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As much as Lando wanted to work on checking off more items on his list, he had much more pressing issues to focus his attention on. The main attraction, of course, was the absolute abysmal results they’d produced as a team so far. 

Lando sighed as he clambered out of the car. Canada had not proven kind to either driver, despite the overwhelming friendliness of the natives. They’d started decently, with P qualifying P9 but starting P8 after Carlos’ 3-place grid penalty and Lando qualifying P7. 

He’d dropped a place by the end of the race, crossing the line at P8 after chasing Alex for 7th, and P fighting Pierre for P12. But because of some stupid 5-second penalty and the train of four other drivers that were on his ass up until the end, he dropped out of the points down to P13 and pushed P up to P11. 

So. Yeah. Not quite the results he or the team were looking for. 

It was hard not to be bitter, especially as he looked up at the numerous screens all around the grandstands and watched Max cross the line. Again. Eight races into the season and the man had already claimed six wins. The other two races? Second place. Each win pushed the Dutchman further and further ahead in the championship standings and Lando wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t jealous of Red Bull’s success. 

He made his way towards the scale, just wanting to get this over with so he could leave. There shouldn’t be many media duties since neither of he or P had finished high enough for too many reporters to take interest, but they still needed to debrief as a team. Lando groaned a little internally at the thought of another torturous two hours of sitting in a stuffy room as more engineers and strategists and whoever the fuck else sat in those meetings analyzed every inch of every lap they completed, making sure to thoroughly criticize each mistake they found. 

As he waited in line behind Pierre, his gaze drifted around the paddock and landed on P laughing with Logan in the McLaren garage. P was leaning against the wall, Logan standing in front and gesturing animatedly about something as mechanics bustled around them. He was too far to hear what they were talking about, but the American didn’t seem too disappointed by his DNF if the enthusiasm in his movements was anything to go by.

P had taken off his helmet already but remained in his standard balaclava, like he did every post-race; however, he was sans the sunglasses. 

It was only a few races ago in Monaco that P started removing his sunglasses in the paddock, an event that had seemingly exploded the brains of every McLaren fan. Lando remembered seeing the clips on Twitter (he refused to call it X) after the race. 

Though it couldn’t even compare to the insanity generated by the footage captured at the next race. 

Usually P went to his driver’s room to slip off his helmet and swap his sweaty balaclava for a new one before interviews, so the camera was set up outside his room to catch the rookie leaving. As it panned over, viewers saw P glance up to see the camera, his eyes widened a bit in surprise. But they quickly scrunched shut, evidently smiling beneath the black fabric as he gave a little wave and ducked his head, then showed a thumbs up to the lens. 

The comments had been feral, with countless people posting all-caps tweets about how it felt illegal to see P’s eyes, how cute his eyes were, and even a few about how babygirl he seemed with the wave. 

Lando wasn’t too surprised about the responses. He’d gotten a taste of what they might look like after the lie detector video. Even though the editors had blurred P’s eyes at his behest, the simple idea that P’s eyes had been seen by Lando was still enough for all of the viewers to lose their collective shit. 

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