Breath out.
Hold.
Repeat.
Control. That was all this sport ever demanded. Every corner, every line, every word in front of a camera. Control your image. Your tone. Your split-second reactions.
But in the ice water, control looked different. It was surrender. Not to the cold—but to stillness.
The pain edged away, leaving behind something quieter. Cleaner.
Aleks Volkov, reduced to his purest form.
Breath.
Heartbeat.
Focus.
Chapter Fourteen – Shanghai Media Day
Elena Archer – Shanghai, Thursday
The paddock buzzed like a live wire—cameras whirring, lenses clicking, voices rising in a dozen languages. The air was warm with the promise of rain, heavy with humidity and tension. By mid-morning, my shirt clung to my back and my feet already ached, but I kept moving.
Media day was a war of smiles and soundbites, and I was deep in the trenches.
I made the rounds like my career depended on it—because it did. Team principals. PR reps. Mechanics I’d charmed over dumplings on Wednesday lunch time. Never underestimate the journalistic power of a free lunch. I asked questions that wouldn’t ruffle feathers, took notes I’d probably never use, nodded like everything they said mattered. The socialising I’d done earlier in the week was finally paying off; the frostiness that had followed me through Singapore and Suzuka had thawedinto cautious smiles and a few whispered tips. Nothing concrete. Nothing I could run with. But the shift in energy was enough to keep me going.
And for now, that had to be enough.
I hovered just behind the TV cameras, pretending to check my notes while Caroline prepped for her next interview. Her dark curls were slicked back today, her makeup matte and camera-ready despite the heat. She glanced at me and shot a smile before turning back to the crew.
Her guest was already waiting, arms folded across his Hawthorn-branded polo, one eyebrow raised in what could only be described as theatrical impatience.
Luca Moretti.
If Volkov was ice, Moretti was flame—pure Mediterranean swagger and impossible charm. Charisma dialled up to eleven. Hair just messy enough to look accidental, smile full of teeth and trouble. Every inch the golden boy of Hawthorn Racing. And he knew it.
“Rolling in five,” the cameraman called. “Four, three…”
Caroline stepped into frame and launched into her intro on the signal. “I’m joined now by Luca Moretti— Shanghai’s three-time race winner, crowd favourite, and a man who always gives us something to talk about. Luca, welcome.”
He flashed the camera a grin so dazzling it probably had its own fan club. “What about my four other podiums here? Caroline, you wound me.”
“Oh, forgive me,” Caroline said, playing along. “I forgot you measure success in champagne showers.”
“The sticky ones are the most satisfying,” he replied, deadpan.
Behind the camera, a few of the crew snorted. Caroline kept her composure, just.
“I’ll rephrase,” she said. “You’ve got a strong record here. Is it one of your favourite circuits?”
“Shanghai is bella,” he said, eyes misting with something that might’ve actually been fondness. “Fast corners, technical sectors… she rewards precision. And when she gets wet?” He flashed a grin. “Even better.”
“And speaking of rain…” Caroline said with rock solid composure. “The forecast says there’s a good chance of showers on Sunday.”
“I like rain,” he said, voice dropping half an octave. “It levels the field. Brings out the real drivers.”
