Miguel O'Hara Oneshots

FOR MY FELLOW F1 FANS???

I just recently discovered Formula 1 (around the time of this past season's Austin GP), and I must say; my love for it is more of an obsession. I can't waaaaiiiittttt for the new season. So, to hold me over along with Drive to Survive, I decided to make this. This idea is probably far too complex for just a little chapter, but I can't help myself. Lmk if you'd like a story based off of this :)

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Background: Miguel is a driver for Ferrari (my one true love), and the season has been filled with difficulties, mainly coming from the car and, more importantly, the team's horrid strategy (sound familiar?).  After much frustration, Ferrari decided to hire a new strategist--you. And you've brought a whole new fire to the garage, whether they like it or not. 

Ready? 

Lights on.

You stand in the corner of the garage, arms crossed, red hat low over your eyes, keenly aware of the cameras on you. You suck in your cheek, appearing deep in thought, when really you're just admiring the way Miguel's fireproof long-sleeve is just a tad too small for him, stretching across his wide muscles. His largeness was a problem at the beginning of his career, but once they saw how he could drive, they adjusted the car to accommodate him. 

He's given a water-bottle by a team member, and as he waterfalls trickles of water into his mouth, his eyes search the garage for you, brooding in the corner. When he finds you, he gives you a subtle wink--subtle enough for the cameras to miss it. You smirk in response and direct your eyes at a TV, purposefully avoiding his gaze. Wouldn't want to distract him from his big race. 

You glance around the garage, proud of how coordinated the team has become. To your credit, of course. You've brought them this order and success--and Italy fucking loves you for it. At the beginning, they despised you--a non-Italian woman, controlling the pride and joy of their nation? But now...

On the TV, a camera pans to a large flag hidden in the Ferrari crowd--the Italian flag with your face plastered over it. You smile again. It feels good to be admired, but now, you must focus. 

The pit crew sits off to the side of the garage, near the cars, quiet and unmoving. The body language of a team now holding the record of the fastest pitstop, at 1.7 seconds. One tenth ahead of McLaren. 

Just before the race, you head over to Miguel's car and casually lean against the side of the car, getting as close to him as possible. He looks up at you and you mentally curse him.

Who does he think he is, looking at you with those big brown puppy eyes on broad television? Dumbass. 

"Miguel," you warn him, and he nods and swallows, gaze immediately hardening.

"Sorry," he mutters gravelly.

"'S fine. I just need you to focus, okay? Now, here's what I want you to do. We've got 53 laps and a pole start. That means that all you've got to do is get a good start in and hold position."

He rolls his eyes, running his hands idly over the steering wheel. "Not as easy as it sounds."

You shake your head. "No. But you can do it."

A slow nod. "I know."

"Now to the actual plan. I want to start off by saying that you listen to me. You will not box when they tell you on the radio, you will box when I say. Trust me on this."

He exhales through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. "Stop turning me on right before my races, will you?" he mutters, shifting uncomfortably.

"Miguel. Focus, now. Here's what I want--two stops, one on lap 15 and the other on lap 35. First pit we'll change to hard tyres, next will be to full wets."