was the last race. He finished P8—solid, unspectacular, perfect bookend to the year. The garage erupted in the usual end-of-season chaos: hugs, champagne, music blaring. Mia stayed on the periphery, coordinating wrap-up interviews, making sure no one said anything stupid.
Later, after the final wrap and the team photos, the paddock emptied.
Most people were already at the after-party, laughter and music drifting from somewhere distant.
Mia was alone in the quiet of the media centre, lights low, packing files into her bag with careful, mechanical movements.
The season was over. The job was safe. Everything should have felt lighter. It didn’t.
She heard footsteps in the corridor—slow, deliberate—then Lucas appeared in the doorway. He paused, eyes sweeping the dim room.
“Left my radio headset,” he said, voice low, almost rough from the day. “During the wrap-up. Should be by the table.”
She nodded once, not trusting her own voice yet. “Yeah. Over there.”
He stepped inside and let the door ease shut behind him. The click echoed. He crossed the room without looking away from her for long—each step measured, like he was giving her time to stop him. She didn’t.
When he reached the chair, he leaned past her to grab the headset.
His arm brushed hers—barely, but enough.
The air between them thickened instantly, warm and electric.
He straightened slowly, headset dangling from his fingers, but he didn’t step back.
They were close now. Too close. She could see the faint sheen of sweat still at his temples, the way his chest rose and fell a fraction faster than normal.
Mia’s throat tightened. She forced the words out before they could retreat again. “You didn’t have to go to Marcus.” Her voice came quieter than she intended, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t owe me anything.”
He went still. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again—dark, searching.
She swallowed. “I never really said it. So… thanks. For fighting for my spot. For making sure I didn’t lose my chance.”
The silence stretched, taut. His jaw flexed once. When he spoke, his voice was low, edged. “Wasn’t about to watch them cut the only person who’s kept me looking half human.”
A small, unsteady breath escaped her—half laugh, half something else.
Without letting herself overthink it, she closed the gap and slid her arms around him.
It was meant to be quick, professional. But the second her hands met at his back, he exhaled sharply against her hair, and his free arm came around her waist—harder than expected, fingers splaying across the small of her back like he’d been waiting months for permission.
They stayed like that. Longer than they should.
His heartbeat thudded against her collarbone, fast and uneven.
Hers answered it. The room felt smaller, hotter, the faint hum of the air-conditioning the only sound besides their breathing.
She felt the tension coil in his shoulders, the way he held himself rigid, like he was fighting not to tighten his grip further.
When she finally started to ease back—just an inch—his hand didn’t release right away. It slid up her spine, slow, deliberate, stopping at the nape of her neck. Their faces were close enough that she felt the heat of his exhale on her lips.
His eyes locked on hers.
“Mia,” he said—barely a word, more a warning to himself.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just looked back at him, pulse roaring in her ears.
He closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was hungry—months of restraint cracking open in one rough slide of his mouth over hers.
His hand curled gently in her hair, tilting her head as he deepened it, tongue brushing hers with a low, frustrated sound from his throat.
She met him with the same edge, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him in until there was no space left.
Her back hit the table edge; he pressed forward, hips pinning hers, the hard line of him making her gasp into his mouth.
They broke apart only when air became necessary—chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, his thumb still tracing the line of her jaw like he couldn’t stop touching her.
“We can’t,” she whispered, voice wrecked.
Lucas let out a rough breath, eyes still fixed on her swollen mouth. “I know.”
He didn’t step back immediately. His hand lingered at her neck, thumb brushing once more, slow and deliberate, before dropping away. The sudden space between them felt like a physical ache.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I came in for the fucking headset.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “Yeah. You did.”
He gave her one last long look—something raw flickering behind the calm—then turned toward the door. At the threshold he paused, fingers tight on the frame. “See you at pre-season testing.”
Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Yeah. See you then.”
The door clicked shut.
Mia stood there, fingers pressed to her lips, still tasting him—salt, heat, the sharp edge of everything they’d been denying. She told herself it was the end of the season talking. Adrenaline. Relief. Closure.
She almost believed it.
Until she stepped into the Abu Dhabi night and the ache followed her—sharp, insistent, already promising trouble for next year.