Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

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Less than a week later, Fia found herself on the other side of the world, staring at the paddock pass she wore on a lanyard around her neck. It was race day—the first of the season—and her stomach was churning.

She had never dreamed she would visit somewhere like Bahrain. Growing up, family holidays had involved trips to Scotland and Wales in her father's beat-up camper van that leaked when it rained (which it always did). They'd never been able to afford a trip abroad.

Before university, she'd only been on a plane once. Her father had taken her to Dublin for her sixteenth birthday. It was one of the last good memories she had of him, and in the months after his death, she'd clung to it like a beacon in a stormy sea as proof that he wasn't the terrible person everyone said he was.

She'd been on a few holidays in Europe with Sadie, who was generous enough to help her afford it, but private jets and long-haul flights had always seemed completely outside the realms of possibility in Fia's life. Now she was half way across the world with a group of people for whom first-class international travel was the norm.

Ferrari had done decently at qualifying, with Charles on P2 and Carlos on P6, but Red Bull's car was looking like it'd be tough to beat, and everyone was feeling the pressure for a win.

Fortunately, she and Charles had both managed to honour their agreement to stay away from each other since their encounter outside his apartment, which gave Fia space to breathe. She still wasn't sure what, exactly, had happened between them, but she knew that something had shifted. If anything, Charles had been a little too good at avoiding her recently.

"Hey chica." Carlos tapped Fia's shoulder, making her jump. She was in the cafeteria, trying to calm her inexplicable nerves. "The race is starting soon. Coming?"

She nodded, grabbing her water bottle and phone as they crossed the paddock. "You don't seem nervous," she observed. Quite the opposite; Carlos looked alive. She could sense his excitement to get out on the track, and she felt it, too – the thrill of anticipation as teams prepared for the first race of the season.

When they entered Ferrari's garage, Fia stopped short. The smell of fresh tyres and fuel mingled in the air, making her head spin and transporting her thousands of miles away to her father's old lock-up, where she'd spent so many hours as a kid. In her mind, she could see it clearly: the tools scattered on every surface, the glint of her dad's pride and joy—a 1962 Austin-Healey 3000—shining under the garage lights.

It had been so long since she'd allowed her mind to go there, she was shocked by the abruptness of the memory. After her dad had died, she'd done her best to block it out. Now, here it was.

Carlos, who was walking ahead, didn't notice her hesitate. But Charles did.

He stared back at her from where he was sitting in a small alcove away from the noise and chaos. He was wearing headphones, and until Fia stumbled into his view, his expression had been serene.

A frown crossed his face when he saw her.

Fia felt her cheeks burning, embarrassment fuelling her already rampant anxiety. The last thing she needed was Charles judging her during a moment of vulnerability. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing. The more she hyperventilated, the more the smell of petrol filled her lungs, forcing her to relive memories she'd been trying to forget.

She could recall with perfect clarity the texture of the Healey's leather seats beneath her chubby six-year-old thighs, a song by ELO playing in the background as she babbled away to her father while he worked on the car, occasionally asking her to pass the flex-head ratchet or some other tool he'd taught her the name of before she could even recite all twelve months of the year. The one thing she couldn't picture clearly, that seemed to fade more with each passing year, was her father's face.