Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t h i r t y - o n e

Charles couldn't stop thinking about Fia. Seeing her in pain had been unbearable—even worse was the worry that it might have been his fault. If he hadn't been so competitive, if he'd dropped back a bit and given up the chase, she might not have fallen. It was stupid to think, yet he couldn't help it. He wished he could have gone with her to the hospital.

When he got back to the villa, he threw his blood-stained t-shirt aside and jumped straight into the pool, hoping the cool water would clear his head. He could still see the angry purple of her bruised ankle when he closed his eyes. He held his breath and let his body sink to the bottom, watching light refract from the surface until he felt dizzy and had to come up for air. Still dripping wet, he climbed out and checked his phone. Joris hadn't called or texted. He had, however, missed a call from Andrea.

The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his trainer, but duty yanked at him like a chain. He'd learnt from his dad that you could never afford to be complacent, not as an F1 driver. And with his precarious position at Ferrari, he had to get results for the rest of the season to prove his worth. He padded inside, leaving a trail of water across the pale flagstones, and hit call while he searched for a towel.

"Charles," Andrea answered on the first ring. "They tell me you're not in Maranello."

Charles rubbed the back of his neck, taking a deep breath. He hadn't told Andrea about his plans this week, partly because he wanted as few people to know as possible and partly because he knew it would earn his trainer's disapproval.

"I'm not far away."

"And where exactly is not far away? We've got sessions scheduled this week."

He dropped his wet shorts on the bathroom floor and went into the bedroom to look for fresh clothes. "Tuscany."

"That narrows it down."

"I will do my training sessions." Opening a drawer, he grabbed the first t-shirt he came across and rummaged around until he found a fresh pair of shorts. "You already sent me the plan."

"It's important for me to oversee those sessions, Charles." Andrea sighed. "You know that. It's what you pay me for."

Andrea and Charles had worked together for a long time. They were friends, but that sometimes made things complicated. As a trainer, Andrea was always hard on Charles. He expected the best because he knew what the Ferrari driver was capable of and how much he wanted to win.

"It is just one week," Charles said, catching sight of Fia's unzipped backpack on the bedside table. The front panel hung open, revealing the battered corner of a paperback. He stared at it with interest, only half-listening to Andrea.

"You know how much difference a week can make. What are you doing that's so important?"

"Nothing." Andrea's frustration practically radiated through the phone. "Something that needs a week of my attention."

Although Charles knew he shouldn't snoop, he couldn't help stepping closer to the bag so that he could peer at its contents.

"And what about practising on the sim? Miami is a physically demanding track."

"I have practised thousands of times before." He reached for the paperback, adjusting its position to read the title. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. He didn't recognise it, but it looked like a thick, serious novel. The spine was creased, and the pages were dog-eared. Fia liked to read—he filed away that fact about her, pleased to have learnt something new.

"Thousands of times isn't enough," insisted Andrea.

Charles didn't know what made him pull the book out of the backpack and flip through the pages. He couldn't resist skimming the words, searching misguidedly for some kind of insight about who she was, what she liked and didn't like. When he got to the back page, something fell onto the floor. A photograph.