𝗖𝝝𝗟𝗗 𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗘

𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡

Lando Norris

"We'll get them next time," The ghost of a forced a pat left behind on my back.

Neon yellow helmet securing my skull, adding a protective layer between me and the rest of the world.

I don't dare to take it off after delivering horrendous results like that. Not anymore.

The image of it flying across the room, fuel for paparazzi.

'average and aggressive'

The displeased look of my PR and media manager fixated on me as I read the headline of the most recent thing written about me. Someone managed to get an ideal shot of my brand new helmet, smashed onto the concrete after Russel had sent my car flying across the circuit in Australia.

Recalling the ugly, red font on the front page of the article.

Average and aggressive.

"I need to cool off for a few." My drivers room right after the set of stairs.

P18. A fucking joke.

Most certainly had better views than the back of Lance Strolls car throughout the entire, fucking race.

"Lando, a quick talk." Hands crossed over one another. Orange media pass dangling over the unnecessary name tag.

"Actually Amanda, bad timing. Whatever it is, later." I serve the same lame reply she had, countless times before.

"Alright, guess you don't mind doing the YouTube video then."

The cushions inside the helmet slide off my head, fingers running trough the damp curls.

I don't do media stuff. Ever.

My eyelids close and reopen, blankly staring, waiting for my PR manager to elaborate further.

"We need to work on your internet presence," dark hairs match her terrible ideas.

Who made that woman Media manager.

"No we don't."

"Yes Lando, we do. You're not doing enough."

"Hell I am. You said I wouldn't have to do shit if I kept my mouth shut." My fingers tighten around the visor rim.

"Yes, I did. We thought it would be better if the press didn't have more material to use against you." Reminding me of the countless scandals involving 'problematic' interview answers.

"The internet can only go a certain amount of time without news about relevant people. They're starting to loose interest, rumors won't keep you afloat for much longer. Which is why we'll need you to participate in more media content. Interviews, videos, whatever is needed to polish or let's say... spark up your public image."

Sure. My holy and lovely public image.

"You'll do it with Oscar. Miami Grand Prix."

__________

My lock screen lights up, again. And again, and again.

I let myself fall onto the couch. A slight spin to the ceiling as I lay flat on my back.

It vibrates, again. And again, and again.

Mixing with the ringing in my ears, the heaviness in my bones and the weight of my head.

Ding, again. And again, and again.

Hammering against my walls, pulling close my eyelids and cutting off oxygen flow.

Did I hear someone knock?

Again. And again, and again.

The door creaks open, for the first time since it was closed.

"You alright kid?"

My nostrils flare wide, a big inhale automatically forcing my chest to rise.

The top of my hood hangs still over my face, but the mans voice is enough for me to identify.

"C'mon, it's time to leave."

"I'll be out in a second Zak," the squeaky door closes back up.

Fucking hell I need a drink.

My feet carry me out of my drivers room, barely. I spot the white fridge, sneaking a brown glass bottle under my hoodie after ignoring the 'mechanics only' sign fixated with duck tape.

Behind the hospitality. The narrow path would always go unnoticed.

"Why didn't you answer my texts?" A voice a bit too annoying for my liking, stops my action.

Long blond hair glistens in the sun, black mini dress hugging curves in all the right places. She bites her plump lips attempting to plant an apology on my tongue.

"My phone is on silent," I devour the visibly eye candy stood in front of me.

A change in attitude sudden, heels clicking more than usual with each step.

"Who is she?" Long lashes flutter fiercely.

Confusion covers my silence. A raised voice making the model sound even more unbearable.

"What? You're just gonna pretend you don't know?" The temporary time kill continues to scratch my eardrums. "I saw you make out with that brown haired bitch before the race."

I hear steps approach our corner. A woman walking head facing down, locked on her phone.

She turns, unexpectedly, and our eyes meet. The blonde in front of me not yet aware someone had seen, or should I say, joined the conversation from afar.

Vivian Lavine, truly always at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Before I could send a silent message her way, she resolved the dilemma herself by walking away.

"Hello? Do you have something to say?" I look back at the girl from last night, the name still a mystery.

"Listen Alissa-"

A slap cuts my heartfelt speech off.

"My name's Patricia," the one night of fun disappears as fast as it had arrived, blondie following along.

"Fuck you and that fucking twat."

And what else is there I can say but, "Which one?"