Chapter Text
OLIVIA
I almost didn't go.
I stared at the two tickets Oscar had sent me for over a day. One for the grandstands. One for his team's hospitality. Whatever that meant. And just like the dinner, his note was simple, charming, really.
One in case you want to see the cars fly.
One in case you want to see me.
I tried to ignore it. Then tried convincing myself it would be too much. That I had work. That I'd already crossed some invisible line by letting him kiss me like that. Touch me like that. Make me feel things I hadn't in years.
But to be honest, I've kissed him back.
I've touched him back...
Everything was consensual between us.
On Sunday morning, I was sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel, hair still damp, heart pounding. Because suddenly I made it my mind.
Fuck it.
I got dressed.
Short jeans, oversized white shirt, sunglasses on. It was the most casual I'd looked in a while, and still I spent half the drive wondering if I was insane.
By the time I reached Spa, the crowd was too much for me to cope. Huge queue for every entry on the track.
People everywhere, waving flags, wearing caps, funny costumes, chanting drivers' names.
Some screaming. Some with big banners with all sorts of messages. I didn't have a clue about anything and I was feeling like an outsider.
Inside the paddock, the energy shifted. Sleek. Intense.
Every person had a purpose, a uniform, a camera or headset. I felt like I'd stepped onto another planet.
But even so, even around here, there were fans chasing the drivers. Reporters, cameras, influential people from all over the world.
Everyone seemed to know what are they doing around that place.
And there was me...
I didn't fucking know another driver other than Oscar, but when people were starting to get crazy, I knew a driver appeared in their field of view.
Some of them very kind. Talking with the fans, doing interviews, smiling at the photos, signing caps, t-shirts, postcards. Others more focused and not paying too much attention with their fans.
I wondered in which category is Oscar...
And just as that thought landed, I took a wrong turn past a black and red rope and stumbled straight into something I very clearly wasn't supposed to be part of.
"No, no, no! Cut, cut!" someone shouted with a very strong italian accent.
I blinked.
There were lights, people around. And two men in bright red T-shirts, standing perfectly posed with the camera on them.
"Merde!" I muttered, freezing mid-step. "Bonjour?" one of them said. Dark hair, brown eyes, wide grin, amazingly beautiful. "Are you... lost? Or filming a sequel to Mission: Impossible?"
Uhm, french, maybe? The joke was quite bad so yeah, probably french.
The other one, the wanna be serious, was trying not to laugh.
"Fuck” I whispered. "I'm so sorry. Je suis désolée! I didn't mean to...I was looking for...shit."
"Ne vous en faites pas /Don't worry." The amazingly beautiful one said, leaning slightly toward me. "Ils ne parlent pas francais/ they don't speak french. Mais nous sommes habitues au chaos. Nous pilote pour Ferrari/ We are used to chaos. We drive for Ferrari."
I smiled awkwardly. What was that supposed to mean?!
"I think I just ruined your video" I said, in english now, flushing as I backed away, hands up. "Again, sorry!"
"Definitely going in the bloopers reel" the other one added, voice dry but amused with an unmistakable spanish accent. I half-laughed, mostly at myself. "Right. I'll just go....get lost somewhere else."
As I turned I could still hear them laughing, probably because of me or what I just said. I tried go regain my composure, which was already fucked up. But now…
Let the ground swallow me whole.
I whispered to myself.
Why Olivia? Why'd you have to come? This is a crazy, and you don't do crazy shits.
Then, just ahead I spotted the building with the logo McLaren. Showing the staff my pass, they raised their brows slightly, probably wondering who I was, and for whom I was there. I ignored them. It was just perfect to stay hidden for a while.
Because, I had enough exposure and drama for a long long time. And I really needed some strong drink to forget about that incident. But I refrained, I came by car and I don't drive and drink alchool.
Never.
The hospitality suite was polished and modern. Large sofas and arm chairs, a corner with plenty of food and people dressed quite sophisticated. But nothing could distract me from the sound outside.
Engines screaming in the distance. A roar that felt like it started in the earth and climbed through your bones.
Someone handed me a glass of sparkling water. Someone else offered lunch. But all I could do was stand there, eyes fixed on the screens, occasionally glancing out toward the track.
I somehow get it now. It was madness. Beautiful. Thrilling. A show you should definetely see once in your lifetime.
And then the race began.
Like a true nerd that I am, I've read few articles about Formula 1 in the last days. Watched some short videos and everytime I got scared seeing the speed.
Well, nothing prepared me for what it felt like to be so close. The sound. The vibration. The speed. Everytime Oscar's orange car flew by, my stomach clenched. He was fast. Too fast.
I caught myself holding my breath everytime I saw him.
Mid-race, as I sat by the glass railing watching the pit stop chaos below, a man approached. Expensive suit. Slicked hair. A little too much confidence.
"You're not from around here" he said, leaning in like we were old friends.
No shit.
I arched an eyebrow, hardly believing there are always the same persons around here.
But hey, the guy had to start with something.
Doesn't matter if it was stupid. I turned slightly, giving him a look. "No. I'm not."
"I'm guessing someone special invited you." Glancing at my McLaren VIP badge. Wow, Sherlock. You are too good. I sipped my water. "You could say that."
"Well, whoever he is... he's got excellent taste." He handed me a card like it was a magic trick.
For real dude?
"Thomas Hunt. Family's been in racing for very long time. You should let me show you the real behind-the-scenes sometime."
I glanced at the card. Old money. A flash of a smile. But his charm was skin-deep, and my skin wasn't interested.
"I'm fine just watching" I said with a small smile.
"Watching can be lonely" he added.
"Not always."
Dude, get a hint. I'm not interested.
He lingered a second too long before walking off, and I exhaled.
My eyes drifted back to the screen.
Last lap.
Oscar was P2 and crossing the finish line like a thunderbolt. His teammate took the first place, so the suite erupted. People clapped, laughed, hugged. I stood still, heart pounding in rhythm with the engines.
I couldn't even believe myself how happy I was for him.
I looked down at the paddock from the balcony. Mechanics and team staff flooding the pit lane. Media everywhere. Cameras, interviews.
It was like watching a different universe in real-time.
While watching the podium celebrations, I suddenly felt ridiculous. Out of place. Like a trespasser in someone else's world.
Okay, I saw his world. It was nice and thrilling but it wasn't for me. After a quick visit of the restroom I was so ready to go back to my home.
To my own private, quiet life. I didn't belong in this world of podiums and precision and headlines. And certainly not beside someone like him.
I did my part though, I came, I saw and concluded what I already had in my mind. This is not for me. Just as I turned toward the corridor, ready to slip out quietly. "Leaving without saying anything?" His voice stopped me.
I turned.
Still in his race suit, half unzipped to his waist, fireproofs clinging to his chest, hair and body soaked from the champagne showers, a bottle of water in his hand. And those brown and wild eyes locked onto mine. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first.