𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢┃ Charles Leclerc┃

Chapter Seven - The 'Thank You'

Sitting in the crowded room with a sea of flashbulbs going off, I took a deep breath as I prepared to face the press conference ahead of the first 2024 Formula 1 race. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and the reporters' questions hung like unspoken challenges. The stage was lit up, and my racing suit felt like a second skin, a symbol of the identity I had embraced.

Alongside me were Alex Albon, Fernando Alonso, Esteban Ocon, and Charles.

As I took my place at the table, I was aware of the world's attention, the weight of expectations pressing on my shoulders. The microphones stood before me like a forest of tall trees, waiting for my voice to bring them to life. I adjusted my posture, focusing on projecting confidence while suppressing the inevitable butterflies in my stomach.

The first question came, and I was thrust into a whirlwind of inquiries about strategy, the weather, and my competitors. Each question was a calculated move, an attempt to unravel my mental game and reveal the vulnerabilities in my approach. I responded with a mix of composure and determination, revealing just enough to satiate their curiosity without exposing my racing secrets.

The room was filled with the clicking of keyboards and the hushed conversations of reporters comparing notes. I felt like I was in the eye of a storm, the calm center amidst a tempest of expectations. As I answered each question, I was keenly aware of the collective desire for drama and unpredictability that drove Formula 1.

I also caught glimpses of my fellow competitors, their faces revealing a mixture of focus, determination, and a touch of nerves. We were all part of this high-stakes drama, each with our own narrative, our own quest for victory.

In this press conference, I was not just a driver; I was a symbol of aspiration and excellence. I was the embodiment of the thrill that millions of fans around the world tune in to witness. As I broached the questions, I couldn't help but feel the electric energy in the room, the sense that we were all part of a grand spectacle, one that will unfold on the racetrack, a canvas where dreams and destinies were painted with speed, precision, and the heart-pounding drama of Formula 1.

Everything was going smoothly, until one presenter asked the question.

"Anastasia, which driver on the grid do you think is the best looking?"

As a professional in any field, but particularly as a female Formula 1 driver, I expected to face questions about my skills, strategies, and experiences on the track. However, when confronted with a misogynistic question, it felt disheartening and frustrating. It felt like a step backward in a journey that has been paved with hard work and determination.

In that moment, I felt a mix of emotions – anger, disappointment, and a sense of disbelief that such biases still persisted. I took a deep breath and composed myself. I knew I should've addressed the question with poise and professionalism, highlighting the importance of focusing on the sport itself and the equal opportunities that should be available to all athletes, regardless of their gender.

That's what I should have done.

Should.

But, instead, this is what came out.

"Me." I shrugged.

I felt the room rumble with a general chitter, but I was unfazed. I leant back in my seat, witnessing the chaos with a small grin on my face. I turned my head to my fellow drivers, who were all actually looking at me with pride.

"Good answer, Ana." Charles, who sat beside me, leant close to my ear. "I would agree."

I managed to control my body's furious desire to blush by thinking about the reprimand I was bound to expect from Melissa. After the conference ended, I tentatively approached her back stage, awaiting my bollocking.