Wins And Losses

Chapter 1

Hello everybody,
Autumn is almost here and so is my new story :)
Can't wait for you to read it, hope you like it.
-B. <3

Chapter 1

"One last question," I took a quick breath, but by then the pompous idiot had turned his back on me and disappeared with his PR manager into the crowd of other drivers. "I hate him," I said quietly to the cameraman Lucas, who just shrugged his shoulders shyly and looked a little pitying. "Everyone else can give me a normal interview—absolutely everyone. Except for Leclerc," I growled.
"He behaves like this to everyone. I don't know why you're bothered so much about this," Lucas said.
"I know. And everyone still adores him. I don't get it."

Being a reporter for sports television has been my dream, for as long as I can remember. But being a Formula 1 reporter for France's largest sports channel exceeded all my dreams by a mile. And not only mine but also my grandfather's. He was the one who introduced me to Formula 1. He used to take me to at least one race every year, and from an early age, I was obsessed with anything that had an engine and drove fast. When Grandpa got sick, I promised myself that one day I would use all my knowledge and enthusiasm. I managed to finish my journalism degree and start writing for a small motorsport magazine before my grandfather's health deteriorated dramatically, and he eventually succumbed to his illness.

For the next few weeks and months, I felt completely broken. Grandpa was everything to me. Both my parents were professional athletes and spent a lot of time away from home, so I lived with my grandfather in Nice for most of my childhood, accompanying him on his frequent F1 journeys.

It wasn't until half a year after his death that I was able to watch the race on TV again, and since then there hasn't been a single one that I haven't seen. I set up an Instagram account dedicated to F1 and my followers shot up to more than 300 thousand in a short time. And that's when Sport + noticed me and offered me a job. They liked my enthusiasm and my insight, and at the same time the fact that I had a degree in journalism of course. And since I'm not stupid, I accepted the job with thanks. And I didn't regret it. Except for the moments when I had to interview Charles Leclerc.

God, how I hate this guy. He has always been famous for his dislike of journalists, and it became even more obvious after he failed to win his second championship title. But for some reason, he chose me as the most frequent target of his hatred. Okay, maybe I didn't talk about him very nicely on my Instagram most of the time, but why should I? He threw away his second title because of his indiscipline, unprofessional approach, and casual sex.

I'm the last person who wants to judge anyone. Believe me. But you just can't have everything, and Leclerc will probably have to come to that conclusion by either recovering or getting kicked out of the team. But in the end, it's his fight. Why should I care?

"Another great day," I announced into the phone instead of greeting. Vivi smirked at the screen and shook her head. "I won't comment on the fact that you called me during my lunch break, which I wanted to use for a short nap, and I'll let you continue."
"I'm sorry, I forgot about your after-lunch ritual. It feels like we haven't seen each other for months," I sighed dramatically.
"We haven't seen each other in 14 days," Vivi raised her eyebrows.¨
"I know, but still. You don't know what it's like to have to spend two weeks with Lucas."
"Yeah, sure. I can totally see you sitting in a hotel room and playing tic-tac-toe with your cameraman instead of exploring the beauty of Japan. I saw your stories," she said dryly.
"You got me, I give up," I laughed.
"What happened that's so terrible?"
"Leclerc," I just muttered.
"You'll end up in bed with him one day. You're weirdly obsessed with this guy."
"What?! Excuse me?" I shouted. "I can't stand him. He's the most arrogant, self-centered, stupid person I've ever met."
"Hm. Of course. We've had this dialogue on the subject of Charles is being an idiot and we hate him at least a hundred times. But guess what? You chose the job. He's just a tiny part of it."
"Don't call him by his first name," I whined, and Geneviève laughed.
"I have to go. We're opening in a moment and I don't want customers to see me lying on the couch. Enjoy Japan and try to focus on something other than your hatred for Charles. I love you, bye," she said.
"Don't call him that!" I repeated, but the call was already over.

The next day, on Saturday morning, I went through my notes for the TV entries that were planned for Sunday's pre-race studio during a delicious hotel breakfast. The classic routine of a race weekend, nothing particularly interesting, just a lot of technical details that most mortals and normal people have no idea about. And to be honest, they don't even need to.

However, this time something was different. At a table not far from mine sat four young men dressed in bright red Ferrari team shirts, the color of which almost burned into my cornea. I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head slightly to the side, probably to let everyone know that I was trying to catch their conversation. Unfortunately, after a few sentences, I realized that they were speaking Italian with such a cadence that with my beginner's knowledge, I had no chance of catching the content of their conversation. The only thing I didn't miss was the very sharp tone and the name "Leclerc" mentioned over and over again. I silently cursed my lack of determination that never let me go beyond more than 20 days streak of Italian on Duolingo, packed my folders, and slipped off looking for Lucas so we could hit the circuit together.