Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

Miami, Post-Race

Cannot believe I made the podium. Still feels like a dream. HUGE thanks to @SchumacherMick for helping me get better and better each race. Will be there to cheer you on when it's your turn! PS: chanting abuse at someone is lame and pathetic. - @JessicaBond57

@JessicaBond57 Imagine being such a sore loser that you chant abuse at a race winner. Cringe. - @JamesWebb

@JamesWebb Imagine it. Being that insecure that you hurl abuse at someone for doing their job. - @JessicaBond57

⸻

MIAMI
AFTER THE RACE
MAY

God, I'm bored.

I'm waiting on my flight home, closing my eyes and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair, when darkness interrupts the light that was trying to pierce through my eyelids. For a few seconds, I just assume someone is standing in the way of the bright ceiling lights, but a clearing of their throat makes my eyes snap open.

"Hi." Max says rather lamely, smiling at me.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're stalking me." I'm only joking, but Max seems to be a little caught off by it. I don't think my tone was right. Shit. I try to smooth over my misstep by sitting up straight and patting the seat to my left. "C'mon, sit down. What's up?"

"Well, nothing. I saw you here and thought I'd keep you company." He says as he sits down next to me. I don't know what to say in response. Instinctively, my brain wants to make a joke about how he's slumming it down here with me rather than in the first-class lounge, but I'm pretty sure it'd end up coming out more like an insult than a joke.

So I decide to put that joke in the bin and say something mundane and stale. Because it's safer. "When's your flight?"

"In a few hours." He answers as he looks at his watch. "Yours?"

I don't have an immediate answer, because I'm too busy staring at him. I only catch myself because I realise that I'm staring and instantly feel dumb for doing it. I don't even know why I was staring.

Liar, a small part of my brain says to me.

"Uh, I, uhm..." I scramble to get my phone from my small carry-on bag, thankful that it gives me a chance to look away from Max and try to will away whatever the hell is going on in my head. Looking at the home screen - a basic animated starry sky one - I realise I still have a while to go until my flight. "About two or three hours, I think."

"I'm surprised you're not in the lounge."

"The rest of the team is flying out in the evening, but I want to get home quickly, so I booked myself a flight out. Oliver's fine with it, as long as I text him once I'm home."

"Want to get a drink?" He jerks his thumb to point behind us both, and I'm once again confused by how approachable he's being. It's giving me a mild case of mental whiplash.

"Another lunch date? What will the press say!" I say in a fake dramatic voice, getting laughter from him. It's nice, to genuinely connect with someone outside of the races.

"You could do worse, half of Twitter thinks George is cheating on his girlfriend with you."

I don't bother to hold back my cackling. The thought of George and me dating is hilarious. We're friends, or at the very least work pals.

"He's really not my type, people are idiots." I say as I get up, pulling my bag over my shoulder. "I mean, I'm not going to say he's unattractive, he's just not my type."