16. JULES
JULES
‘Hey, pal.’ Tiago’s beam is a big American falsity, and I want to slap it off.
‘I’m not your pal,’ I growl, hoisting my tiny handbag higher.
‘Y’are today.’
We’re meeting outside the Hard Rock Stadium in the unrelenting midday Miami heat.
I’m not wearing much and I’ve still soaked through the fabric enough for it to feel part of me.
All I’ve been doing is walking from one air-conditioned building to another – Lord knows how the drivers are supposed to compete in this.
There’s not even light beading on Tiago’s forehead. He’s completely composed, his Leone polo faintly clinging to the toned plane of his pecs.
Excuse me, why am I looking at his pecs now? Look away. What’s neutral territory? His… two cans of Riot. Yes, cans are good.
‘Is one of them for me?’ I ask, bowled over by this unexpected show of gentlemanliness.
He glances down at them and scoffs a laugh. ‘Hah! No. You’re funny.’ Why am I not surprised? ‘Sponsorship duties. This one’s water. Sweet, na?ve Julie.’
‘Jules isn’t short for Julie, you idiot.’
‘It is now.’
Fine. Two can play that game. I reposition my sunglasses. ‘Alright, Tio.’
His smile sputters. ‘Julie’s a name; Tio’s not. You’re calling me uncle. Now, Papi I can get on board with…’
‘Can we just go in please?’
He throws a hand towards the stadium, and we start walking in silence. F1 weekends are wild. There’s a bush in the shape of a race car next to us, and a DJ for the walk inside. I take some sneaky photos as fans corner Tiago.
We’re off to a rough start. This is a business arrangement and I need to act professionally, even if he won’t. We’ve got to cobble together some sort of working relationship or neither of us will get what we want.
‘I watched your interviews,’ I offer as we show our passes and enter the paddock. ‘Your tone’s changed since even our meeting on Wednesday. Good…’ I swallow. ‘Good work. That must’ve been hard, doing a U-turn on Leone.’ Almost as hard as it was for me to say that earnestly.
‘I don’t give a shit about Leone. I was defending my team in the garage.’ When I glance up, his expression’s grave. ‘It’s not a PR stunt. I don’t like hearing smack about my guys. They work hard.’
Wow, he’s thinking about someone besides himself. Personal growth?
‘Although, they don’t work as hard as you,’ he continues, voice taunting, and I know every resolve I had to be professional is about to melt. ‘We can’t all give dry brushing advice and Photoshop ourselves for a living.’
I don’t know why I bothered. He’s an absolute child.
‘What makes you think I need Photoshop?’ I swish my ponytail behind me and stride ahead.
I’ve been to the Hard Rock Stadium before, but it didn’t look a thing like this.
The field’s been replaced by sleek, modular buildings like boutique pop-ups, branded to each team.
It’s completely surreal. Every two-storey suite has a balcony looking onto their own garden area – in a stadium.
The atmosphere’s polar opposite to a football game, all clinking glasses and quiet chatter.
I have the overwhelming sense that I’m not supposed to be here. There are no influencers and media, photo ops and crazed fans. It’s exclusively team personnel, celebrities, corporate suits, and me, in my denim two-piece and knee-high boots. I feel like Western Barbie.
I clutch my paddock pass like it’s the only thing keeping me from being tossed out like a dirty imposter. At least it’s more reliable than the impulsive moron beside me who can’t pass a single unit without stopping to talk to people. I wouldn’t put it past him to give me a fake lanyard.
‘How can you be sure étienne’s not going to be here?’ I whisper as we pass the RaceX and Tenzing suites.
‘It’s way too early for him, he had breakfast like an hour ago,’ says Tiago. ‘Besides, I was diligent and checked his schedule. He’s doing interviews in the media centre until one-thirty.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘You checked, or your sister checked?’
‘I’ve been busy! I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re not exactly set up for glory today. Matter of fact, I don’t even have a working car right now. Hey, man!’ he greets someone in Volare uniform.
At this rate, we’ll be pulling up to Martinelli with étienne.
‘And you’re positive Tom’s going to be here?’ I press to get him back on track. ‘Did you arrange this with him like I asked?’
‘He always goes for an early lunch for evening and night races. Quit worrying.’
I look back at Leone’s blinding orange unit. It looks like someone’s taken a highlighter to it. ‘I know I’m new to F1, but don’t drivers stick to their own team’s hospitality?’
‘Nah, it’s pretty fluid.’
Why don’t I believe him? Trusting people isn’t my forte, and he’s not exactly an easy man to trust. But what choice do I have?
My heart beats a hundred miles an hour as we close in on Martinelli. Tom and étienne’s enormous faces stare back at me as we pass the railing, and I swallow the urge to shrink in my boots.
I stop. ‘And have—?’
‘Enough with the questions already!’ He shoves me towards the door. I mean, it’s only small – a jolt, really – but the injustice of it ripples through me.
‘Don’t touch me.’
He ignores my ire. ‘Ladies first,’ he says blandly, motioning to the entry.
‘Don’t let the door hit you,’ I mutter, whipping it shut with my foot. I can hear his hiss through the glass and award myself an imaginary clap.
Air conditioning envelopes me in a wave of sweet deliciousness.
There are white marble floors, Italian furniture, and screens showing replays of qualifying yesterday.
Thankfully, not the part where Tiago nearly propelled himself into the wall.
I’m not going to wear his jersey any time soon, but I don’t want to see him smushed. I need him.
He seems to know everyone. It’s hard to believe this isn’t his team.
His popularity makes for a slow journey to the buffet, and it takes all my restraint not to glance to the heavens every five seconds.
To his credit, he’s good with names and faces, and his affability feels genuine.
I don’t know for sure, of course, since it’s never been directed at me.
As I wait in line for scallops (at a sports event?
!), I allow myself a peek around the room.
It’s buzzing with staff and sponsors, sitting on long tables like Wagamama, all speaking English with different accents.
I can’t see Tom, but then again almost everyone’s in Martinelli uniform. It’s like Where’s Wally? in here.
‘C’mon,’ Tiago says as I struggle to fit a watermelon slice on my overflowing plate. I have to speed up to keep from losing him in the mass, though it helps that he stands out like an orange lifeboat.
‘Am I allowed to go up there?’ I whisper as we pass a sign on the stairs saying RESTRICTED ACCESS – TEAM PERSONNEL ONLY.
Tiago blanks me, charging ahead. His demeanour’s changed now it’s just us.
Is he being… shifty? Come to think of it, he barely looked at me since we entered the stadium.
Then again, this is Tiago Cabrera, and he’s all kinds of inexplicable.
The only person whose nerves should be sparking is me.
I’m in an area I’m not allowed, belonging to a team who despise me, with a man who’d dump me in a second to save his own skin.
I’m overthinking this. It will work. It better work.
Upstairs is much quieter. A lounge area with cream sofas, closed office doors, a coffee bar (Italian team, naturally), and a long wooden table where Tom’s eating and reading a magazine.
My breath snags in my chest. I can’t believe it, the dickhead was actually right.
‘Hey man, mind if we crash?’ Tiago says, laying his food opposite.
Tom’s quick to smile, though I could swear it widens when he sees me.
The only saving grace in this seemingly random scenario is that Tom saw us together in Melbourne, where Tiago introduced me as his friend. It’s not such a leap for us to be having a platonic lunch together. Even though I could’ve killed Tiago at the time, it’s worked out pretty neatly.
‘Nice to see you again, Jules,’ Tom says.
‘And you.’ I sit next to Tiago and unpack my cutlery.
‘How do you guys know each other?’ Tom asks.
I nearly drop my knife. We haven’t discussed this. We don’t have an agreed story. I need to get in there first before he says we’re exes. ‘We—’
‘—Met at the Miami Open, what, four years ago? Been friends ever since.’ Tiago leads with such smooth confidence I close my mouth.
‘I knew jack shit about tennis and her dad’s a coach so she spent the whole first set talking me through it.
’ How does he know my dad’s a coach? Has he been engaging with my content?
‘I’m not sure the folks beside us appreciated it too much.
’ His chuckle’s cheeky as he gives me a playful nudge.
As much as it pains me to admit it, that was good. Dare I say his smoothness is even… sexy. Nope. Too far. Shut up.
Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly at me as he forks some salad. ‘You’re a big fan of tennis?’
‘It’s in my blood,’ I say simply. ‘Are you?’
‘Sure. Madrid final’s starting pretty soon. Do you think Reisner will win it?’
I avert my gaze to my plate. ‘I expect so. Damian’s very good at controlling momentum. He has a fixed view of what he wants, and he won’t let anything stand in his way.’
‘Wimbledon quarter-final ’21, amirite?’ Tiago adds, giving me a he doesn’t need to hear your sob story look when Tom glances down to cut his chicken.
Damian was out with an injury for most of the 2021 season, but I get the point. I’m grateful Tom doesn’t seem to share my encyclopaedic memory of Damian’s career, buying Tiago’s comment with a curious dip of his head.
‘More importantly, who’ll win the Miami Grand Prix? Might it be you, Mr Pole-Sitter?’ I ask enquiringly, not admiringly, like Minnie does on her grid walk.
The corners of Tom’s lips tilt down. ‘Maybe. Car’s feeling strong.’ He sits back and shrugs. Case closed. This damn man gives nothing away. ‘Hey, how are things over at Leone? I’m sorry about quali, man. It was hard to watch.’
Tiago spears an asparagus. ‘You know how racing goes. Sometimes you win, and sometimes… your brakes fail and the future looks dicey.’
He says it lightly, and follows it with a laugh, but I caught a glimpse earlier of what that qualifying session meant to him.
He acts like he doesn’t care but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Always Mr Funny, Mr Charming, Mr Self-Effacing, Mr I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit-About-Anything-I-Just-Want-To-Have-A-Good-Time. It’s categorically untrue.
‘Well, you showed terrific racecraft. It was remarkable,’ Tom remarks.
They’re not besties, that much is true, but I don’t care. Tiago has organised the longest I’ve ever talked to Tom, in a setting where I can actually get to know him. Or at least try to.
Tiago waves his hand in an aw-shucks way. ‘Enough about us dumb drivers. J here’s working with F1 Academy this weekend.’
Tom’s mouth tilts, interested. ‘You never did tell me what you do, Jules. Do you drive for them?’
Tiago scoffs theatrically. ‘You’ve clearly never seen her drive!’
I know he’s putting on a show, but I can’t help but whip round to glare at him. ‘I’m a good driver!’
‘Sure you are.’ Tiago’s grin makes my anger climb higher. ‘All good drivers are that defensive.’
Drop it, Jules. Drop it.
I take a deep breath. ‘I’m a Creative Director and entrepreneur.’
Tom nods slowly. ‘Very ni—’
Tiago snorts. ‘That’s the fanciest way of saying influencer I’ve ever heard.’
Kill me. Right now.
Tom’s expression is completely impenetrable. ‘Like… Instagram?’
I don’t care what people think.
I hate that. It’s all so superficial and hollow. For appearances’ sake.
That’s it. My timelines, my strategy, my pride, my career longevity, gone.
When I come to, Tiago’s rattling things off on his fingers: ‘—podcast, YouTube, Substack… Did I miss anything? In short, she’s a one-woman conglomerate. It’s pretty fucking impressive.’
I stare vacantly at him. What did he say?
‘That sounds amazing,’ says Tom, brighter. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, still beyond confused.
Tom braids his fingers together over his plate. ‘What are you doing with F1 Academy?’
‘I’m an Ambassador, so on a race weekend I appear in their digital content, speak on panels, and network with sponsors and content creators. Outside of race weekends, I consult on their comms to elevate their image and help the ladies with their personal branding.’
Of all my brand work, this feels like one of the special ones.
I’m not an idiot, I know they want to work with me because I’m dating – or trying to date – a driver, but the work revolves around inspiring women.
Their values feel so suspiciously close to mine that I can pretend, just for a second, that they chose me for me.
It’s a glimpse into what my career could be if I took my own advice and rebranded.
If the world saw me as anything more than ‘his girlfriend’.
But it’s career suicide.
Enough daydreaming.
‘Do you love it?’ Tom asks. It feels like an important question to him.
I take a sip of water. ‘It’s the best. Empowering women is my true love.’
We hold eye contact for a long moment, and he smiles crookedly back at his food.
‘That was great,’ I say, pulling Tiago into a gap between the Alpha Prime and DFK units, ignoring the heat of his chest licking my fingertips. I whip my hand away.
‘We make a pretty awesome team,’ he replies through a chuckle.
I wouldn’t go that far. We’ve got a way to go yet – Tom didn’t exactly ask me out – but we’re one step closer.
‘You were… thank you.’ Finally, I don’t need to dig deep to reach for sincerity.
‘Don’t sweat it.’
I suddenly realise we’re close, very close, squeezed between the two suites, a giant plant shielding us from prying eyes. I can smell him. It’s not unpleasant.
‘You were great in there. He was hanging onto your every word,’ Tiago remarks, gaze locked on my lips.
‘Mm.’
They burn under his scrutiny, the urge to shield them dizzying. Before I can take a breath, he’s closing in. I let him, lost in the promise of closeness and pleasure. I haven’t felt such a tug of desire in so—
And then I remember myself.
My hand whips out before I can think to instruct it. It contacts his cheek with a satisfying clap.
‘Fuck!’ Tiago bursts out, recoiling with a hand glued to his face. ‘What was that?’
‘What was that to you too!’
‘I thought… I… We…’ He struggles. I look on with raised eyebrows and crossed arms. ‘Oh just forget it.’
‘You really can’t keep it in your pants for one day, can you?’
He rolls his eyes and steps around the plant. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Right back at ya, sweetheart.’