“This is Wally Pulaski fromApex. Wally, you know Shep, obviously. This is Nevin, our head mechanic, and Elena, who keeps us all organized.”
Elena was Meridian’s communications director, a sharp woman in her forties who immediately started grilling me about my background and what kind of story I was working on. But she did it with enough charm that it felt like professional curiosity rather than suspicion.
“Apex is serious journalism,” she said, accepting a glass of Cava from the bartender. “Not the usual tabloid nonsense we usually deal with. What’s your angle on Jonathan’s season so far?”
“The long game,” I said, which was true enough. “How a decade of preparation is paying off now that he’s got competitive machinery.”
“Good angle. Most people just see the glamour, not the years of grinding through midfield teams.” Elena nodded approvingly. “You understand the sport.”
Nevin told stories about working on cars that were barely fast enough to qualify. Shep explained the technical challenges of switching from a midfield team’s approach to front-running strategy. Elena shared insights about how driver personalities affected team dynamics.
And Jonathan was perfect. Professional, charming, treating me exactly like any other journalist without a hint of the personal connection between us. If anyone suspected we had history, they gave no sign of it.
But there were moments. His hand brushing mine when he passed me a plate of patatas bravas. The way he caught my eye during Nevin’s story about a disastrous pit stop in Hungary three years ago. Small things that probably looked like polite attention to a casual observer but felt electric to me.
“The thing about Barcelona,” Shep was saying as we shared a plate of grilled octopus, perfectly tender and charred, “is that it’s a complete reset from Monaco. Monaco’s all about precision and nerves. Barcelona’s about pure speed and strategy. If you can win here, you can win anywhere.”
He spoke the way he did in briefings. His words carried the quiet confidence of someone who’d run this circuit a hundred times in his head. I’d expected him to pivot to Jonathan, but he didn’t. He kept his focus on the track, on tire windows and overtaking zones, as if the race itself were the only safe subject.
“And for you?” I asked. “Moving up from Formula 2 to Formula 1 with him—does it feel like a reset too?”
For the first time since we’d sat down, Shep hesitated. It was subtle: a pause to sip his water, a glance past me toward the paddock lights. When he looked back, his expression had settled into polite neutrality.
“My job’s the same,” he said. “Make sure the car’s right. Make sure Jonathan’s ready. Everything else is noise.”
He said it lightly, almost with a smile, but the conversation closed like a door. I had the distinct sense I’d stepped up to a boundary he wasn’t interested in crossing. Whatever Barcelona meant to him personally, he folded it neatly out of sight and steered us back to safer ground.
After dinner, Jonathan bid his teammates goodbye and came over to me. “Walk with me?” he asked quietly. “There’s something I want to show you.”
The Gothic Quarter was alive with tourists and locals, the narrow medieval streets filled with the sound of conversation and laughter from dozens of restaurants and bars.
“This way,” Jonathan said, leading me through a maze of stone streets that looked like they hadn’t changed much since Columbus sailed for the Americas.
We emerged into a small plaza dominated by a Gothic cathedral, its spires reaching toward the star-filled sky. A few couples sat on benches around a fountain, and street musicians were playing something classical on a violin and guitar.
“Beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
“I found this place two years ago, when I was driving for that awful team that couldn’t afford decent hotels. I’d come here after bad races, trying to remember why I loved this sport enough to keep torturing myself.”
We sat on one of the benches, close enough that our shoulders touched. The contact was casual, something that could be explained as two friends sharing limited space, but it sent warmth through my entire nervous system.
“And now?”
“Now I come here because it’s beautiful, not because I need reminding.”
I looked at him in the soft light from the streetlamps, seeing the contentment in his expression. “Monaco changed something for you.”
“It changed everything.” He turned to meet my eyes.
“Jonathan…”
“I know we agreed to take this slow, to figure it out as we go. But I need you to know, this isn’t about nostalgia or unfinished business from college. You’re not the same person you were then, and neither am I. But the way I feel when I’m with you, the way you see me… That’s exactly the same.”
The words settled between us, warm and dangerous. I should have said something about professional boundaries, about the complications of dating a driver I was covering. How one rumor in the paddock could cost me access and credibility, maybe ruin my chance at a career beyond local journalism.
Instead, I kissed him.
Even as I did, the risks flashed through me. It could cost him, too. Formula 1 sold itself on speed and bravado and a certain kind of masculinity; if our relationship became public, Jonathan wouldn’t just be a contender anymore. He’d be a headline, and headlines were distractions in a sport that punished them.
