Gasoline ~ Daniel Ricciardo

03| Shards

The two Italian waiters in the foyer opened the French-Style patio doors, allowing the soft music to escape and the clinking of glasses to bless the evening air. The moment the doors had been opened for myself and Toto, I was drowning in the overwhelmed by the scents of wine, colognes and the fragile male ego of my fellow grid members. The last part is a joke, by the way, but God, you could smell their ego's from a mile off. And they stank.

"Grazie," I politely used the entire extent of my Italian skills to thank the two men, and waited for Toto to appear by my side. He held his arm out for me to take and he escorted me into the dining area. My heart was thumping loud in my ears, the taste of blood on my lips as the nerves crept up my spine and presented itself by the telltale shaking of my hands.

Inside, the atmosphere was romantic, something the Italians and the French were notorious for, and there were red candlesticks stood in the centre of every table, with the table numbers being sat underneath in the Italian words for the numbers. Luckily for me, most of the Romance languages are similar, which meant that I was somehow able to read the numbers whilst searching for the '1' which had been placed at the direct front and centre of the ballroom-styled room we were in. When I looked up, I was breathless. The ceiling had been painted with a renaissance styled mural, one which heavily insinuated the thin line between pleasure and pain, and I was so impressed at the decoration in itself, that I almost missed Toto sidestepping to avoid me crashing into Lando Norris.

"Sorry," I apologised to the young McLaren driver, and followed Toto further into the hazy room.

All of the other drivers had either found their seats and were stood behind them chatting, or were milling by the bar area, which I believed the FIA were paying for this evening. The bar itself was packed, multiple of my colleagues stood around bantering with each other or tasting the wines on offer, and I noticed Ricciardo. He himself was stood closest to the residence hallway, and he was drinking a glass of champagne, by the looks of it. I noticed the way he drank it, the every bubble sitting on his tongue as he swirled it around his pallet, and his eyes locked on to mine.

I averted my gaze quickly, settling on Charles, who was walking over like an excited puppy whilst holding out a glass of Champagne, the cherry in the bottom appearing rather unusual for what I'd usually find in the bottom of the glass. I was used to raspberries or strawberries... not cherries. It seemed rather arbitrary to me. The feeling of being watched continued, and I shuffled under the feeling of it.

"Merci, Charles," I thanked him, and Toto excused himself whilst I was left with my best friend, "I've never seen cherries with Champagne before," I held the glass up to the light and noticed how nice the fruit inside actually looked. I'm sure it would be a good combination - the Italian's were great at perfecting good food and drink.

Charles corrected my French, and mentioned that I had muddled the tenses up, but he reassured me that it wasn't too much of an issue, "Soon you'll be better at French than I am," he joked in English, and I reclined slightly, allowing myself to loosen up. "You look stressed," he followed up, and was about to continue the conversation when someone smashed a bottle of wine on the floor.

I cheered, and found the room rather void of other cheers (except those from Lewis and Lando) as people didn't usually cheer about broken glass, apparently. I apologised quickly, and made my excuses before dashing over to help the poor waiter. Instead of accepting my help, he waved my hands away and commented about how he didn't want me injured again. I flushed as I realised he was making an off handed comment about my knuckles.

My knees clicked when I extended to my full height once more, and apologised to the waiter. I noticed how a few of the other drivers were stood near, offering their hands for me to stand, but I hadn't realised until after I stood up. Ricciardo was stood almost immediately to my right, and I looked at the concern on his face. How the little lines on his forehead married his eyebrows as they furrowed above his eyes - their colour still being indescribable to this moment.