I Forgot To Remember To Forget [Nicholas Latifi]

Chapter 1

"Got the music in you baby tell me why - you've been locked in here forever and you just can't say goodbye..."

(Cigarettes After Sex, Apocalypse)

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Y/N wonder why it always ends the same.

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Y/N stands at the forefront of the press-designated zone of the paddock. Her posture straight, and demeanor confident – despite meeting shoulder-to-shoulder with numerous other journalists around, there is no hint of nervousness in her. One hand carries a small tape recorder, the other grasps a small notepad – dozens of questions hastily scribbled onto it's pages.

The British Grand Prix had just concluded, and the effect of its results could be felt all throughout the paddock. Through the glum faces and joyous cheers, there were winners and losers all around.

But right now, her race would begin. The race for the best post-race interview... the best soundbite!

She's still new to the whole journalism thing, but make no mistake she's not a fool - a good story can make or break a driver's career... it can make or break her career.

Just as impatience begins to settle in her, an all-too familiar figure in a Williams race-suit begins to walk over. Excitement builds through the crowd, as Y/N hears the flapping of notebooks and the *clacks* of cameramen turning on their equipment. Hundreds of questions run through her mind:

"Thoughts on the race today, George?"

"How did you feel about the car's performance today?"

"William have yet to score a point in the leaderboard, any thoughts?"

"Thoughts on driving your first home Grand Prix?

"Any thoughts on the rumours suggesting you for the 2022 Mercedes seat?"

BF

The last one was the holy grail of every F1 journalist at the moment. Russell's predicted move to Mercedes was the most discussed piece of discourse, second only to the WDC race – and this, Y/N knew. If she could score an exclusive interview like that... well, then she'd be made. No longer would she have to answer to every whim of an impatience boss breathing down her neck... she could have something to show for.

These thoughts pre-occupied her for a second or two, that it was only when she noticed the sudden lack of excitement from the press, that she was puzzled and looked over at the Williams driver. Only to find that it wasn't an extraordinary George Russell who was walking through the press zone, but his rather plain Canadian teammate – Nicholas Latifi.

And just like that, her innocent excitement is replaced by spiteful resentment.

He walks sheepishly, with little to no confidence in his stride - eyes desperately looking around to find solace in a group of people who just wouldn't give it to him. She understands why. He's had a tough race; tough season, more like.

The reporters surrounding Y/N have settled down as well, and she hears a couple of journalists ask if the man walking is really a driver; she can't help but stifle a laugh.

Y/N isn't surprised. He's forgettable – another name on the leaderboard, easily replaceable and easily forgotten. And Y/N doesn't deal with forgettables. She's a reporter on the rise - a woman working in the unforgiving world of F1. Always looking for the next best story, the next best driver.