I don’t know why I bothered. He’s an absolute child.
‘What makes you think I need Photoshop?’ I swish my ponytail behind me and stride ahead.
I’ve been to the Hard Rock Stadium before, but it didn’t look a thing like this. The field’s been replaced by sleek, modular buildings like boutique pop-ups, branded to each team. It’s completely surreal. Every two-storey suite has a balcony looking onto their own garden area – in astadium. The atmosphere’s polar opposite to a football game, all clinking glasses and quiet chatter.
I have the overwhelming sense that I’m not supposed to be here. There are no influencers and media, photo ops and crazed fans. It’s exclusively team personnel, celebrities, corporate suits, and me, in my denim two-piece and knee-high boots. I feel like Western Barbie.
I clutch my paddock pass like it’s the only thing keeping me from being tossed out like a dirty imposter. At least it’s more reliable than the impulsive moron beside me who can’t pass a single unit without stopping to talk to people. I wouldn’t put it past him to give me a fake lanyard.
‘How can you be sure Étienne’s not going to be here?’ I whisper as we pass the RaceX and Tenzing suites.
‘It’s way too early for him, he had breakfast like an hour ago,’ says Tiago. ‘Besides, I was diligent and checked his schedule. He’s doing interviews in the media centre until one-thirty.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘You checked, or your sister checked?’
‘I’ve been busy! I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re not exactly set up for glory today. Matter of fact, I don’t even have a working car right now. Hey, man!’ he greets someone in Volare uniform.
At this rate, we’ll be pulling up to Martinelli with Étienne.
‘And you’repositiveTom’s going to be here?’ I press to get him back on track. ‘Did you arrange this with him like I asked?’
‘He always goes for an early lunch for evening and night races. Quit worrying.’
I look back at Leone’s blinding orange unit. It looks like someone’s taken a highlighter to it. ‘I know I’m new to F1, but don’t drivers stick to their own team’s hospitality?’
‘Nah, it’s pretty fluid.’
Why don’t I believe him? Trusting people isn’t my forte, and he’s not exactly an easy man to trust. But what choice do I have?
My heart beats a hundred miles an hour as we close in on Martinelli. Tom and Étienne’s enormous faces stare back at me as we pass the railing, and I swallow the urge to shrink in my boots.
I stop. ‘And have?—?’
‘Enough with the questions already!’ He shoves me towards the door. I mean, it’s only small – a jolt, really – but the injustice of it ripples through me.
‘Don’t touch me.’
He ignores my ire. ‘Ladies first,’ he says blandly, motioning to the entry.
‘Don’t let the door hit you,’ I mutter, whipping it shut with my foot. I can hear his hiss through the glass and award myself an imaginary clap.
Air conditioning envelopes me in a wave of sweet deliciousness. There are white marble floors, Italian furniture, and screens showing replays of qualifying yesterday. Thankfully, not the part where Tiago nearly propelled himself into the wall. I’m not going to wear his jersey any time soon, but I don’t want to see him smushed. I need him.
He seems to knoweveryone. It’s hard to believe this isn’t his team. His popularity makes for a slow journey to the buffet, and it takes all my restraint not to glance to the heavens every five seconds. To his credit, he’s good with names and faces, and hisaffability feels genuine. I don’t know for sure, of course, since it’s never been directed at me.
As I wait in line for scallops (at a sports event?!), I allow myself a peek around the room. It’s buzzing with staff and sponsors, sitting on long tables like Wagamama, all speaking English with different accents. I can’t see Tom, but then again almost everyone’s in Martinelli uniform. It’s likeWhere’s Wally?in here.
‘C’mon,’ Tiago says as I struggle to fit a watermelon slice on my overflowing plate. I have to speed up to keep from losing him in the mass, though it helps that he stands out like an orange lifeboat.
‘Am I allowed to go up there?’ I whisper as we pass a sign on the stairs sayingRESTRICTED ACCESS – TEAM PERSONNEL ONLY.
Tiago blanks me, charging ahead. His demeanour’s changed now it’s just us. Is he being… shifty? Come to think of it, he barely looked at me since we entered the stadium. Then again, this is Tiago Cabrera, and he’s all kinds of inexplicable. The only person whose nerves should be sparking is me. I’m in an area I’m not allowed, belonging to a team who despise me, with a man who’d dump me in a second to save his own skin.
I’m overthinking this. It will work. Itbetterwork.
Upstairs is much quieter. A lounge area with cream sofas, closed office doors, a coffee bar (Italian team, naturally), and a long wooden table where Tom’s eating and reading a magazine.
My breath snags in my chest. I can’t believe it, the dickhead was actually right.
