AGAIN || MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

Charles

Now

The sun beats down on the paddock as I sprint through it, heart pounding in time with every step. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and stabbed with a hundred needles. The hangover is relentless. My only saving grace right now is the pass around my neck, swaying wildly as I run. Without it, security wouldn't have let me in, and I'd be explaining my stupidity to the entire team from outside the gates.

'Charles! You're late!' One of the Ferrari engineers shouts as I burst into the garage, panting and disheveled.

'I know, I know.' I wheeze, bending over to catch my breath. My race suit is halfway on, the sleeves dangling awkwardly as I try to pull it up while walking to my car. 'Don't remind me.'

'Mate, you look like death warmed over!' Liam says, smirking from his side of the garage. I shoot him a glare.

'Not helping.' The team hustles around me, their efficiency almost making up for my tardiness. My helmet is shoved into my hands, and I'm practically pushed toward the car. Somehow, I make it through the pre-quali prep, though the engineer's briefing is a hazy blur. My head's throbbing, but there's no time to think about it. Adrenaline starts to kick in as I slide into the cockpit, the familiar scent of fuel and rubber grounding me. 'Focus.'
I whisper to myself as the engine roars. Qualifying feels like a fever dream. The track rushes by in streaks of color, my hands moving on instinct, each corner a test of willpower. Despite the pounding in my skull, the car feels good, perfect, even. Lap after lap, I push harder, shaving off milliseconds until the checkered flag waves.

'Charles, you did it! P1!' My engineer's voice crackles through the radio. I let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over me. 'P1? Are you serious?'

'Serious as it gets. Hell of a lap, mate.'

The garage erupts in cheers as I return. Hugs, pats on the back, and a celebratory energy fill the air. For a moment, I forget about the hangover, about the chaos of the morning. All that matters is the pole. But then reality creeps back in as I strip off my helmet and sit down in the garage. My first thought is to call Céline. She'll want to know about quali, and I want to hear her voice. I reach for my phone only to come up empty.

'Merde.' I mutter, patting my pockets. Nothing. I check my bag. Still nothing. 'Looking for this?' Pierre's voice floats over as he strolls into the Ferrari garage with a phone on his hand, a mischievous grin on his face.

'Please tell me you have my phone.' I groan. 'Nope. But Kika might. She's good at keeping track of things when people...' He pauses, smirking. 'Have a wild night.' I'm already halfway out the door before he finishes. If Kika has my phone, then problem-solved. But as soon as I step outside, I'm ambushed.

'Charles! Charles! Can we get a word?'

The swarm of reporters and fans surrounds me, microphones and cameras thrust in my face. My stomach churns, and not just from the hangover.

'Charles, who was the girl you were dancing with last night?' One reporter asks, a knowing glint in her eyes.

I blink. 'What?'

'The girl at the club. There are pictures.'

Another chimes in, holding up a phone with a blurry shot of me on the dance floor. There's a girl beside me, her face half-hidden, but it's undeniably me. My blood runs cold. This looks really bad, I have to call Céline and explain myself. 'No comment.' I say quickly, trying to push through the crowd, but the questions keep coming.