𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐑 // carlos sainz

dos

chapter two
isabel martinéz

Today my brother wins the title.

I just know it. I can feel it.

It's Sunday, and that means race day. Engines sing, tyres kiss the track, and the sound of fans cheering in the distance grows stronger. Race weekend is filled with loads of anticipation and excitement, as we eagerly gather to cheer on the drivers. It's my favourite kind of weekend.

The garage hums with excitement, like a chorus of cicadas before a summer storm. Tools whisper tales of precision, the scent of fuel and burnt rubber paints the air.

In the middle of McLaren's pit garage stands my brother, his soul a whirlwind of nerves. He surrounds himself with his team of mechanics, engineers, and trainers, each one of them as committed to his succes as he is. Together, they fine-tune every aspect of his car, leaving no room for mistakes.

"Diego." I call for him.

As his biggest fan and confidante, I witness firsthand the intensity and dedication with which he prepares for a race. Diego is like a knight preparing for battle, an artist with the canvas of the racetrack before him. But he is nervous, especially today.

"What now?" He looks up, frustrated, whilst picking at the sleeves of his racing suit.

"Can you please sit still?"

His suit is like a second skin, that bears the weight of so many aspirations and expectations, clung to him like a warrior's armour. And with the famous twenty-seven stitched onto the back, he certainly is remarkable. He shouldn't pick at it, for that it's too expensive.

"I'm nervous." he admits.

Diego fiddles with everything that's loose and stuck. His racing suit. The beads of his bracelet. The chord of his earphones. The straw of his drink. Even the tear-offs on his helmet.

"Oh, really?" I chuckle.

He flips me off. "You're so funny, Isabel."

I smile and curtsy. "Why, thank you."

"Can you please shut the fuck—"

The door flies open, and my father walks in with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Ay, this is the worst coffee ever. Diego, tell your boss that he should invest in a better coffee machine." He complains a little more about the taste, but then takes a sip anyway.

"—up..."

We look at each other, suppressing a laugh that is so eager to come out. Diego sticks his tongue out to me, and I do the same to him.

"You look awful like that, Bells." he laughs.

I scoff. "Have you ever seen yourself?"

"Ohhhh, you are such a—"

I catch the death stare my father gives us, and supposedly, Diego sees it too, because a silence falls over us like a coat of snow amidst the winter. Our father is not particularly fond of us cussing, even more so because our mother is here, and she hates it.

"It's his nerves," I make an attempt to ease the situation, and more importantly, my father's temper. And I think it works.

"Yeah. I'm not usually like this, papá. I'm never this nervous. It hurts my stomach."  Diego rubs his belly to express how much pain he's in.