Beyond The Checkered Flag

004- (I Hate Her)

                      — CHARLES —

"Carlos, my man! So, Red Bull, huh?" I call out, catching his attention as he turns around. A wide grin spreads across his face as soon as he sees me.

"Ah, yes, you've heard," he replies, his rich Spanish accent coloring his words. There's a warmth in his voice, a kind of satisfaction that tells me this decision wasn't made lightly.

"Of course I heard. It's all over the place," I say, laughing, but before I can say anything else, Carlos pulls me into a tight, heartfelt hug, patting my back with a sincerity that makes my chest tighten.

"I'm going to miss you, Percival," he murmurs, the familiar nickname carrying a weight that makes it hard to smile back. His departure is opening up a seat at Ferrari, and I have no idea who's going to fill it.

"I'll miss you too, Chilli," I manage to say, my voice thick with emotion. As we pull apart, he gestures towards a nearby table in the paddock. "Come on, let's sit. It's been too long since we've had a proper chat."

I nod, grateful for the opportunity to catch up. We sit down, and after a moment of silence, I ask the question that's been burning in my mind. "Do you know who's going to take your seat?"

Carlos frowns, the question pulling him out of his contentment. "Honestly? I haven't given it much thought. Do you have any ideas?"

I shrug. "Not really. Who are the options?"

He leans back, considering it for a moment. "Well, there's always the chance they'll promote someone from Formula 2, but that doesn't seem like Ferrari's style. They could bring back someone like Lance Stroll, or maybe even Sebastian Vettel. Or... they could go for someone who hasn't locked in a contract yet, like Estella Albani."

At the mention of her name, my gut tightens. I can't help the scowl that crosses my face.

I hate her.

I don't even know why, but the loathing I feel is almost visceral. Maybe it's the way she commands attention just by walking into a room, or the fact that she's a woman in Formula 1 and everyone treats her like some sort of miracle. Sure, she's talented, but so what? And yeah, she's stunning—so beautiful it's almost painful to look at her—but that only makes it worse. There's something magnetic about her that draws everyone in, and I hate that I'm not immune to it. My so-called hatred is probably just a mask for feelings I don't want to admit, a twisted mix of jealousy and unwanted attraction.

"Charles?" Carlos' voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I realize my face must be a mix of embarrassment and frustration. I quickly try to shake it off.

"Yeah, maybe it'll be someone from F2," I say abruptly, standing up too quickly. "Sorry, mate, I just remembered I've got to meet my trainer. See you at the track tomorrow?"

Carlos looks a bit taken aback, clearly confused by my sudden shift in mood, but he nods. "Okay, Charles. See you tomorrow."

I walk away, my shoulders stiff with tension that doesn't ease until I'm out of sight. As I make my way to the gym, I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. But all I can think about is Estella Albani and how much she gets under my skin. The frustration gnaws at me, and I know I need to burn off this energy somehow.

When I arrive at the gym, Marco is already there, adjusting some equipment. He looks up and smiles as I enter. "Hey Charles, ready to get started?"

"Yeah, let's do it. What's on the schedule today?" I ask, hoping to distract myself from the thoughts swirling in my head.

"Cardio and neck exercises," Marco replies, scribbling something on his notepad.

I groan. "Really, Marco? Cardio again? My legs are still shot from yesterday."

He just laughs, clearly not sympathetic. "You're a professional athlete, Charles. Suck it up. We're starting with a 15-minute uphill walk to warm up. Let's go."

There's no point in arguing with Marco; he knows what he's doing. So, I reluctantly make my way over to the treadmill, setting it to a punishing incline. The walk feels endless, but I grit my teeth and push through, knowing it's all part of the routine that keeps me competitive.

***

By the time I finally leave the track, I'm drenched in sweat, my muscles aching from the grueling session. Marco had me jog the track twice to "cool down"—a sadistic way to end the workout. I hadn't even noticed how much time had passed until I saw the sun setting, casting long shadows across the paddock.

All I want now is to collapse into bed, but as I pass the Ferrari garage, something catches my eye—the light in the team principal's office is still on. My curiosity gets the better of me. Could it be contract talks? Maybe I'll find out who my new teammate will be. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist the urge to investigate.

I move quietly around the corner, finding a spot where I can observe without being seen. It's only a few minutes before I see the office light go out and movement near the door. I strain to get a better view, my heart pounding with anticipation.

Fredric Vasseur steps out, followed by another figure. They shake hands, but it's too dark to make out any details of the other person. My frustration mounts as they turn the corner, disappearing from sight.

But I'm not ready to give up. I do what any sane person would do in this situation—I follow them.

My attempt at stealth is pitiful; I accidentally kick a trash bin, nearly lose them several times, but I finally catch up just as they stop under a dim streetlight. And that's when I see her.

It's fucking Estella Albani.

She's standing there, a massive smile on her face, looking every bit the part of someone who's just secured a dream. My heart sinks. This can't be happening.