Gridlocked Hearts

XII

The stands of the Imola circuit were a sea of scarlet. And there were thousands of eager spectators each adorned in red shirts, hats, and waving flags, their unified voices creating a symphony of chants, cheers, and roars. They were a vivid ocean of fervent Ferrari fans, all desperate for the Italian team to get a podium. The Italian flag fluttered proudly in the breeze, its vibrant hues of green, white, and red covering every corner of the circuit. In the crowds, banners and flags, emblazoned with the iconic prancing horse logo, created a mesmerising tapestry, fiery red contrasting against the blue sky above.

It was a sight that never got old for Claude Beaufort, who was currently sprinting through the paddock, dodging journalists, celebrities, dignitaries, and needy VIPs. He was late. Extremely late. The team was going to kill him. Avoiding eager fans, and reporters with fancy microphones, he eventually bolted into the Ferrari motorhome, with sweat dripping from his eyebrow. He was met with a disapproving glare from Charlotte, as he coughed and gasped for air.

"What time do you call this?" She tutted, crossing her arms over her chest. Claude flushed, and tried to offer a grin, but he was still too out of breath, so it looked more like a grimace.

"French timing?" He offered, trying to elicit a smile from his head of PR, but his French counterpart just rolled her eyes. Claude knew that she hated tardiness, but it genuinely was not his fault. He couldn't help that the hotel had the softest pillows that he had ever come across, subsequently forcing him to sleep through his alarm.

"You are 45 minutes late," she sighed, staring him down, with disapproval etched across her face.

Claude pouted a little at the glare, before sending a grin in her direction.

"Bad traffic?" he quipped, once he had managed to get his breath back. Finally, a resigned smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and Claude smiled even harder.

"You are hopeless," Charlotte chuckled, and Claude winked at her.

"The meeting is in the room at the end of the corridor. I stalled as long as I could,"

This was why she was Claude's favourite member of the team. He grinned, grateful for her kindness, and placed a kiss on each of her cheeks.

"Charlotte, you are a star! Je t'aime!" He yelled, as he began to run towards the general location of the meeting.

"You won't be saying that after the meeting," She yelled back, and the driver's face dropped when he saw a knowing smile dancing across Charlotte's features.

———

"It's only going to take half an hour," Charlotte smirked towards both drivers, her face tinged with a hint of revenge and smugness.

Claude perched on a plush red sofa with his arms folded, and Noah to the left of him. After the meeting, which was a complete waste of everybody's time, the two drivers had been dragged by Charlotte, and the media team to another room. And now they both sat on the ugliest bright red sofa known to man, and facing a large camera lens. If the Frenchman did not know any better, he could have sworn that they were about to shoot some kinda of perverted porno. Now that would keep the creepy sponsors happy.

"Charlotte, this is ridiculous," he sighed, his words carrying a mix of annoyance and disbelief. Noah shuffled in his seat, refusing to meet Claude's gaze, and the Frenchman rolled his eyes. In fact, the driver hadn't said a word to him since their encounter with Clement Beaufort. Great. Not only did he have an asshole teammate, but he also had one who felt sorry for him having a shitty dad.

"It's your fault for being so late," Charlotte countered, completely unaware of Claude's inner frustrations with his teammate. The comment earned a snort from the media person beside her, and Claude sent the Italian girl a glare. She quickly dropped her smile.