Swerve | 𝑷.𝑮.

Part 41

Italics is French

Race Day for the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.

The twenty drivers had already been at the track for hours, going through team meetings and last minute data analysing before the drivers parade and the actual race itself.

The grandstands were filled with fans, a sea of different coloured t-shirts and caps with your average Ferrari fan praying that the pole position held by Charles Leclerc could be turned into a win and with any Red Bull fan friends that they were with telling them that it was only a matter of time before both Max Verstappen and Francesca Lewis overtook the scarlet car for the lead.

After a somewhat intense morning, all twenty drivers filtered out for the drivers parade.

Francesca stood with Pierre, laughing at his words whilst adjusting her cap on her head as they waited to be let onto the track to find their cars that would drive them for a lap around the circuit. And just like she'd been doing the whole weekend, Francesca was continuously referencing back to the iconic radio of Baku 2019 - which was pissing Charles off to the point he'd given up in trying to get her to stop making fun of him for the incident.

"Smile, your on CCTV." Francesca mutters.

"What?" Pierre laughs.

"You've never seen that sign before?" She questions, looking over at him.

"Never in my life." He chuckles. "You come out with the weirdest things sometimes."

"How else will I be remembered if not for my amazing personality."

Pierre rolls his eyes at her cheeky grin, nudging her in the ribs when she became distracted by something happening down the other end of the pit lane. He could only laugh as she gasped and rushed to catch up with the other drivers who were now walking out onto the track and splitting up from their mates to find their cars with their teammates.

Max was waiting for his teammate behind the fence and once Francesca had successfully climbed through the gap without getting her t-shirt caught like she'd done many times before, the two Red Bull teammates sauntered away.

The other eighteen drivers awed at the sight of the duo. Francesca Lewis and Max Verstappen reeked of confidence and the ability to not give a single shit if they didn't want to. They both held a sense of power wherever they went and that only seemed to be amplified when they were at a race track and doing well in the season so far.

"You still up for the club tonight?" Max questions, casting a look over to her.

"Do you even have to ask, Max." Francesca laughs. "You know I'm always down to get drunk."

"Now that makes you sound like an alcoholic." He chuckles.

"I'm part British, been drinking since I was ten."

"Francesca Lewis, part time Formula One driver and full time alcoholic."

She could only salute at him with a cheeky grin as they approached their car, greeting the driver and happily signing some things for him before climbing into the car and sitting up on the back of the seats. Francesca bopped her head to the music playing, sipping from her water bottle and smirking whilst her teammate laughed at her antics.

The drivers parade went the same as it usually did. Francesca and Max both leisurely strolled back to the Red Bull garage to get ready for the race with the Dutchman interrogating the French woman on her current situation with Pierre.