Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t h i r t y - s e v e n

Charles hated Miami. It was a tacky and celebrity-obsessed race weekend, and the humidity was unbearable. He stood in the garage watching the engineers and mechanics rushing around his car, but his mind was elsewhere. Back in Tuscany, to be precise, where he and Fia were supposed to have left their feelings. He twisted the ring she had given him around his little finger, remembering the morning they'd said goodbye.

She had woken him up with several slow kisses, her naked body soft and warm against his side as she nuzzled into his neck. He'd pulled her against him, and they'd spent hours touching and tasting each other, enjoying the secret ways they'd learnt to please each other—and the new, surprising ones they were still discovering. Like when he'd whispered filth in her ear in French and made her guess what it meant as he slowly eased into her from behind. Or when she'd asked him to tell her exactly what to do and where, and she had obeyed, dropping to her knees and lowering her mouth around him. Christ, it had been hard not to come the moment he felt her tongue against him.

After, when they were pleasantly sore and satiated, they'd eaten honey and yoghurt outside in the garden, their already slick skin warmed by the sun. Neither of them felt the need to say anything for a long time. Fia chopped fresh figs on a plate and slid it towards him, and he watched the juice roll down her fingers as she bit into one, thinking about how much he'd have liked to lick it off.

A little sparrow edged closer to them, looking for food. Fia flicked a fig seed onto the ground for it.

"We have to go soon," she said, still looking at the bird.

Charles had only been able to nod.

They got dressed quietly, occasionally reaching out to touch each other—the point of his elbow cupped in her hand; the long, elegant plane of her back under his fingers—until, with suitcases packed, they stood on the driveway waiting for their separate cars.

"This was nice," she said, which carved a pit in his stomach.

Again, he nodded, not trusting himself with words. He pulled her ring off his finger and held it in his open palm.

He remembered how she'd looked at it and then at him. How his chest had filled with hope and fear.

"Keep it," she'd said, "so that you always have a part of me with you."

That was the last time he'd seen her.

Now, standing in the Ferrari garage, it was hard to believe that any of it had been real.

"It's almost time," Xavi said, squeezing Charles' shoulder as he walked past.

He nodded, pulling on his balaclava and helmet. He took the ring off and put it in a box for safekeeping, staring at the thin white band of skin where it had sat. It felt wrong not to wear it, even if it was just for the duration of a race.

____ 🏎️ ____

The checkered flag was a welcome sight. Charles watched Max cross the finish line ahead and blinked, wondering how the hell he'd got through 57 laps and somehow managed to come in second place. It was the first time he had ever felt claustrophobic in the cockpit. He had to remind himself to thank his team over the radio as he pulled into parc ferme; he couldn't wait to get out and breathe fresh air. Everything felt unreal and far away.

When he climbed out of the car, he was vaguely aware of people congratulating him. Max patted him on the back, and he mumbled something like well done, or at least he thought he did.

All he could focus on was Fia. She was standing a few feet away, talking to Adam and Carlos, who were looking at her affectionately and laughing at something she'd said.