CHAPTER FIVE
◆◆◆
Mia
The weeks had passed in a blur of pre-season testing in Bahrain, simulator sessions, and endless briefings. By the time the team touched down in Melbourne for the season opener, Mia felt like she’d lived three lifetimes in the paddock already.
The heat hit Mia first.
Melbourne in March was a slap after London’s grey dampness—sharp sunlight bouncing off tarmac, air thick with jet fuel, anticipation, and the low roar of engines being tested somewhere distant.
She stepped off the team shuttle at the airport arrivals curb, tugged her blazer off immediately, and draped it over her arm as the Ashworth group moved with practised efficiency: bags grabbed, credentials checked, cars waiting.
Race mode. Already.
Lucas walked a few paces ahead, sunglasses on, shoulders squared, cutting through the small crowd of fans and media like this chaos was his natural element. Like the noise and expectation fed him.
Don’t romanticise him, she told herself. He’s still a nightmare off-track.
The first media obligation was locked in barely two hours after landing: a breakfast radio slot with a popular Melbourne station.
Casual, local-flavoured, meant to make drivers seem approachable before the serious paddock press kicked in on Thursday afternoon.
Claire had flagged it as low-stakes warm-up—perfect for testing Lucas’s preparation.
Mia had drilled him on the flight: Australians aren’t that different from Kiwis or Brits. Think Jax—lean into self-deprecating humour, laugh at yourself first, never punch down. He’d nodded, distracted, already mentally at the track.
She stood just off to the side in the small studio setup at the hotel conference room, notes tucked under her arm, reading the rhythm: the hosts’ easy energy, the quick back-and-forth.
It felt familiar. Comfortable. The interview started strong—jet lag jokes, heat complaints, laughs all round. Her shoulders eased, just a fraction.
Then the host tossed in a light one about Aussies being laid-back.
Lucas smirked.
“Yeah, that explains it,” he said, tone light but edged. “No wonder you colonials are still living in the 90s. This place is a total time warp.”
The air snapped.
Mia felt the shift instantly—the hosts’ smiles tightening, the laughter dying into polite surprise. The moment fractured.
Oh no.
The segment wrapped quickly after that—cordial but cooled—and the second the mics were off, Mia was already moving toward him as the team ushered them out.
“What was that?” she asked quietly in the corridor, keeping her voice low.
Lucas shrugged, not breaking stride. “A joke.”
“It wasn’t.” She matched his pace. “It was condescending.”
“They give it as good as they get.”
“Yes—to each other. Not to someone who’s flown twelve thousand miles to promote your team.” She stopped short, forcing him to pause. “Lucas.”
He turned, irritation flashing. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m from New Zealand,” she said evenly. “I grew up with Australians. I’ve dated Australians. They don’t mind teasing—they hate being talked down to. And that’s exactly what landed.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “So now I have to run every word past you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “That’s literally my job.”
He laughed—sharp, humourless. “You think you know better than me how to handle this?”
“I know better than you how to handle this part,” she said. “You drive. I manage the fallout.”
His eyes hardened. “Maybe if you were better at it, there wouldn’t be any.”
The words landed like a slap. Her chest tightened, pride flaring hot.
“I can’t fix what you break on purpose,” she said quietly.
He held her gaze for a beat—something flickering behind the anger—then turned and walked away.
Mia stayed rooted, pulse racing, telling herself not to follow.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas knew the second it left his mouth.
The shift in the room. The recalibration. The instinct to double down had fired before reason could catch up. Always forward. Never retreat.
By the time Mia confronted him, the irritation was already armour—thick, reflexive.
She was too sure. Too calm. Too right.
He didn’t head straight to the hotel room. Instead he detoured to the makeshift physio setup in the team’s commissioned suite—standard for early weekend tweaks. Dana was already there, unpacking her kit.
He dropped onto the edge of the treatment table without a word. She took one look at his posture and started on his upper back—steady, unhurried pressure into the traps that had locked tight somewhere between London and Melbourne.
“You’re wound fucking tight,” she said. “Like you’ve been holding your breath since touchdown.”
“Jet lag.”
“Mm.” She didn’t call bullshit outright. “I heard the radio clip already circulating.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Then you know how that went.”
“You bit first,” she said mildly.
“They were laughing at me.”
She paused—just long enough for the silence to settle. “They were laughing with you. Until you turned it into a war.”
His jaw flexed under her thumbs. Dana felt the muscle lock harder, snapping into place.
“You still do that,” she said. “Strike before the blow lands.”
He said nothing.
She moved to his shoulders—solid, carved from years of punishing sessions. She’d known him since those shoulders were narrower, since they’d hunched against school taunts and the heavier weight of a name that demanded perfection before he could even reach the pedals.
“You’re not that skinny kid anymore,” she said, voice casual on the surface. “Haven’t been for a long time.”
His breath hitched—small, almost imperceptible.
“But your body remembers,” she went on. “Remembers waiting for the next shove. Remembers laughter that always came right before someone reminded you whose grandson you were supposed to be.”
He stared at the floor, jaw working.
“Back then it was classmates trying to cut you down,” Dana continued, easing the pressure to let blood flow.
“Now it’s the whole world watching, waiting for you to prove the Moreau name still means something—or fail so they can write the obituary early.
Either way, you’ve spent your life braced for the hit. ”
Silence thickened.
“You grew into someone they can’t ignore,” she said. “But that doesn’t erase the reflex. Laughter still sounds like trouble. Questions still sound like traps.”
“And Mia?” Dana added casually. “She’s not the enemy. She’s just calling what she sees.”
“Mia thinks I’m an arsehole,” he muttered.
Dana snorted. “Mia thinks you’re defensive.”
“Same difference.”
“No.” She stepped around to face him, arms crossed loosely. “An arsehole enjoys the wreckage. You look surprised every time it leaves blood.”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling. “She doesn’t trust me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” Dana said. “Big difference.”
He closed his eyes for a beat. “Doesn’t feel like one.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied.
She stepped back, giving him space.
“Just… try not to fight ghosts that aren’t in the room.”
He didn’t answer. Although the tension in his shoulders didn’t vanish—it eased. Folded smaller. Tucked away.
* * *
Mia
Mia returned to the conference room long after the crew cleared out, staring at her laptop screen until the words blurred. The headlines were already writing themselves:
MOREAU BOMBS AUSTRALIAN MEDIA DEBUT.
ARROGANCE ON DISPLAY AHEAD OF MELBOURNE GP.
She closed the tab, rubbed her temples, tried to breathe through the familiar spiral—failure, visibility, exposure.
Footsteps approached. She looked up.
Jax wandered in, two takeaway coffees in hand, looking like he’d just escaped a sponsor chat. He spotted her hunched over the table, paused, then headed straight over.
“Still at it?” he said, sliding one coffee across. “Double shot, no sugar. Figured you’d need the kick.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup. Warmth seeped in. “Thanks. How’d you know I was here?”
Jax dropped into the opposite chair, legs sprawled. “Saw the light on when I came for a top-up. You looked like you could use company that doesn’t bite.”
She managed a tired half-smile.
“Don’t take the radio thing to heart,” he continued. “Lucas has been doing the brooding thing since forever. Thinks silence makes him mysterious. Mostly just makes him hard work.”
Mia studied him. “You’ve known him long?”
“Long enough to know he’s not a total prick. Just… defensive.” Jax took a sip, winced at the heat. “Learned young that opening up gives people something to use. So he snaps first.”
She exhaled. “I’m not sure I’m equipped to crack that.”
Jax grinned, gentle. “You’re doing fine.
You don’t back down, don’t suck up, and you call it straight.
That’s exactly what gets through eventually.
He’s scared of the off-track stuff blowing up—not the driving, the bit where people see past the helmet and decide he’s overhyped.
Give him space to stuff up and live. He’ll come round. Grumpily.”
Mia looked down at the coffee. Steam curled.
Jax stood, stretched. “Right. I’ll leave you to it. He’ll grunt an apology eventually. Promise.”
He paused at the door. “And Mia? You’re killing it. Keep not letting him hide.”
She watched him go, easy stride. Maybe it would be ok.
* * *
At the track over the weekend, Lucas barely acknowledged her.
He moved through the paddock with purpose—short nods to engineers, quick words with Jax—but his gaze slid past Mia every time.
Each missed glance landed like a small, deliberate exclusion.
She stood at the garage edge during practice, arms folded, telling herself it was nothing personal.
He’s focused. That’s all. But the doubt crept in anyway: Or maybe I pushed too hard after the radio?
Maybe I’m the reason he’s shut me out? The thought carried the old, familiar weight from Oxford—the sense that she’d misread a situation, trusted too soon, and paid for it.
When he climbed into the car on Sunday, he didn’t glance her way.
Mia stayed at the pit wall, headset on, listening to the comms while the grid lights counted down.
The start was poor—bogged down immediately—and the unease settled deeper.
If I’d anticipated his mood better, if I’d found the right words Thursday night instead of walking away angry, maybe he’d be sharper today.
The strategy calls came too late; traffic boxed him in.
Lap after lap the screens showed him losing ground.
By the flag he was near the back—points gone.
Mia pulled off the headset amid the garage’s subdued murmurs, the failure sitting quiet but heavy in her chest.
Later she retreated to the half-dimmed hospitality corner she’d claimed for notes.
The space was quiet now, only the low hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of teardown outside.
She sat over her tablet, scrolling through race data and early media mentions, the words blurring slightly.
They’ll tie this to the radio clip. And that circles back to me—not catching it fast enough, not keeping him steady.
The exhaustion pressed in, mingling with the old question: was she truly capable of reading situations.
She rubbed her temples, trying to push the thought away. It never quite left.
Dana appeared then, slipping in with a bottle of water, her steady presence a brief anchor. “He’s not great at failing,” she said quietly, passing it over.
Mia let out a tired laugh that fell flat. “Neither am I.” The admission carried more weight than she meant, echoing the vulnerabilities she usually kept locked down.
Dana glanced at her, assessing, then gave a small nod.
“Looks like you could use a proper drink. Let’s commiserate later—away from all this.
” She squeezed Mia’s shoulder once—brief, steady—then turned and walked off toward the corridor, her footsteps fading into the general hum of the paddock winding down.
Mia sat alone again, the bottle cool against her palm. She sees it. Everyone probably does. I’m supposed to be the one who steadies things, and I’m barely holding myself together.
Then Lucas appeared in the doorway. Post-race, still raw: sweat darkening the fireproof collar beneath his unzipped suit, hair damp and mussed from the helmet.
His shoulders were set tight, every line of him coiled with frustration and fading adrenaline.
He looked worn in a way the cameras never caught, and something in Mia tightened at the sight.
“Happy?” he asked, voice low and rough, scraped raw from shouting over the engine.
She met his gaze.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m tired.”
Something shifted in his expression—barely there, a crack in the armour. He hesitated. His eyes dropped to her mouth for the briefest flicker—gone before she could name it—then snapped back up. The silence stretched, heavy and electric.
Then he turned and left, shoulders filling the doorway as he disappeared.
That night, Mia lay awake in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling while the city hummed beyond the window. She thought of home—of Amberley’s quiet fields, the scholarship that had carried her here, the distance she’d crossed only to end up feeling small again.
And of Lucas Moreau. Not just the arrogant headlines or the brilliant driver, but the man shaped by things she didn’t yet understand: the shadow of a legacy that demanded perfection, the reflexes honed against knocks he’d never admit to.
The way his shoulders had blocked the light earlier, the low rasp in his voice when he spoke to her like the words cost him something vital.
That flicker in his eyes when she’d said she was tired—as if he’d wanted to close the distance. To fix it. To fight it. To touch her.
Her skin prickled at the thought, heat pooling low in her belly. She turned over, pressing her thighs together against the sudden, unwelcome ache.
The season had only just begun, and already the air between them felt charged—like the breathless moment before a storm, or the split-second before the lights went out.