CHAPTER EIGHT
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Mia
The flight from Miami to Europe felt endless—recycled air and the low hum of engines matching the constant churn in Mia’s stomach.
The season had shifted gears: no more transcontinental sprints for a while, just the familiar, relentless European leg.
Imola, Monaco, Barcelona. Marquee circuits, high expectations, and the media microscope turned up to maximum.
They simply… started working.
It wasn’t avoidance, exactly. It was survival.
Back at the factory, Mia found her way to Dana’s cubicle. She hovered in the doorway for a second before stepping in and closing the door behind her.
Dana looked up from her screen. “You okay? You’ve got that look.”
Mia dropped into the spare chair. “Lucas came to my room. After the party in Miami.”
Dana’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t interrupt—just waited.
“Like… 2 a.m.,” Mia went on, quieter now. “Drunk. Knocked, came in, said he could feel me watching him the whole night on the dance floor. Every time one of those girls touched him, he was thinking about me. Whether it pissed me off. Whether it… you know. Turned me on.”
Dana let out a slow breath, half-laugh, half-wince. “He actually said that? Out loud?”
“Yeah.” Mia’s face heated again just remembering. “And then he… touched my face.” She brushed her own lower lip. “We were literally this close. I forgot how to breathe. And then he just pulled back. Muttered something about it not being fair, then left.”
Dana leaned back, folding her arms. “Jesus. That’s… very Lucas.”
Mia buried her face in her hands for a second. “I don’t even know what I wanted. Part of me was dying for him to kiss me. The other part wanted to shove him out the door. I’m a mess.”
“Hey.” Dana’s voice softened. “You’re allowed to be a mess. The guy’s intense. Always has been.”
Mia peeked through her fingers. “You’re not even surprised.”
Dana gave a small shrug. “I’ve known him since he was fourteen.
My little brother raced karts back then—pretty good, actually.
Won a few regional things, had sponsors sniffing around.
But nowhere near Lucas’s level. Lucas was already the one everyone whispered about.
The kid who could lap the field without breaking a sweat. ”
Mia lowered her hands. “You were around the circuits?”
“All the time. Mum and Dad dragged me along to every weekend. I’d sit in the stands or hang around the paddock, watching the drivers, the crews, the whole circus.
Got totally hooked. Knew I wanted to work in motorsport somehow.
Didn’t have the talent to drive, obviously, so I went the physio route—liked the idea of fixing people, getting them back in the seat.
And yeah… Lucas was always there, being this scary-talented, quiet kid who didn’t talk much but made the kart do things nobody else could. ”
Mia nodded slowly. “Makes sense why you’re not fazed by him.”
“Exactly. He doesn’t do half-measures. When he locks onto something—or someone—he’s all in. Doesn’t always know how to handle it, though.” Dana tilted her head. “You okay?”
“You’re literally the only person I could say it to without feeling like an absolute idiot.”
“Then keep saying it. Whenever. No judgment.”
Mia managed a small, shaky laugh. “I think I love you a little bit right now.”
Dana grinned. “Feeling’s mutual. Text me tomorrow, yeah? No matter what.”
“Yeah. Promise.”
* * *
On and off track, Lucas kept improving. Not dramatically—no podium miracles—but steadily.
In Imola, he navigated the tricky chicanes without incident, finished P11.
His press conferences grew less clipped; he answered questions with short, dry humour instead of flat dismissal.
Sponsors noticed. A watch brand rep pulled him aside after qualifying, smiling wider than before.
Monaco was trickier—narrow streets, zero room for error.
He qualified P10, finished P9 after a smart tire strategy in the wet-dry chaos.
Another couple of points. In the post-race interviews, he mentioned the team’s mechanics by name when thanking them for the pit stop.
The clip got shared. Fans commented: Finally, he’s thawing.
Barcelona delivered more of the same: solid P8, three points.
Consistent. Reliable. But not spectacular.
The car wasn’t a front-runner yet, and Lucas wasn’t dragging it beyond its limits.
Mia watched the numbers climb slowly—points here, media mentions there—but she also saw the whispers starting in the hospitality suites.
She overheard it first in the motorhome corridor after Barcelona qualifying: Marcus Lang murmuring to a senior engineer. “We need more than points. We need a face people want to root for. The kid from France—étienne Laurent—he’s got the charisma. Testing well in the sims too.”
Mia didn’t mention it right away. She waited until the flight to Montreal. They were seated across the aisle in business class, laptops open, cabin lights dimmed.
She slid her laptop over to him during a quiet stretch. A screenshot of an internal email chain she’d glimpsed on a colleague’s screen. No names, but the intent was clear: performance review at mid-season… fan engagement metrics… alternative options on the table.
Lucas read it. The line of his jaw hardened, but he didn’t explode. Just handed the laptop back. “They’re shopping for my replacement,” he said flatly.
“Not yet. But they’re looking.” She kept her voice even. “You’re scoring points. That’s progress. But fans want connection. Stories. Something to latch onto. You’ve started—press is better, sponsors like you more—but it’s not enough to lock in the seat.”
He stared at the seatback in front of him. “I’m not Laurent. I don’t do the Instagram reels and the cheeky grins.”
“You don’t have to be him. But you have to be more than the guy who wins quietly and walks away.” She paused. “They’re deciding contracts soon. Before the summer break. If you want to stay, you need to show them you can sell the team. Not just drive for it.”
He exhaled slowly. “And you think I can?”
“I think you’re closer than you were in Melbourne.” She met his eyes. “I think the guy who thanked the mechanics in Monaco is the same one who can do this. But you have to want it.”
Silence stretched. The plane hummed.
He nodded once. “Fine. Walk me through it. What do they need?”
They spent the rest of the flight working. Talking points for Canadian press. Social media ideas—nothing flashy, just authentic: a quick clip from the garage, a story about visiting the Wall of Champions. Sponsor meet-and-greets scripted lightly. Professional. Focused.
Neither mentioned Miami. Not the bar, not the hotel room, not the almost-kiss that still hung between them like static.
They kept it clinical: media, metrics, deliverables.
But every time their hands brushed passing notes, or their eyes met a second too long, the memory flickered—heat, tequila, the way his thumb had grazed her lip.
They both ignored it. This was business. Survival.
* * *
Lucas
In Montreal, the paddock thrummed with anticipation—breath fogging in the cold, engines turning over in the distance, the air thick with fuel and expectation.
Lucas hit the media pen running. He stuck to the lines Mia had helped him prep—concise but warmer, acknowledging questions, cracking a small joke about the cold compared to Miami.
He posed for photos with fans without rushing off.
Posted a quick Instagram story from the pit wall: Montreal mornings. Cold tires, hot coffee. Let’s go.
It felt weird at first, like he was trying on someone else’s personality, but the likes rolled in, comments got less brutal. Journalists hung around longer. A sponsor gave him a nod that actually meant something. He wasn’t pulling Laurent-level viral shit, but he was showing up. That was enough.
Every time he caught sight of Mia—headset on, clipboard in hand, moving through the garage—he felt the old embarrassment flare up his neck.
Right after Miami he’d barely slept for two nights straight, replaying it: the stupid knock at 2 a.m., the tequila-loose words spilling out, the way he’d touched her face like he had permission, the way she’d leaned in just enough before he panicked and ran.
God, he’d felt like such a prick afterward.
Couldn’t look at himself in the mirror for days without cringing.
So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do: shut down.
Avoided her in the paddock, kept briefings short, answered texts with single words, sat on the opposite side of every flight and meeting.
Not because he was angry. Because looking at her made the memory hit fresh every time—her steady eyes, the way she hadn’t flinched, the way she’d let him get that close before he bailed.
He’d convinced himself distance would kill the feeling.
It hadn’t. It just made the silence louder.
Then the flight to Montreal. She’d slid the laptop across the aisle with that screenshot of the internal email chain. No preamble, no drama—just the facts: performance review at mid-season… fan engagement metrics… alternative options on the table.
He’d read it. Jaw locked.
And instead of letting the awkwardness win—again—she’d offered to help. Walked him through what he needed to do. No mention of Miami. No recrimination. Just the job. He’d had to swallow the embarrassment whole, stuff it down deep, and take it. Seat on the line—pride didn’t get a say.
And fuck, it actually worked. They prepped on the plane, nailed the weekend—no weird silences, no drama. Media went okay, posts landed, sponsors smiled. It felt… normal. He started letting himself hope that was it—clean slate, back to business.
By Sunday, P10. Another point. Marcus slapped his shoulder in the garage, actual grin. “Good weekend, mate. Keep building.”
* * *
That evening, contract talks in the small conference room. Just Marcus, the commercial director, and his manager on speaker. Numbers flew: pay bump, points clauses, image rights if the fan stuff kept improving.
Marcus leaned in. “We like where you’re heading. Points ticking up, press isn’t calling you the ice-man anymore. But we need to know you’re all-in on the off-track side too. Team sells on personality these days.”
Lucas kept it steady, echoing what she’d drilled into him. “I’m not gonna turn into some TikTok guy. But yeah, I’ve been too quiet. I’m working on it. Garage sees it, fans are starting to. I want this seat. I’ll deliver.”
Marcus held his gaze a second, then nodded. “Good enough for now.”
No signature yet—lawyers still circling—but the vibe changed. No more Laurent whispers in the room. He’d bought time.
After everyone cleared out, Lucas sat there a minute staring at the draft. Relief.
He grabbed his stuff and headed for the corridor. Spotted her near the exit—headset off, coat on, looking tired but calm.
She glanced up. “How’d it go?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, kept a bit of distance like always lately. “Leaning yes. Thanks to what you gave me.”
She gave a little shrug, that small smile creeping in. “You pulled it off.”
He nodded, eyes dropping to the floor for a beat. Silence wasn’t bad, for once.
He cleared his throat. “See you at the factory next week.”
“Yeah. Safe flight.”
He turned to go, then stopped. “Mia?”
“Yeah?”
“If I sign… we keep this going. You and me.” He made himself look at her.
“And… sorry about Miami. I was wasted. Shouldn’t have shown up like that. And I shouldn’t have gone quiet on you after. I just… didn’t know how to face you. So I didn’t. That was shitty.”
She blinked, surprised, but didn’t flinch. “It’s fine. We don’t need to—”
“Nah, it’s not fine.” He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward. “Just… won’t do it again. Either part.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He gave a quick nod and started walking. But halfway down the corridor he caught the way she’d smiled—small, real—and something hot twisted low in his gut, same as that night. Pulse kicked up. Shit. He’d thought burying it for a weekend would kill it. Turns out it was still right there, waiting.
The season rolled on. Contract secured. For now.