Chapter Text
Lap 1/72
It’s already unlikely. After a chaotic qualifying session, you’re sitting in P6, the highest you’d started a race this year since taking over for Daniel. What’s more unlikely is the person sharing the third row with you, the Argentine driver Colapinto. You knew him in your F2 days and know he is quick, cunning, and hard to pass, even in an underpowered car. Getting around him is the first goal if you have any shot at your first career podium.
You watch the lights come on one by one, and either a millisecond or an eternity later, they are out, and you are off. Franco gets a good start, almost passing Oscar in 4th, and is already coming to turn one. You’re creeping up behind the two of them, preparing for the late lunge, when the unthinkable- or inevitable- happens; Max and Lando, up at the front, make contact into turn one, sending each other hurtling into the barriers and out of the race. In a split second, you see Lando’s front tire connect with Max’s front wing, you know they’re done for, and you know what you must do. You swerve to avoid the debris but take the inside line and cut around Franco and Oscar, now sitting in Charles Leclerc’s gearbox. You hear the crowd cheering, and you know what this means to them as you rocket up to second position in your home race. It feels good, and you bask in the excitement as you go through the rest of the corners, not noticing Franco passing Oscar and gaining on you until your race engineer comes across the radio in a huff.
“Colapinto 0.6 behind with DRS,” he calls out, worried.
“I’ve got it handled, chill,” you reply, shifting up a gear and braking late into the corner, building yourself a gap to the Argentine.
“Good job, good driving, keep it up!” Your engineer lets out a sigh of relief as if he didn’t expect you to keep the place.
“Don’t doubt me, ever.” You snap. You have crawled your way to the pinnacle of Motorsport inch by inch, and you didn’t do it by letting people get easy passes on you, not even when they’re charming racers with pretty green eyes. Not that you’ve noticed anything like that.
“Rain looks like it’s coming in about ten laps, hold tight.” You hear over the radio and keep it in the back of your mind.
Lap 11/72
Right on cue, you feel the drips of rain start to coat your visor right around lap 11. You wonder for a moment if it will let off just as quickly, but your question is answered almost immediately as it seems like the sky opens up as your round corner 10. All of a sudden, you go from a bone-dry track to rivers instead of tarmac, and it takes everything in your power not to spin through every corner.
“Box box. Let’s box for inters this lap.” Your engineer says over the radio in a hurried tone.
“Why?! There’s no way they don’t call a red flag in a second; it’s like we’re going through fucking Noah’s flood!” You shout back at him. As much as you’re struggling, you know that it would be insane to give up second position in a midfield car when you’re certain a red flag will be called at any moment.
“This isn’t a discussion; you can’t just stay out on slicks when it’s raining like this!” Your engineer pleads, but you know you’re right on this one. You see the exit for the pits coming up, and in a split second, you have to decide, you trust your gut and stay out, crossing the start-finish line for lap 12.
“No!! Box!!” Your engineer cries.
“I know what the fuck I’m doing!!”
“Don’t be ridiculous; you can’t be out there in these conditions! If you crash, it’s on you!” That’s now the voice of your team principal, and you know you’re in trouble, “I’ve had about enough of your insubord- RED FLAG, red flag, come in.” His scolding is interrupted by race control as you see the marshals waving a very soggy red flag through the barriers.
“I fucking knew it!!” You huff as the safety car pulls out in front of Charles, bringing the gap between you two from six seconds to two as you reduce your speed and head back to the pits. You’ll be having a word with your team principal and race engineer as soon as you get back, and whether it’s an apology or a reprimand, you’re not excited to hear from either of them. You know you weren’t the first choice to replace the “people’s princess,” Daniel, but the infantilization you’ve received from your team as their first-ever female driver is starting to get on your nerves, especially when they pull stuff like this.
You roll your car into the pit lane carefully, the slick tires barely holding on to the soaked track. The team comes over to change your tires to wets, and race control declares a 30-minute delay to wait out the rain. You hop out of your car, shucking off your wet race suit and heading to your trailer. Before you can reach the door, however, a reporter comes running up to you with an umbrella, waving her arms frantically to get your attention.
“Y/N!! Y/N!! Can you comment on your remarks over the radio before the red flag? Why did you directly disobey your team’s instructions?” Ah fuck, of course, they broadcast that interaction.
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, in the end, the red flag came at the right time, and we saved our position, that’s all that matters.” You shut the door in her face, turning around and slumping against the wall in a wet heap.
“That was impressive, cariño.” You sit up in shock, whipping your head around to see Franco sitting on the sofa in your trailer, still in his fireproofs.
“What the fuck are you doing in here??” You exclaim.
“I wanted to congratulate you on that start; you caught me off guard, and Oscar, too. I haven’t seen racing like that out of you before, but you did good!” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, his bright eyes bearing down on you in a way that makes you shiver.
“I mean, thanks? I was just trying not to get caught up with Max and Lando, and you always gotta go for the gap, right? Otherwise, you’re not a racing driver.” Franco chuckles at this, his laugh warm and infectious.
“So you broke into my trailer just to tell me that?” You stand up from the floor, making your way over to the couch and shoving Franco over to make room for you to sit. You grab a water bottle from the mini fridge and offer Franco one as well, but he shakes his head politely.
“Well, that and standing up to your engineer. That is not an easy thing to do when conditions are like that. Plus, I like hearing you angry like that, it shows passion.” You blush at that, realizing this outburst might be a defining moment in your career from now on. You don’t notice Franco’s knee moving closer to yours, touching ever so slightly through your race suits.
“Well, it’s the adrenaline, y’know? I didn’t mean to get so mad at them, but I was trying not to die, so the media training wasn’t necessarily kicking in right then and there.” You scratch the back of your head nervously.
“No, it’s good. They were stupid, and you were right.” You look at him wide-eyed, “they should have listened to you, and the red flags came out, so they can’t yell at you now, no?” He pats your knee in support, and that’s when you notice his knee touching yours. You don’t move away.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I can’t let them make bad calls when I know the right call to make, yeah.” You two are making eye contact now, much closer than you anticipated.
“Trust yourself, cariño.” his voice is low now, almost a whisper. He keeps saying that word, and at this moment, you desperately want to know what it means. He holds the eye contact, his eyes greener than ever, it seems. Your breaths are the only noise in the trailer, the air thick with tension as you sit there for what feels like forever.
“Franco, I-“ BLARE
The race control claxon blares, reminding everyone that there were just ten more minutes until the race restart. You jump up and away from him, taking in a large breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You busy yourself with grabbing your gloves and balaclava off the ground, then rush out of the trailer, collecting yourself before returning to the garage. You were decidedly NOT going to think about that interaction because he is your rival, you’re fighting for the same seat next year, and you were absolutely not giving up your F1 career for a boy with curly hair and pretty eyes. You are a fighter, and you’re going to prove it.
You hop into your car, watching the mechanics fiddle with the wheels and intake vents to make sure the car doesn’t overheat. You watch Franco jog past you to his own car, pulling his helmet over his head and zipping up his race suit in one smooth motion. You wonder for a moment if anyone watched the two of you exit from the same trailer, but you can’t think about that too hard because, at the same moment, the safety car pulls out of the pit for a rolling start.
Lap 12/72
you keep a reasonable distance from Charles as the safety car leads the pack around the track, being careful not to crowd him but also keep within DRS range. That second gap is the only thing sitting between you and a maiden victory, and you aren’t about to let that slip away. The safety car returns to the pits and Charles takes his sweet time in getting back up to speed, but once he steps on the throttle, you’re right there, watching him take the corner carefully as the track is not entirely dry yet, but you’re not as delicate as the Monegasque. You’re late on the brakes, committing to the corner with a ferocity you haven’t felt since your karting days, and slip past him in a move that has the grandstands on their feet, screaming your name. You give it everything you’ve got as you exit the corner, upshifting with precision, not missing a single cue. You hear your race engineer cheering over the radio, but you tune it out, focused only on the clean air in front of you and the 60 laps left in the race. Anything could happen now, but you know you aren’t going out without a fight.
Lap 56/72
Charles has held off for the time being, and you have gained a healthy 12-second gap to him. You feel lighter than air, taking every corner with such care that even your engineer is impressed with your technique. You know you’ll have to pit soon, so you are pushing to build the gap to 23 seconds, a pit stop’s worth, but not pushing so much that you stress your tires. The hards are holding well, but you can feel them starting to feather in the hairpin turn, so you know it’s sooner rather than later. A safety car would be clutch right about now.
Lap 60/72
“Box Box.” your engineer calls out over the radio. You heed his word now, as Charles pit a lap earlier, falling behind Oscar and Franco. It’s close, but if you time it just right, you’ll emerge just a second before Charles, and the win is as good as done. You slow to 80kph, careful not to make any mistakes that could cost you time, time which you do not have. The mechanics are ready, and as you pull into the stop, you know this is the make-or-break moment of the race. They move as a single force, the tires off and on in one succinct motion. It feels fast, and as you pull out of the pit lane, you know those boys just pulled off the best pit stop of their careers. You cross the line and rejoin the race, upshifting like your life depends on it because, in this moment, it does. You see Charles in your mirrors, closing in on you like a predator encroaching on its prey. For a moment, you think the car isn’t responding, and you panic, but it responds as you upshift again, and you feel the security return as you peel off into the first corner.
“Charles 1.9 behind!” your engineer can’t hide the excitement in his voice. Out of DRS, on fresh tires, you have it, your maiden win. It takes all of your strength not to start crying, but you hold it, telling yourself you can cry when you’re in the arms of your mechanics in Parc Ferme.
You look in your mirrors to check where Charles is, but you don’t see a red Ferrari. What you see instead is the navy nosecone of a Williams as Franco takes a late lunge at Charles and passes him into turn 7, a move that no sane person would attempt at this track. But Franco is not a sane person; he’s a racing driver.
“Franco 1.7 behind.” you hear over the radio.
You’ll take the time to unpack how insane that move was later, but now, you just have to focus on making it to the end, and whether it’s Franco or Charles by your side at the end of it, you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.