𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄 ~ | 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘓𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘤

VII

Chapter seven: 

~ An example of poor planning ~

The sound of people cheering filled my senses. People talking. People laughing. People shouting for me. I felt a surge of adrenaline rushing through my veins.

I closed my eyes, trying to block it all out. The noise, the energy, the expectation. It was too much. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. My hands trembled as I fiddled with the straps of my helmet.

I glanced up at the sky, maybe trying to find solace in the vastness of it all. I closed my eyes again, focusing on the feel of the cool air on my skin, the vibration of the ground beneath me.

"Hey, kiddo."

A familiar voice called my name, and I opened my eyes, reluctantly turning my head to the side. Lewis was walking over to me, slipping through a crown of fans to reach me.

"Hi, uh, Lewis." I frowned. He'd never really talked to me before.

"You okay? You look a bit..." He stopped in front of me.

"Stressed? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa- yeah." I sighed, letting my shoulders droop.

He chuckled. "Don't worry, kid. I've been there. We all have." He reached out a hand and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You're gonna be just fine."

"I really don't know if it's just your accent... but damn, that works." I sighed. He smiled a soft smile.

"So, you ready to kick some ass out there?" He asked. I couldn't help but smile back.

"Okay, that's better." I laughed. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"That's the spirit. See you out there, kid," he said, patting me on the back before disappearing into the throng of people. I watched him go, feeling somehow worse than before.

There was another person who would be disappointed if I failed. When I failed.

Well, that's a good mindset.

I turned back around to see a familiar face in the crowd, pushing through the throng of people. It was him. 

Charles. 

My ... whatever we were. 

His eyes met mine, and he gave me a small nod.

As he made his way over to me, I felt my stomach flip-flop. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked every bit the F1 champion that he was.

Goddammit, why did he have to be so good-looking?

Hating him would be so much easier if he wasn't so damn pretty.

His race suit around his middle, a small towel around his neck, and helmet in his hand. He finally made it over to me, pausing a few steps away. 

"You know," he started, his voice a smooth, silky contrast to the raucous noise of the crowd, "you shouldn't let them see you like this."

"Look, if you just came over to be a dick, then you could have just stayed where you were." I retorted, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice.

I looked back down at my hands, half expecting him to walk away or laugh at me.

But he didn't.

"I'm not." He said, his voice surprisingly soft. His finger found my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his.