Moscow Mule - [Pierre Gasly]

I

PIERRE GASLY sucked his lower lip into his mouth as he hopped into the elevator, his fists rapidly moving towards the stomach of his trainer, pretending to punch him. Pyry simply rose an eyebrow, looking at him as the clock showed eight-thirty in the a.m. "What's gotten into you?" Pyry asked, tapping on the button to let the elevator close its doors and bring them down to the lobby of the hotel. "Miami got into me, Pyry. I can't wait to be out on the track," Pierre replied, taking his phone into his hand and he unlocked the screen, his thumb moving to the Instagram icon. "Crazy how these people love the sport so much already," Pyry replied, remembering the way the fans had come to the track on Thursday already, hoping to catch a glimpse of their heroes before the raceweekend started. Yesterday evening, they had dinner with the legendary Michael Jordan, which caused a permanent grin on Pierre's face. The elevator doors opened when it stopped at the lobby. Pierre's backpack was swung over his shoulders, a water bottle in his hand, as they crossed the reception to the exit.

While Pierre loved pleasing the fans and signing things, and taking pictures, to make them happy, he was glad the hotel exit wasn't crowded like in some other places. Pyry had the car keys, and he was driving to the track today. The police bikes were ready, their sirens and lights on, to escort them from the hotel to the circuit. This Grand Prix weekend is fancy, and Pierre loved everything about it. He loved being in the United States, exploring Miami, and having dinner with other athletes. He had only driven the track in the simulator so far, and he couldn't wait to feel what it was like to drive over it for real today. Besides that, this city knows how to party, and he was surely looking forward to a good party after a good Saturday or Sunday. Because of the police escort, the two could easily cut through traffic. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the parking lot of the circuit. It started to get crowded the closer they got, with fans lined up behind the gates and waving as the drivers entered the circuit. "Yuki is not here yet," Pyry mentioned, reversing into the assigned parking spot, the one next to them empty.

"Surprise much," Pierre chuckled, opening the door to get out of the car. While it's still early, the paddock is vibrant already. It's filled with teams walking around, guests of the teams busy taking pictures and videos, and photographers ready to take their shots of the drivers entering the paddock. He was catching eyes as he was draped in a Miami Dolphins jersey with his racing number on it, a pair of sunnies covering his eyes, his cross necklace dangling down to his chest as always. He felt good, he looked good, and he knew it. Pierre would lie if he said he didn't love the attention he got. He's good at flattering women, he's good at flirting with them, he loves it when they giggle if he winks at them. He became a single man recently, maybe he currently got the reputation of having a new girl each weekend. Pierre couldn't care less about what other people thought about him. He had the time of his life. He entered the AlphaTauri hospitality, taking his sunglasses off and hooking them into his shirt. "Good morning, Pierre," some of the team greeted him, which he replied to with a smile.

"Pierre, good that you're in," Fabiana, his press officer, started right away. "We have a busy schedule. Especially after your dinner with Michael Jordan last night," the Italian continued. Fabiana had been working in Formula 1 for a very long time, and Pierre could only be happy that she was guiding him through the fire of questions from the media over and over again. "And the pictures of you getting close with a girl the weekend before that," she eyed him over the top of her glasses when Pierre sat down in the officer. He let out a low chuckle. "It didn't mean anything," he said. "It's not like I can prevent people taking pictures or me appearing in a post somewhere," he said, leaning back in his seat while Fabiana shoved the schedule of today under his nose. "I know, and it's your personal life, but sometimes you get yourself in trouble, Pierre," Fabiana spoke, a smile on her lips nevertheless. The twenty-six-year-old grinned, lifting the paper from the table. "Alright, so, interviews, interviews, breakfast, interviews..." He summed up, his eyebrows rising with a sigh.

AZAR HOSSEINI leaned back against the balustrade of the paddock club balcony above the pit lane. "White is your colour, darling," her friend, Daria, said as she took some pictures of Azar. "Any colour is my colour," Azar replied. Her fingers were loosely curled around a glass of champagne as she looked into the camera with a sultry look. "Stunning, babe. Check them out if you want," Daria handed the phone back to Azar, who simply, but it back in her back to take a look at them later. Azar turned to the view again, watching as the cars zoomed by, some of them entering the pit lane. Azar's father is a shareholder of Ferrari Trento, the company delivering the podium champagnes for Formula 1. They could go to a race anytime they wanted. While Azar was never interested in the sport, her father kept pushing that she came along sometime, he'd arrange that she could take her friends. Now there was a race in Miami, it made everything more attractive. And if she was very honest, it was all very interesting. She had been reading the folder that was handed to her, which listed the program for the weekend.

Her two friends, Daria and Yasna, were joining her, but they moved to sit down at the table again, sipping on the glass of champagne a waitress from the Paddock Club just put down in front of them. Azar felt the wind in her hair as she leaned on the metal railing again, watching as the blue and white car with number 10 sped down the straight and into the curves of the circuit. The second free practice session was about to end, and they had spent half a day on the track. While Azar felt like she showed up to please her father, she actually liked watching the cars and the life inside the paddock. Next to her father being a part of Ferrari Trento Champagne, Azar modelled for a lot of brands. As Prada had sent her some bags in a PR package, she could make some campaigns here to post on her social media pages. Azar leans over the railing to see the cars return to the pit lane, and soon after they were parked in the pit boxes by their teams. "Shall we head down and out? Stroll a bit through the paddock, maybe," Yasna suggested, getting up from the table. Azar nodded in agreement.

Daria got up too, and the three girls made their way downstairs, guided to the exit of the Paddock Club above the pitlane. Reporters, journalists and more media gathered around the pitbox exits of Ferrari and Red Bull to catch the drivers in front of their cameras and microphones after the first day of the raceweekend was finished. "Can we take a picture here?" Azar asked, and Daria automatically reached out for Azar's phone. Her friends were supportive of her modelling career, and they were mostly the ones to take her pictures if she needed to promote anything while they were somewhere together. Azar posed with ease, holding the glittery Prada bag by its handle. She stepped forward to create the walking effect, and was about to pose again when she bumped into someone. A pair of hands on her waist prevented her from stumbling over her own feet or twisting her ankles on her heels. Azar cleared her throat as she was steady on her feet again. She looked into a bright pair of blue eyes, a cap pushed backwards over his hair, firm chest cladded with a white fireproof shirt.

"Excuse me, you're in my picture," Azar spoke up, making the driver drop his hands to his sides again. "Well, I work here," he shot back at her. "So do I, hotshot," she replied, because technically, she was. "Baby, I am the picture," the driver said, spreading his hands as he was about to continue walking, the grin on his face showing he didn't mind the argument at all. "And I'm pretty sure I saved you from falling on that pretty face," he added. "You're still in my picture," Azar ignored his comment with a chuckle. The driver grinned at her, his right eye dropping in a wink, the cap showing the number 10 on it as he turned around. "Girl, he was totally flirting with you," Daria said, handing her phone. "And he was so hot?" Yasna added. "He bumped into you on purpose, let me tell you," Daria continued. "Alright, I don't care," Azar stopped her friends before they could say anything else. "He's not the only hot guy here," she added, as she just flashed Carlos Sainz a dashing smile when he walked by. The girls exited the paddock, making their way to their car. It was a Bentley Continental that was theirs for the weekend.

"He's the only single, though. Or well, he has on and off relationships," Yasna read from her phone. "He apparently fucks any girl he likes," she concluded. "I spoke five words to him, why are you half planning my future with this driver? What's his name even?" Azar laughed, sitting down behind the wheel. "His name is Pierre Gasly, darling. You should look him up."

A/N: first chapter to get into the story and get a bit of the vibe. Classic bumping into meeting, but they will get more time together soon enough anyway. Let me know your thoughts or any feedback!