😩😐

😅

🏎🏎

"Alessandro! How do you feel about the upcoming race?" a reporter speaks, shoving his mic into my face. I blink a few times, trying to process his question before I blurt out a response.

"Uhhh, I feel confident that we will do well. But of course it's too early to say. Anything can happen but I'm optimistic," I reply quickly. The reporter nods, satisfied for now.

It was a trip to get to the McLaren garage with the amount of people already out and about. I like to arrive earlier than most people to beat the crowds of people on race day.

I spot the FIA garage bustling with technicians as they prep for the race. The trunk of the emerald green car popped open, exposing computer equipment.

My eyes widen as I caught sight of familiar pin straight hair that stood out in the crowd of men.

Dakota is standing dressed in a skin tight black shirt, her race suit tied around the curves of her waist.

My mind wanders as I think about how perfect her body was.

God Sandro, get your mind out of the gutter.

My feet automatically direct my body towards her as I walk down the pit lane. I had been meaning to have a little chat with the fiery brunette since dinner last weekend.

Her hands on her hips as she nods at something the mechanic says.

"Hey Alesso, how are you?" Zak asks, suddenly appearing in front of me.

"Good, you?"

"Great, for now at least. Let's get some points today, yeah?"

"Of course," I nod eagerly. He smiles, patting my shoulder before disappearing behind the garage row.

I look back to where Dakota had been, only to find she has disappeared.

Curious, I walk faster to the garage where the large weighing scale is placed.

"Hello," one of the mechanics smiles, nodding his head at me. "Good luck out there today."

"Thanks," I smile, my eyes drifting to the racing green Aston Martin.

"Look what the cat dragged in," a voice says from below, catching my attention.

Dakota sits cross legged on the floor beside the rear tire, looking up at me.

"Hello to you too," I roll my eyes.

A smudge of black soot marks her cheek, her hair in a loose ponytail.

Cute.

"Troubles before the race has even started," I tease, making her huff.

"Loose brake pads. I took the car out for a test run earlier and screwed something up."

"The mechanics didn't fix it?"

"I felt like doing it myself," she shrugs.

I. am. not. impressed. nope.

I chuckle when the mechanic rolls a tire in her direction. Only it he pushed a bit too hard and it nearly made her fall over.

She sends me a glare before focusing her attention on the task at hand.

I can't help but watch her as she tightens the wheel nuts, biting her lip in concentration.

"What?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me. "I know you didn't come all the way here to glare at me. What is it now?"

I look away quickly, shaking my head.

She's hot and she doesn't even know it.

I realize that her presence made me lose focus as I think of other things that I shouldn't be thinking about before my races.

Focus Alessandro.

"Nothing, I better get going," I muttered, completely forgetting the rant I was supposed to spew about the incident last week.

"Ciao," she grins sweetly, waving at me as I leave the garage.

"Ferrari's got a tough race day ahead of them," I overheard one of the journalists say.

Ferrari had qualified 7th and 9th, setting them up for a not-so-ideal race day start. The pressure was on to deliver results in their home country.

As usual, Hamilton was on pole with Bottas behind giving Mercedes a lockout. Lando had qualified P3 bringing at least one McLaren out of the midfield. Alessandro qualified just outside the points positions in P11.

He was most definitely feeling the pressure. It was only his second race as an F1 driver after all. The Italian born racer had expectation that had to be met at his home race. The support from Italians was clear as crowds of people filled the stands with Italian flags and signs cheering him on.

It was sunny and warm in Italy, perfect for the fans that had come to the Imola Circuit. I had left my hair down, but decided it would be better if I put it into a braid of some sort.

I didn't have much prerace prep to do aside from fixing my brake pads so I simply walked up and down the pit lane. Everyone was hustling around everywhere and you had to be extra careful of the film crew with all their expensive equipment.

Last week, I almost had my head wacked off by a huge ass microphone pole.

Fucking Netflix.

Maybe Daniel was right about them. They are a real bunch of c- anyways...

My arms began to ache as I walked at a ridiculously slow pace. My hands tangled in my hair as I tried to make two boxer braids. My hair was frustrating as hell, too straight and slippery for any hairstyle to stick.

I passed by McLaren's garage, catching parts of Alessandro's conversation with a local sports station.

He spoke in rapid Italian that had me surprised for a moment, even though I knew he was Italian. I couldn't help but bite the inside of my cheek at the language that seemed 10x more attractive when he spoke.

He caught my gaze as the journalist moved on to the Ferrari garage. He held my gaze for a moment before looking away.

I moved closer towards the McLaren garage that was decked out in orange.

"Feeling the pressure yet?" I asked, tying the end of my left braid.

"What pressure?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at the cockiness of basically every F1 driver. Alessandro gave me one last look before slipping his earplugs into his ears and turning away.

I felt a yank on the braid that I had just finished and I whirled around to find Lando grinning at me mischievously.

He raised his hand which held my black hair tie.

"Lando!" I whined, snatching it from him. "I just spent ages on that."

"Oops, my bad," he replied, clearly nowhere near apologetic.

I shook my head but it was almost impossible to be mad at him.

"How's the divorce going?" I teased, nodding my head over to Carlos in the Ferrari garage next door.

"I refuse to sign the papers," Lando chuckled, going along with my joke.

"Ahh, so you're the problematic one."

"Excuse me? I'm as unproblematic as a pebble," he said, crossing his arms defiantly.

"Lando, hate to break it to you but pebbles are pretty problematic. Especially when there's one in your shoe."

"Piss off," he whined, slumping his shoulders.

"Good luck, Lando," I laughed, zipping my own race suit as he put on his helmet.

"Catch me on that podium, Dakota," he winked.

"Try not to break the bottle," I called over my shoulder, "If you even make it up there!"

I settled into the drivers seat, definitely feeling uncomfortable from the warmth locked in the car.

I made a mental note to make sure the car stayed in the shade next race. With the interior being all black as well as my race suit being black, overheating was a real issue.

The medical chase car was lined up right in front of me as we waited for the lights to go out.

Mark, my co-driver, turned up the air conditioning full blast, allowing for some relief.

It was always funny to see the crews scurrying off the track as the 30 second countdown to the start began. Seeing the cars lined up perfectly was satisfying to see from the back of the grid.

The race started off smoothly, no contact going into the first several turns.

I watched the place tracker on my tablet as Carlos moved up the ranks to 6th place.

Hamilton was under pressure as Verstappen tried to overtake him at every corner.

Alessandro had moved up 3 places to P8.

He managed to overtake the two Aston Martins and Yuki Tsunoda within the first two turns.

"Predictions for this race?" Mark asked, turning to look at me.

We didn't have much to do as we sat patiently in the safety car. We only went on track if an incident happened. Our job was to slow the cars down and bring them closer together. No one was allowed to overtake us or any other car.

"Hm, Hamilton wins, Max P2 and Bottas P3."

"Oh come on, that's standard. Risk it a little," Mark said. "I think Max wins, Perez P2, and Hamilton third."

"Wow, bold prediction there," I joked, knowing his wasn't very risky either.

My brows furrowed when I noticed Alessandro's lap time increase on my tablet. A few moments later, one of the Alpine's had passed him.

I couldn't understand what was happening as his name dropped down the list and others passed him.

Race Control hadn't alerted me of an incident so I waited in the pitlane in case I had to drive out onto the track.

Mark tuned into the teams radio just as Alessandro's voice came over the frequency.

"I'm losing power," he said, frustration evident in his voice.

"Try engine mode 9."

"Copy."

The radio was silent for a few minutes before he spoke again.

"There is something wrong with the car. I can't push, no power. I need to box."

"Alright, box this lap," his engineer spoke, requesting Alessandro to come into the pit lane.

The orange McLaren entered the pit lane as his engineer spoke again.

"Sandro, we have to retire the car. Retire the car."

"Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath, bringing the car to a stop.

The number 15 shined under the lights as the mechanics pushed the car back into the garage.

Alessandro was clearly frustrated by the outcome, his harsh movements telling as he yanked off his gloves.

I couldn't help but feel bad for him. A case of bad luck was never welcome, especially at a home race.

-----------------------------------------

It was late afternoon by the time the race was over and people milled about along the pitlane.

I made my way over to the McLaren garage, not really knowing why I was going there. Some part of me itched for another conversation with the Italian.

"Hey Dakota!" Lando waved as soon as he spotted me hanging around by the entrance.

"Hey, congrats on P3! First podium of the season!"

"Thanks. I honestly don't even know how it happened. One second I was in the midfield and the next I'm fighting for a podium."

"Yeah right, someone must've manifested a McLaren podium then," I joked, making him laugh.

"What happened with Moreno?" I asked, trying to make my curiosity sound casual.

"God knows, he lost power halfway through the race so he had to retire."

"Do they know what happened to the car?"

"They're still figuring it out. Probably engine failure," Lando shrugged.

I nodded but didn't prod anymore, not wanting him to question my sudden interest in Moreno's car.

"I would ask him to come out and chat with us, but something tells me he needs some alone time," he said, glancing wearily at Alessandro's driver room.

I sighed, nodding in agreement.

"Hey, do you happen to know where Carlos is? I wanna congratulate him."

"Not sure, I just talked to him him a few minutes ago outside of Ferrari's garage though."

"Cool, I'll go find him."

I waited for Lando to wander off before sneaking towards the door with Alessandro's name on it.

"Excuse me? What are you doing?" a McLaren team member asked, making me freeze.

"Uh I'm looking for Carlos. Thought he uh, might be here with Lando," I said, hoping he hadn't seen me talking to Lando.

"Ah, non-McLaren personnel are not allowed in the garage, especially if they're wearing red. But I can ask Lando for you."

Well I asked him myself already, thank you very much.

"No that's alright. I'll go find him myself."

"Do you have a pass?" He asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

I held back from rolling my eyes as I pointed at the logo on my shirt

"Oh my bad. Sorry I thought you were a VIP."

"Nope. No VIPs here," I replied m, giving him a flat look.

I stared him down before he finally cleared his throat.

"Right, have a nice day," he said, gesturing to the exit.

I gave Alessandro's room one last look before leaving the McLaren garage.

So much for checking up on him.