cee

body: your base is heartbreak, bittersweet, necessary, a pink leash; wild strawberry followed by strawberry jam. wild strawberries are tiny, tart, nearly floral themselves. a smell like kneeling in long grass and finding one hidden beneath the leaves, knees all scratched up, blood on the skin. strawberry jam, on the other hand, is a memory. your memories: concentrated, cooked, sweetened, preserved. the same fruit, just after time has passed.

the last week of may before everyone leaves off for the summer, lace gloves folded into a drawer, sunlight through the window of the backseat of an old station wagon, forgetting a friend's laugh until you hear another laugh the same way, train ticket, strawberry juice drying on your fingertips, stockstill moment - you realize you've outgrown somewhere you once thought was the whole world, joy, transcience, no take-backs, pinky promise, blue room, waking as the egg of dawn begins to crack, making coffee in the kitchen on your bare feet, birthday candles you couldn't bear to throw away, suburban backyard in the hour before a graduation party starts, engagement rings, the feeling of someone pushing away your neck from your shoulder for the stretch, paper laterns, north carolina, washed lilac, buttercream white, forest green, carmine, faded denim, palest sky blue, bi-color sapphire, the underside of your bed - as a child or all grown up.

@pearlydollsworld ⧽ head: marshmallow,  candied almond, heart: caramel, milk, body: spanish jasmine, honey.

sweet as cream but have a little bite; obsessed with you. can't believe you're the sun the earth orbits around, but if the shoe fits.

head: soft opening, such a sweet girl. the marshmallow isn't toasted or smoky; it's the smell of confectioner's sugar in paris, dusted over something still warm; you're the first one to the shops when they open. pillowy, weightless, almost translucent. cut through with candied almond, delicate nuttiness. think jordan almonds or sugared marzipan; sweet, but tempered by that faintly dry, close-to-papery almond skin underneath. you're the marshmallow, but not too fluffy.

heart: caramel melting slowly, we're getting to know you; rich and buttery without tipping into burnt sugar. then comes milk, simply milk, no condensed milk or whipped cream. you've got a fresh, creamy quality; you're not quite on. stirring warm caramel into a glass of milk steamed within an inch of its life, no rush to pour, slow drizzle rather than dumping it all over the ice cream.

body: just when we think we have you, we find you're still misunderstood. your base unfolds. spanish jasmine, luminous and creamy, leaning more radiant than indolic. lifting you upward, gourmand flying, refusal to let it settle heavy on the skin. hey, honey; honey wrapping 'round everything. lack of stickiness, golden honey still warm, straight from the comb; there's beeswax in it. pollen, sunlight; you're glowing, glowing, glowing. 

dream journal, tracing circles in the condensation on a window, a wedding cake waiting behind closed doors before the reception begins, honey mixed with a warm drink just before bed, the silence after everyone has gone home from and you're cleaning up, silk ribbon loosened from intricately wrapped gifts, morning's light refracting through crystal bowls, brown wrapping paper, frosted christmas tree, ripened pears, incredibly sentimental, hundreds of candles lit one by one, doll's head, handwritten thank you cards, the feeling of being looked after, falling asleep on the phone, someone you love halfway out bed - taking care of you while sick, linen white, pearl white, almond silk (#d5b9b2), bone (#ece2d0), tea green,  lavender blush.

@hoes4pazzi ⧽ head: geranium, bulgarian rose, heart: pear, body: rum, spun sugar.

"stay with me everywhere. even if we argue, that's fine. let's argue, then smile the way you know how to, with that smile i love to kiss." — albert camus. pat, you're a dream, a blessing bestowed upon the world. adore you.

head: geranium arriving first; crisp, green brightness. it has a rosy quality, but also a vivid bite; think crushed stems, cool morning air, petal strewn along the pavement after a torrent of rain. she lays next to bulgarian rose. they couple rich, velvety, and slightly honeyed. you, with incredible depth, smelling as though every petal has been steeped in the core of a star before opening. polished, almost old-world.

heart: you've had enough, switching it up. give us a perfectly ripe pear. one that's just begun to soften, skin sitting warm from dozing on a windowsill all evening. you have an effortless brightness, you make us unexpectedly modern, turn your heart inside out.

body: wicked and mischievous, drydown like a grin. rum to warmth without becoming boozy. a smell like oak barrels, vanilla, the lingering sweetness at the bottom of a decanter after the last sip; spun sugar settles over everything. delicate thread that cracks between your fingers at a fair, dissolving almost before you taste it. a fleeting sparkle, no heavy sweetness. you only give us a sliver. you're never gonna let anyone keep you.

glam - rock glam, no interest in being always well-behaved, lipstick on the rim of a coupe glass, laugh's echo in a hotel hallway, rose petals scattered across bed, cologne clinging to a hermes scarf, cheek kiss, wax molded to the limb of a candelabra, stealing the garnish from someone else's cocktail, your mother's constant order of a grey goose martini with extra olives - she knows you like them, carousel turning long after sunset, afters, cadillac, bad memory best intent, vintage diamonds with a white tank top - irina shayk, postcards instead of texts when you travel, the assumption of extroversion because of charisma, rich inner world, opera, crimson, burgundy, shoes in hand, powder petal (#ffe2d1), frosted mint, carmalized rose (#ea638c), plum, celadon, jet black.

@hcbueckers ⧽ head: gardenia, heart: dewberry, blackberry, body: datura, pomegranate.

my hayley. you're my softest spot, orchid as a human being. nothing comes close to explaining you, but to experience you is to love you instantly.

head: gardenia, one of the richest; indulgent, waxy, almost luminous. petals so thick they seem carved from alabaster, velvety opulence that immediately commands attention. you wander somewhere wilder.

heart: dewberry territory first, cooler than blackberry, just-picked quality, linger of damp leaves and morning fog. less confectionary than cultivated berries, more elusive. blackberry invades, follows with deeper purple sweetness; freshly crushed between your back molars, releasing stained juice; faint green of thorny vines they came from. you're covered all over, teasing at the brambles/ hungry for blood! - they cry; you're just hungry.

body: the real plant is famously toxic, but you're not. as a fragrance accord, we evoke suede white petals with a narcotic, moonlit voice. you don't smell poisonous, but knowing what it is lends you an irresistible tension. we finish on pomegranate. there's no bright ruby juice. you show me the inside of the fruit after we've split it open with our bare hands; you can do it, you told me. the tartness of the seeds against the tongue, bitterness of the white pith, the mineral scent left on the fingers. it's dark in here, fresh. you taste metallic. perfect ending.

corset half-laced up the back, collarbone tattoo, never raising your voice, every finger ringed, midnight walk through a garden,  berry juice staining the cuff of a white babydoll dress, thorn bushes, every version of the sleeping beauty myth, curtains left open during a thunderstorm, family secret, pomegranate husk scattered across an old wooden table, still life, everything feels beautiful but nothing feels entirely safe, constellations, little red riding hood, robert eggers films, garnet, moss green, baltic blue, indigo, nocturnal animals, jade, bobby pin bent out of shape to pick the lock, summer storm, dusty mauve, cinnamon wood.

@paigefudd ⧽ head: cherry blossom, heart: cherry jam, body: blonde woods, pearls, water lily.

the name megan is of welsh origin and primarily translates to "pearl". it originated as a traditional welsh diminutive of the name margaret, which traces back to the ancient greek word margarī́tēs. meg, wanting to be known for what she loves, how much she does it. heart as large as a cosmic event, you're a seismic quake. love you forever.

head: isn't it especially sweet? you're a fairy, cloudlike, touch of almond, anointed by spring rain. existing in a moment of brevity before drifting away. we follow.

heart: cherry jam. unlike fresh cherries, memory built into it. slowed down, softened by heat and sugar. richer, darker, two steps shy of ruby. big breath in, big breath out. 

body: blonde woods exhale,  woods bleached by years of sea breeze and pale sun. you're smooth, you're dry; quietly elegant. the feel of polished driftwood underwood. pearl twirl; imagine the pearls not as powder, but as a mineral accord: cool skin, starch, salt like a trick of the light; open air, near the ocean, soft glowing underbelly of a creature spending its years hidden beneath the water. water lily rises through everything. cool, aquatic, pellucid. veil down, veil up. i see you like a reflection.

lakeside, standing ankle-deep in still water while blossom petals drift past, the roll of gator eyes above the water, cedar chest with love letters for decades, desert spring, beach tote big as a body, a mix of spices simmering on the stove in another room, clam cut open, the sound of oars cutting through the water, mist blue, sage, eye of the tiger, readings by a psychic with no website, learning how to read a map, stone brown, lavender grey, vogue italia april 1998 ph. peter lindbergh, driving stick, rosewood, the string arrangement of lana del rey’s video games as performed at the 2025 harvest moon festival, vanilla kefier, matthieu blazy for chanel ad with a$ap rocky, le motel. 

@eclipscee ⧽ head: orange blossom, frangipani, heart: lychee, anise, body: mexican chocolate, blood orange.

cee, you are the heart of youth, so quick, vulpine, fun and free. no one can complicate your understanding of yourself; you're a mantra, unique, a streak like a shooting star.

head: you've got a mind like orange blossom; great contradictions. clean and honeyed, fresh and sensual, sparkling and lactonic. new york's morning reaching out to you through white petal, veins of the flower straining. married to frangipani; creamy, tropical, a shred of lemon, velvet. the illusion of heat snaking up from pale stone, evenings of 103, forehead kiss left on the nightstand before running to work, heel in the street grate, fragment.

heart: sudden shift. lychee appearing like a flash of pink light. juicy, crystalline sweetness; everything around you feels so good. anise come calling, brilliant interruption. frosted, herbal, black-licorice-mimic. slices through the fruit with a clean, aromatic edge, stopping at being predictable; its the shadow that gives the sunlight its shape. 

body: dark cacao sweep, folded with cinnamon, subtle spice, dry warmth of roasted cocoa beans. earthy, sometimes we're a little bitter, deeply constantly comforting. blood orange finish, the best isn't at the top. adore you; mouth darker than fresh citrus; peel tacky and stinging, liquid seeping from the center in a red beryl drool. you brighten the chocolate instead of the other way around. leaving me behind, im crawling. have a hand around your heart, simmering city laughing under its breath. princess, dragon just behind.

pele's hair, volcanic activity, pompeii blue, persian blue, scarlet, diviners by libba bray, miyako bellizzi (costume designer), stigmata, candied flowers, color gradients, sheep's milk yoghurt with walnuts in honey, salmon sashimi, stopping at a diner on a road trip, red-eye flight, skyscrapers like a spiral in a city, cinderella retelling, wooden utensil organizers, the word animalic, parquet flooring, zelda fitzgerald, princess peach, sarahmargaretqualley23, glass work of sybille peretti, brass hotel keys dangling from a reception desk worn smooth by thousands of hands, old cinemas still with the lush red seating, safekeep, night swim, jazz bar, being the only one in a lift, fine gold chain on a strong chest, sculptures with missing noses, a piano being tuned, bronco, only pass through, midnight violet, honey bronze, emerald, blazing flame orange, coral, wisteria blue, marriage divorce before 23, no hard feelings.

The white leather booth Paige was sprawled across curved around a glowing table littered with half-empty glasses, melting ice, and the remains of what had once been three very full bottles of liquor. Now they sat mostly drained in silver buckets sweating onto the tables, casualties of a long night.

Paige swirled her Dirty Shirley and watched Nika aggressively throw back another shot of tequila that she absolutely did not need. Honestly, she hadn’t needed the last three, but Paige wasn’t going to try to make that point again. It was a lost cause. The Croatian didn’t even wince. 

“I’m serious,” Nika declared for probably the tenth time in the last hour, leaning forward so abruptly her dark ponytail whipped over her shoulder. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”

Across from them, Napheesa Collier, Paige’s Lynx teammate, snorted into her vodka soda.

“Oh my god,” Phee laughed. “You are obsessed with this girl.”

“I am not obsessed with her,” Nika shot back. “I fucking hate her.”

Paige bit back a smile behind the rim of her glass. There was an important distinction in Nika’s mind. Obsession implied admiration. Hatred was apparently noble. And Paige knew better than to question the logic after all these years. This feud ran all the way back to college. 

Phee raised a brow. “You’ve said her name at least twenty times tonight.”

“That’s because she’s a fucking bitch.”

“She’s literally just a soccer player,” Paige corrected lazily, her brain, thankfully, a bit fuzzy from the alcohol. “Why you so pressed about her all the time, bro?”

“She’s the devil in shin guards,” Nika argued. “Seriously. Did you see how tiny her shin guards are? Like why even wear them?” 

Paige laughed, sinking deeper into the absurdly soft white leather. The booth was tucked in the corner of the VIP section overlooking the dance floor below, giving them a clear view of the entire club. The place was decent size, and about as trendy as you could find in Minneapolis, where the Lynx and the newer NWSL team, Twin Cities FC, were based. 

Honestly, Paige kind of loved it. Mostly because she was perfectly drunk enough for the pulsing music to feel pleasant instead of overstimulating as it hummed through her body. And the Lynx had off the next day, a nice reprieve from the gauntlet of games they’d been in to clinch a playoff spot.

Nika, meanwhile, was still fully locked into her postgame spiral after her team had lost to the Washington Spirit. Yet again. 

“She took my legs out,” Nika continued, pointing accusingly at nobody. “No attempt at the ball whatsoever.”

Phee tilted her head. “You sure you’re not just pissed she got by you and scored? ”

“Who’s side are you on, Phee?” Nika hissed before turning her attention to Paige. “Get your girl in line, Bueckers,” Nika scoffed, thrusting her thumb over her shoulder. Then she turned, glancing back at Phee through half-open eyes. “Seriously, did you even watch the game? She coulda broke my leg.”

Paige rubbed a hand over her mouth to hide another grin. It had been a hard challenge, but Nika was being a bit dramatic.

The game itself had admittedly been entertaining as hell. Twin Cities FC versus the Washington Spirit always got nasty fast, mostly because their captains seemed biologically incapable of behaving normally around each other for more than five consecutive minutes. 

There had been shoving. Bewilderment. Screaming. A few dramatic flops that Nika was still furious hadn’t gotten called. And, okay, maybe Azzi had baited Nika into at least half of them. 

In her defense, Nika was extremely easy to bait. Paige was working with a small sample size, but she was pretty sure Croatians came out of the womb ready to commit mild acts of violence over sports. That Balkan temper activated faster than Caitlin Clark fans on Twitter when Paige was mentioned in MVP talks. 

Paige had watched the game from the sideline with Phee and a few of her other Lynx teammates. She spent most of the second half trying not to laugh every time the broadcast camera caught Nika and Azzi chirping at each other. 

“You know what the worst part is?” Nika groaned.

Phee sighed. “I feel like you’re going to tell us anyway...”

“She acts all smug after. Like she’s funny. She’s been like that since college.”

Paige hummed into her drink. Because Azzi was kinda funny. Even if she was her best friend’s nemesis, Paige enjoyed how Azzi played with a competitive fire that bordered on cocky. It was how Paige played too. And Nika. Maybe that was part of the problem; they were all too similar.

Nika narrowed her eyes. “Why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“That face,” she huffed, swirling her finger inches from Paige’s smirk. 

Paige shrugged one shoulder, entirely unbothered and happy to goad her twin on. “I’m just saying. You can only get so mad when somebody looks that good cooking you.”

Nika stared at her in betrayal while Phee let out a laugh so loud a couple people turned toward the booth. Paige could tell from Nika’s shocked expression that she may have taken it a step too far.

“You’re sick in the head,” Nika informed Paige flatly.

Paige grinned, completely unashamed, but still eager to stay off Nika’s bad side. “Okay, okay,” she chuckled, tossing her hands up in surrender. “You know I support you, twin.”

Nika sighed and dropped her head back dramatically against the booth. “I can’t believe this is the support system I have.”

Phee checked her phone and groaned, her lips pulling into a tight line. “Speaking of support systems, I have to go home and get some sleep. Mila is going to be up so early.” 

Paige laughed as Phee slid off the couch, grabbing her purse and jacket off the seat beside her.

“Tell Mila I said hi.”

“She likes you more than me at this point,” Phee muttered.

“That’s because I bribe her with candy all the time.”

“I know,” Phee huffed, shaking her head. “You are literally the reason I have problems.”

Paige accepted the quick side hug Phee leaned down to give her before she turned to Nika.

“And you,” Phee pointed before dapping her up, “need to stop acting like Azzi keyed your car.”

“She’d probably fucking enjoy it.”

“Goodnight, drama queen,” Phee chuckled. 

Nika flipped her off affectionately as Phee disappeared through the crowded VIP section toward the exit.

The booth settled into quiet for a moment as they watched Phee leave. Well. As quiet as a nightclub could be.

Holding her sweating glass in one hand, Paige stretched her other arm along the back of the booth, letting her gaze drift lazily across the crowd below while Nika continued muttering under her breath about missed calls and corrupt referees and apparently the moral collapse of professionalism in soccer.

Honestly, Paige only half listened. She loved Nika like a sister, but sometimes post-loss-Nika was like listening to a bad podcast with no pause button. Especially if she lost to Azzi.

Their feud started years ago. Nika and Paige went to UCONN, Azzi to UCLA. They didn’t cross paths much, at least, not enough to think there was time to become bitter enemies. Somehow, Azzi and Nika found a way. If Paige really thought about it, it made sense. The first time Nika and Azzi met was sophomore year when UCONN played UCLA in the national championship game. And maybe, Azzi took a dive in the box that led to a game winning penalty kick for UCLA. 

That was where it started but certainly not where it ended. Since then, the two had played countless times. In college tournaments, in subsequent national championship games, in the NWSL, in charity matches. And every time there was pushing and shoving, and cheap shots and swearing, and derogatory names mumbled under their breath. At least, that’s what Nika told her and Paige, ever the supportive friend, didn’t doubt her for a second. 

“And then,” Nika continued, drawing Paige’s attention back in, “she had the audacity to wink at me afterward.”

Paige smirked into her drink, trying not to choke on the sip she just took. “That’s kinda funny, bro.”

Nika whipped toward her. “Don’t act like you don’t hate her just as much as me.”

Paige opened her mouth to respond but stopped as a raucous laugh pulled her gaze away. 

A group of women had entered the VIP section, full of smiles and what Paige assumed must be postgame adrenaline. Security waved them through with immediate recognition of either their beauty or talent. She wasn’t sure which. 

Paige instantly recognized them too. Washington Spirit players. And right in the middle of them… 

Oh this is gonna be good, she thought with a wry smile. 

Paige slowly leaned back against the booth cushions, manspreading a bit further, eyes narrowing just slightly as Azzi stepped fully into view.

She was wearing black baggy jeans and a tiny red top. A silver chain reflected against her caramel skin and her hair was half up, half down in loose curls. 

Nika noticed Paige had gone quiet and followed her line of sight. Her entire face twisted in disdain when she recognized who was there. She drew in a deep breath like she was trying to fill herself with all of the patience she’d need to get through this encounter. Paige knew there wasn’t enough of that in the entire world. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Nika spat. 

Paige bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt, mostly to stop herself from smiling at the new development in their evening. 

“Absolutely not,” Nika muttered, sitting forward so fast she sloshed some vodka onto the table. “She’s stalking me now. She’s a legitimate psychopath, Paige.”

Paige made a vague sound of acknowledgment, but honestly, her attention had already drifted back. Azzi was laughing at something one of her teammates said, head tipped back, and it hit Paige square in the chest in that irritatingly familiar way it always did.

Azzi was hot. 

Objectively. 

Subjectively.

All-the-jectivelys.

The club lights caught the cross pendant around Azzi’s throat every few seconds, tiny flashes of sparkles against warm brown skin, and Paige’s eyes tracked the movement before she could stop herself. Her top was cropped just enough to show a strip of stomach when she moved, toned abs in full view. 

Throat growing dry, Paige quickly averted her gaze before she got caught staring. By Azzi or Nika. To be honest, she wasn’t sure which would be worse. Probably Nika. She was at least close enough to wrap her hands around Paige’s neck and squeeze. 

“She’s looking over here,” Nika complained, glaring back at the Spirit striker.

Paige took another sip, eyes slowly roaming across the club before settling back on Nika. “Maybe because you’re staring at her like you’re planning a murder.”

“That’s because I am planning a murder,” Nika scoffed. “Hers.” 

Paige snorted softly as Azzi’s group settled into one of the booths further across the VIP section. Azzi didn’t sit right away. She lingered near the edge of the booth, scanning the room while one of her teammates talked in her ear. Then her fingers tugged briefly under the chain at her throat, adjusting it.

Paige’s brain short-circuited for approximately half a second, gaze locked on her long, slender fingers and the way Azzi bit her lip in concentration at whatever story her teammate was telling. It seemed enthralling. 

She blamed the vodka.

“You know,” Paige said casually, finally dragging her attention back toward Nika before she got caught, “there’s only like two places around here people go after games.”

Nika looked horrified. “Are you defending her?”

“I’m just saying it’s not exactly shocking they ended up here.”

“Suprised she didn’t just stay in her hotel room cooking up another social media post. Fucking bitch.”

And, okay. Nika had a point there. The hatred might have started as a rivalry on the pitch all those years ago, but it had turned personal. The fire already burned between them, but Azzi was the one who threw the gasoline. Like a whole can of it. Maybe even two. Nika’s senior year, UCONN lost to UCLA in the national championship game, ending her season and collegiate career. Azzi, in the pure definition of pettiness, added a picture of Nika sitting on the field, knees to her chest, head in her hands, crying, to the end of her natty dump on Instagram. The picture was tagged—maybe next time. 

It got taken down shortly after she posted it, but the damage had been done. Nika was ready to board a plane to Los Angeles to rip Azzi apart, and Paige was ten toes down right behind her. Battling it out within the lines was one thing, but that had been a low blow and Paige was heated.

Paige nodded as her pulse ticked up a notch at the memory. “Yeah, that was trash, bro.”

She didn’t mention how Nika got her payback by purposely seeking out Azzi’s ex at a draft-party and posting a video of them making out on her story. That’s really where it reached the point of no return. 

“What a terrible human,” Nika slurred. “She probably has a fur coat made out of puppies.”

Paige laughed at the insinuation before taking a long sip of her drink. She flicked her gaze up to Nika, catching the way she clenched her jaw. The Croatian was clearly worked up. 

“I dunno, twin,” Paige sighed after a moment. “All that shit started in college. Maybe she grew up…” 

Nika narrowed her eyes. “Are you just saying that ‘cause she’s hot?” 

Paige leaned back against the booth cushions, very much trying to hide her amusement. 

Well.

Yeah.

Anyone with eyes could see that. 

Azzi was the kind of hot that made people walk into furniture. She probably got out of parking tickets just by smiling, and maybe even some petty crimes. Paige had spent years pretending she didn’t notice it quite as much as she did, mostly because Nika reacted to Azzi’s existence like a bull seeing red. 

Sighing, Paige let her eyes drift back across the room again, watching Azzi grin at something before finally sliding into the booth beside one of her teammates.

Then she shrugged.

“I mean,” Paige admitted easily, “she is hot.”

Nika stared at her like she’d just confessed to owning a Sophie Cunningham jersey.

“You are the weakest soldier I know.”

“Bro, all I’m saying is, aren’t you getting tired of keeping this grudge alive? Maybe she isn’t that bad if you both just gave it a chance.” 

“She tried to break my ankle like four hours ago.”

Paige winced. It didn’t seem like Nika had a penchant for forgiveness. Or even acting mature for two fucking minutes. 

“Okay, but in fairness, you almost ripped her jersey off near the sideline,” Paige argued. 

“That was tactical,” Nika countered in a bewildered tone. “She was going to break with the ball and they had numbers.” 

“That was literally almost assault, twin.”

Nika pointed accusingly at her, and Paige realized this was a lost cause. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side.”

“You just called my nemesis hot.”

Paige grinned into her drink, letting the warm and fuzzy feeling caused by the alcohol sloshing around in her veins smooth the edges of Nika’s harsh tone. 

“Multiple things can be true at once,” Paige mumbled under her breath. 

It drew a dramatic groan from Nika. Then she dragged both hands down her face.

“She might be hot but you ever notice how she’s always single? Bet no one can deal with that fucking attitude.” 

Paige didn’t mention that Nika also had a similar attitude and was also single. Things had already spiraled far enough and she was happy to live in the land of delusion with her best friend for a bit longer. 

After a moment, Nika shot Paige a look before abruptly shoving out of the booth.

“You know what? I’m leaving before I accidentally see her flirting with somebody and have to gouge my eyes out.”

Paige’s brows lifted slightly. It was barely eleven and they both had a rare day off tomorrow. “Already?”

“Yes, already.” Nika threw back the last of her drink that she didn’t need and took a step back, swaying slightly. “Some of us have emotional wounds to recover from.”

Paige laughed, but didn’t move to follow when Nika jerked her head toward the exit expectantly.

“You coming?”

Paige shook her head. “Nah, not yet. I’m meeting some people out.”

Nika sighed in annoyance, but she didn’t push. 

“Fine,” she muttered, leaning down to dap Paige up before pulling her into a tight hug. “But if she slide tackles somebody in this club too, don’t call me. I won’t help.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Paige chucked, drawing back. “You good with your Uber?” 

Nika nodded. “Should be here in five. I’m gonna wait outside and get some fresh air. I’ll see you at brunch in the morning.” 

She shot one final, deeply offended glare across the VIP section toward Azzi’s booth before making her way toward the exit.

Paige watched Nika disappear into the crowd, then leaned back with a slow exhale, one arm curling behind her head while the other held her half-empty glass. 

After another sip, her eyes lifted across the VIP section and landed directly on Azzi.

Who was already looking at her.

Oh. 

Azzi sat tucked into the corner of the opposite booth, one arm draped along the back cushion while one of her teammates talked animatedly beside her. But Azzi wasn’t paying attention anymore. Or at least she didn’t seem to be. Her warm brown eyes were fixed straight on Paige, amusement already curling at the edges of her smile like she knew exactly what kind of trouble she’d just caused.

Paige smirked, and shook her head.

That, apparently, was enough of an invitation. Without breaking eye contact, Azzi slid out of the booth.

Oh fuck. 

Paige watched her weave through the crowded VIP section. The black jeans sat low on Azzi’s hips, exposing the upper half of her v-line. Paige tried very hard to focus on her curls instead. It wasn’t going particularly well, considering they landed softly on her collarbone and left Paige wondering what would happen if she sunk her teeth in there. 

Heart thundering against her rib cage, Paige shifted in her seat and pulled in a deep breath. 

Get it together. 

Heads turned as Azzi passed, which wasn’t surprising. The annoying part was how Azzi kept her gaze locked on Paige while she walked. Like nothing else was as important as watching Paige crack. And she was cracking. 

By the time Azzi stopped in front of the booth, Paige’s pulse was already beating way too hard despite trying to play cool. She wondered if Azzi could see it through the black collared shirt she was wearing. 

Azzi tilted her head slightly, curls brushing her bare shoulder. “You know,” she said smoothly over the music, “usually when people stare at me this hard, they at least offer to buy me a drink.”

Paige’s grin widened slowly, infinitely grateful Nika wasn’t here to witness the interaction.

“Thought about it,” she admitted, gaze dragging slowly down Azzi’s perfectly toned body before settling back on her perfectly pretty face. “But then I figured you deserved to work for it.”

Azzi’s eyebrow lifted. “Oh, is that what we’re doing tonight?”

Paige shrugged lazily, entirely too entertained by the little spark in Azzi’s eyes already. Playing indifferent certainly had its perks. “You’re in my city.”

“Oh it’s your city?” Azzi echoed.

Paige nodded once. “Yep,” she said, popping the last letter before licking her lips. She didn’t miss the way Azzi’s gaze dipped. “Last I checked we’re in Minneapolis. Means I can stare if I want to.”

Azzi laughed softly under her breath, the sound dangerous to Paige’s self-control.

“That confidence is crazy,” Azzi murmured incredulously.

Still, she stepped closer.

Paige spread her legs a bit further. It was out of habit. Not at all a reaction to the way Azzi had stepped into her space. Not at all an offering of sorts. 

“Hasn’t failed me yet,” Paige said coolly before taking a sip of her drink. 

Azzi watched, her eyes locked on the way Paige’s throat bobbed as she swallowed the cool liquid. 

“Mmm.” Azzi stepped closer, one hand reaching forward to pluck the glass from her grip. 

Paige let it go easily, watching the way Azzi’s lips wrapped around the straw, the way her cheeks hollowed as she pulled the last of the liquid into her mouth, the way her eyes twisted shut and her lips puckered as she swallowed the last sips of vodka.

“I see,” Azzi hummed, voice like velvet. She set the empty glass down on the table before leaning forward to place her hand onto the back of the booth beside Paige’s shoulder. “Does that shit work on all the girls?” 

Up close, Paige caught the faint smell of Azzi’s perfume underneath the lingering traces of sweat and expensive vodka. The effect it had on her body hit embarrassingly fast.

Azzi knew it too. It was apparent from the smug little look that settled onto her face.

“Works on the ones that matter,” Paige shot back, regaining some semblance of cool. 

That was apparently the correct answer and a coy smile tugged at Azzi’s lips as she climbed into Paige’s lap, sliding one knee onto either side of Paige’s hips. She glanced around theatrically before her soft brown eyes settled back on Paige, pupils blown wide. 

“So,” Azzi asked innocently even though they both knew she was anything but, “Nika done pouting yet?”

The club was packed. Azzi’s teammates sat fifty feet away and a who’s who of Minneapolis littered the VIP section, but Azzi didn’t seem to care. And Paige was way too many Dirty Shriely’s deep to really process anything but the beautiful woman sitting in her lap. Who could honestly blame her. Besides Nika.  

Blinded by the blissful fog in her brain and the weight of Azzi in her lap, Paige just chuckled, her hands shifting to Azzi’s waist. She stroked the skin peeking out from below the cropped top, relishing its warmth, as Azzi settled. The movement pressed them flush together, and Paige was sure now Azzi could at least feel the way her heart was racing even if she couldn’t see it.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Paige muttered, though she was grinning.

Azzi looped her arms loosely around Paige’s shoulders. “You love trouble.”

Paige hummed at the truth in the statement, blue eyes dropping to Azzi’s mouth for a second before meeting her gaze again. “It does seem to have a way of finding me.”

“Funny,” Azzi murmured, fingertips drifting behind Paige’s ear before trailing down the side of her neck, where they found the collar of Paige’s shirt. She absentmindedly smoothed it flat. “I was thinking the same thing.”

She found the cross pendant resting on Paige’s chest next, adjusting it even though it hadn’t actually needed fixing. Then her palm settled flat in the valley between Paige’s breasts.

They were in the middle of a crowded club, but Paige wasn't complaining. She was too turned on to recognize the alarm bells ringing.

Seemingly emboldened by the way Paige’s heart hammered against her touch, Azzi slid her hand further, fingers grazing a taut nipple through Paige’s shirt.

Jesus Christ. 

Paige bit her lip and sucked in a deep breath. It didn’t help settle her. She wasn’t sure anything could at this moment besides a bucket of cold water. 

“You tryna get in some real trouble tonight?” Azzi asked, voice soft against her ear. The words were almost swallowed by the crowded club around them, but Paige swore they rattled around her skull louder than the bass.

Paige laughed at the implication but she couldn’t deny the way it settled low in her belly. “It is my specialty.”

“I know.”

“Yeah?” Paige’s hand slid higher along Azzi’s waist, fingers pressing in harder before beginning to stroke back and forth. Two could play this game. And despite not knowing the rules, Paige was certainly enjoying it. “That why you came all the way over here?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Azzi shrugged one shoulder, but the smile threatening her lips gave her away. It was small but sinister.

For a second neither of them moved. 

The music pounded through the club. Lights flashed across the crowd below them and Paige suddenly felt hyperaware of every inch separating them. 

Which wasn’t much.

Some would even argue it was too much. That someone being Paige. 

“You look this good tonight just for me?” Paige asked, hopeful at the answer.

A soft laugh escaped Azzi and Paige tried to ignore the way her eyes sparkled when she tipped her head back. 

“That’s a terrible line.”

“Do I need a line?”  Paige arched a brow, a hint of challenge in her tone. “You’re the one who came over here.”

Azzi’s eyes dropped briefly to Paige’s mouth before darting back up. The movement was quick but not quick enough. Paige caught it, and apparently Azzi realized she had too because a faint blush immediately crept into her cheeks before she looked away.

“You looked lonely,” Azzi surmised, tone implying a casualness that didn’t exist.

“Lonely, huh?”

Paige smirked. They both knew it was bullshit. She could have any woman in the club if she wanted. It wasn’t lost on either of them what was happening. 

“Mhm,” Azzi hummed playfully, fingers returning to the collar of Paige’s shirt, and running along it until they found the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. “Thought you could use some company. Pretty confident I’d be better company than you’ve had all night.”

That was a direct shot at Nika. 

Paige knew it. Azzi knew it. Azzi knew Paige knew it. Paige knew Azzi knew it.

But Azzi’s legs were bracketed around Paige’s hips, one arm draped loosely across her shoulders and before Paige could defend her friend’s honor, Azzi’s fingers cinched in the hair at the base of her neck and it sent a jolt straight through Paige that settled right between her fucking legs. 

Willpower gone. Out the door. On vacation with no idea when it’d come back. 

She was fucked. 

Or at least that’s all she could think about. 

Paige’s hands had a mind of their own, sliding along the narrow strip of exposed skin beneath Azzi’s top before dipping lower to palm her ass through the soft fabric of her jeans. Azzi let out a soft moan that made Paige’s cunt throb. Somehow, she maintained enough composure to resist the urge to buck up into Azzi. 

This felt dangerous. 

Then again, most things about Azzi were.

The smile.

The confidence.

The history with Nika. 

The way she was somehow managing to make direct eye contact feel like fucking foreplay.

All of it. 

A pretty little bomb, wrapped with a bow, ready to detonate at any second. 

Azzi tilted her head slightly, studying her with a look that felt entirely too knowing.

“What?” Paige asked.

The coy smile widened because Azzi knew exactly the kind of effect she was having on Paige. The kind that had Paige thinking about what she tasted like. Tequila from her drink earlier? Maybe vodka and grenadine from the waning sips of Paige’s Dirty Shirley? 

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

A soft laugh escaped Azzi and Paige felt it more than heard it.

The lights swept across the room again, briefly illuminating Azzi’s face, and the faint smudge of lip gloss near the corner of her mouth.

Without thinking, Paige reached up.

Azzi went still as Paige brushed the pad of her thumb lightly against the corner of her lips, catching the smear and dragging it away.

“There,” Paige said, voice not entirely steady.

For a second, Azzi’s eyes tracked the movement of her thumb and Paige knew she had her. It was a look she’d gotten many times over the years from various women. None as enticing as Azzi, though. It was doing wonders for Paige’s ego. 

Smirk growing, she slid her thumb back along Azzi’s bottom lip, pulling it down, but resisting the urge to push into her mouth. Then slowly, she looked back up and met Azzi’s gaze. The soft brown was gone, instead replaced by wide, dark pupils, and a hunger that was mirrored in Paige’s own eyes. 

The expression on her face made Paige’s pulse kick against her ribs. The air between them was thick with tension. She was in trouble and there was nothing she could do about it. Even if she wanted to. Which she obviously didn’t. 

“Thanks,” Azzi whispered, before using her grip on Paige’s hair to pull her in. 

The kiss landed hard enough to steal the cocky response from the tip of Paige’s tongue. 

Azzi kissed like she played soccer: aggressive, confident, a little cocky about it. Same as Paige, which left them fighting to establish dominance. Azzi’s fingers tightened into the hair at the back of Paige’s neck, nails sliding and scraping against her scalp as Paige’s hands slipped lower and groped her ass.

Azzi made a soft little sound when Paige slipped her tongue into her mouth, and Paige felt it zip straight down her spine. The club blurred around them into bass and flashing lights and distant bodies moving somewhere outside the booth. But all Paige could focus on was the way Azzi kissed her, like she was staking a claim.

After a couple minutes, maybe even more because Paige had honestly lost track, Azzi pulled back just enough to breathe, lips pink and swollen. Paige leaned forward to chase her lips but a firm hand against her chest stopped her. 

Paige whined, not caring how pathetic it sounded. She’d had a taste and now it was all she could process. Unfortunately, the striker sent her a pointed glare that deflated Paige instantly.

“I thought,” Azzi started, a slight pout tugging at her mouth, “you were gonna tell her about us tonight.”

Paige groaned, dropping her forehead briefly against Azzi’s shoulder before pulling back to meet her dark gaze.

“Bro,” Paige laughed, “you literally took both her legs out with a slide tackle. You think tonight was the night to tell her?”

“First of all, don’t call me ‘bro’,” Azzi scolded in mock offense. “Second… did you not see her drag me down by my jersey in the first half?”

Paige snorted. “You provoked her.”

“I did no such thing.” 

“So you weren’t shit talking her in Croatian?” 

Azzi grinned proudly, which was really the only answer Paige needed. “I was just trying to be inclusive.”

Paige laughed again, unable not to. “You’re right, Az,” she admitted, really just hoping to move things along so she could get her mouth back on Azzi.

God, Paige had missed her.

They’d only been apart a couple of weeks—since Paige had played the Mystics—but still.

Unfortunately, the smugness that overtook Azzi’s face was immediate.

“Oh. I’m definitely telling her you said that.”

Paige pointed a warning finger at her, wagging it slightly. “Don’t even think about it. She’ll kill me.”

Azzi grabbed it, interlacing their fingers instead, and Paige felt the resistance seep out of her pores the way it always did when she had Azzi wrapped around her.

“She loves you too much to kill you.” 

“She might actually hate you more than she loves me, though,” Paige countered. “You were supposed to chill today so I could talk to her, Az. Not rile her up even more.” 

Azzi giggled, and Paige swore that sound alone had probably taken years off her life. 

Then Azzi kissed her again. Slower this time, but also a little bit meaner. It was a kiss clearly designed to ruin Paige’s ability to think and it was fucking working. Especially when Azzi shifted in her lap, grinding down enough to make Paige’s grip tighten. A sharp breath caught in Paige’s throat and Azzi smiled against her mouth, pulling back just enough for Paige to see the mischievousness flicker in her eyes. 

“You’re evil,” Paige muttered.

“And yet, you’re going to take me back to your house and fuck me anyway.”

“Oh, am I?” Paige shot back with a cocky smirk.

It was rhetorical, laughable even, that Paige even asked the question. They both knew exactly how this evening was going to end—breathless and sated, wrapped around each other in Paige’s bed. And at some point, God willing, Azzi’s legs wrapped around Paige’s shoulders, around her head. 

Azzi pulled back and let her eyes rake over Paige. Clearly liking what she saw, she traced a finger up Paige’s arm, sending goosebumps scattering across her skin, before her long fingers wrapped around Paige’s jaw and lifted her chin so their eyes met.

“Yes. You are.”

Then Azzi’s grip on Paige’s jaw tightened. She held Paige in place, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, “Especially on if you want to see what I’m wearing underneath this.” 

Paige gulped, swallowing down the cotton in her throat. “Which one is it?” she asked hoarsely, eyes half-lidded. 

“Your favorite,” Azzi mumbled coyly into her ear, her warm breath spreading through Paige like wildfire. “The one I wore for your birthday last year.” 

Paige’s hand slipped under the waistband of Azzi’s pants, grinning with pure joy when she felt lace beneath her fingertips.

She could picture it now. Azzi in that lavender lingerie set, spread out on Paige’s bed, writhing with pleasure as Paige buried her face between her legs. It sent a flood of wetness to her already soaked boxers. 

“Mmm,” Paige hummed against Azzi’s lips. “Yeah, I think we should call an Uber soon, baby.”

Azzi rolled her hips again, slower this time, but definitely intentionally. 

“Fuck, baby,” Paige breathed against Azzi’s mouth as she lost the last functioning brain cell she had left.

All she could think about was getting her fingers in Azzi’s cunt. Or her tongue. Or her strap. Paige didn’t care, she was an equal opportunity employer. 

And Azzi? She just looked unbearably pleased with herself. She leaned back slightly, fingers tracing teasingly along the chain around Paige’s neck, a soft smile replacing the smug one.

“You know,” Azzi said gently, “you are gonna have to tell her eventually.”

Paige sighed dramatically already knowing where this was headed.

“Or I can just fuck you right here and cause enough of a scene it floods social media by morning and she can find out that way…”

Paige winced at the thought, picturing how wide Nika’s eyes would blow. And then the slew of curse words that would slip from her lips, likely trailing off in another language. Which would probably be good because at least Paige wouldn’t know how Nika was planning on killing her. Sometimes not knowing was better. 

In her defense, she had been meaning to tell Nika. For months now, actually. But every single time she tried to bring up Azzi, Nika would say something like “If Azzi Fudd has no haters left on earth it means I’m dead,” or something along those lines, and Paige would lose her nerve.

Which maybe made her a little bit of a coward. But she valued her life. So. Whatever. 

Azzi’s fingers slid to Paige’s chain, tugging lightly to pull her back to reality. “Paige.”

She was serious now, the playful banter dissipating and Paige knew why. 

“I’ll tell her, Az,” Paige promised, kissing along Azzi’s jaw before she could keep arguing. “I swear I’ll tell Nika soon.”

The attempt at distraction worked. Azzi giggled quietly when Paige’s mouth brushed her neck, settling her weight back down and titling her neck to give Paige more room to work.

“You’ll fucking tell me what soon?”

The blood drained from Paige’s face so fast, chilling in her veins and freezing her in place. 

One second Azzi was giggling as Paige kissed along her neck, warm and smug and entirely too comfortable in her lap, and the next Paige was staring over her shoulder at Nika standing beside the booth with wide eyes and her forgotten leather jacket dangling limply from one hand.

For one spectacular moment, nobody spoke.

Paige could only hope Nika permanently lost the ability to speak as her brain scrambled uselessly for literally anything helpful to say. It was to no avail. Every possible sentence immediately sounded incriminating. 

On top of her, Azzi had gone still too, though not nearly with the same level of panic. Probably not with any panic at all. Paige could practically feel the amusement simmering under her skin.

Of course she was entertained. It was yet another win to hold over Nika’s head. And Azzi wasn’t the one about to be murdered by her best friend. Although if Paige got murdered, Azzi’s chances of multiple orgasms that evening dropped significantly. So really, it wasn’t a great situation for either of them.

Then Azzi, because apparently self-preservation meant absolutely nothing to her, tilted her head slightly and looked up at Nika with a soft, innocent expression that would’ve been believable if Paige hadn’t witnessed the decade-long feud between them firsthand. 

“Sup Mühl,” Azzi said way too fucking casually. 

Nika looked physically unwell. Behind the bewilderment, Paige knew rage was simmering. A deep seeded, festering rage. 

Paige opened her mouth instinctively. “Nika—”

“No,” Nika cut in immediately, pointing at Paige without taking her fiery gaze off Azzi. “Absolutely not. Don’t even speak right now, P.”

Paige sank deeper into the booth cushions, wishing the couch could swallow her whole. 

Nika’s wide-eyed gaze bounced between them, visibly trying to process the image in front of her. Paige knew exactly how bad it looked. Azzi was fully straddling Paige’s lap, Paige’s hand still rested beneath the waistband of her jeans, both of them flushed and disheveled enough that there was absolutely no chance of talking their way out of this. 

Nada. Zero. Zilch. 

Nika drew in a deep breath, held it a few seconds, and then released it. She suddenly looked entirely too calm. It was unsettling. 

Finally, she met Paige’s gaze.

“You,” Nika said slowly to Paige, like each word physically pained her, “are making out with my opp.”

Azzi snorted from Paige’s lap, moving her hands from Paige’s neck to rest gently on her shoulders. “Opp is crazy, Nika.”

“Was I fucking talking to you, Fudd?” 

Apparently Azzi didn’t take too keenly to the finger Nika was pointing in her face because she laughed. It was low and cold, a sound Paige had never heard but that made her chest cinch. This might be the worst possible position Paige had ever been in. And she’d found herself in some cataclysmic ones over the years. 

“Still pissed you lost, Muhl?” 

Nika’s eyes grew impossibly wider and Paige really really wished she had the power of invisibility and could nope herself right the fuck out of there. Even missing out on the chance to fuck Azzi would be better than having to sit through a scolding from Nika when her hands were still down Azzi’s pants. 

Oh shit. 

That certainly wasn’t helping the matter. 

Paige quickly withdrew her hands, not missing the way Nika’s gaze flicked down and cataloged the movement. Luckily, she seemed to be more interested in the bait Azzi was dangling in front of her. 

“You literally slide tackled me into another dimension tonight.”

“Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. I got the ball.”

“You got a yellow card!”

“And yet,” Azzi replied smugly, “we still won.”

The strangled sound that left Nika’s throat nearly made Paige laugh. Nearly. Despite the fluidity of her body from the alcohol and its longing for Azzi, it seemed her body also remembered Nika could probably snap her neck before she even saw it coming. 

Unfortunately, Nika’s brain was working faster now, piecing together details Paige really wished she wouldn’t piece together. Paige watched the exact moment her eyes dropped to the way Paige’s thumb was absentmindedly rubbing against Azzi’s side. Then Nika clocked how naturally Azzi was tucked against her chest, how comfortable they looked together, how neither of them seemed remotely awkward.

And then came the look. The one Paige recognized instantly. One she knew all too well. 

Absolute horror.

“Oh my god,” Nika whispered, eyes widening further as she moved her finger between the two in shock. “How long?”

Nobody answered fast enough. Which was apparently answer enough.

In Paige’s defense, she simply could not bring herself to say years. The words were right there on the tip of her tongue, but they were stuck. Call it self-preservation. 

“Paige!”

“Okay,” Paige started carefully, because she suddenly felt like she was diffusing a bomb with her bare hands. Honestly, that might be a more relaxing experience than the one she was currently embroiled in. “Before you react—”

“Before I react?” Nika repeated incredulously. “How long have you been fucking Azzi Fudd behind my back?”

The way she said Azzi’s name with so much disdain felt like a knife to the chest. A couple people at a nearby table glanced over briefly, curious at the sudden yelling.

Paige lowered her voice. “Can you maybe not announce that to the entire club?”

Nika ignored her completely, still staring like she was debating if her entire friendship with Paige had been a lie. “How long?”

Paige hesitated. Which, again, was apparently a mistake because it gave Azzi a chance to open her fucking mouth. A beautiful mouth, but a problem for Paige nonetheless. 

Azzi turned, leaning comfortably against Paige’s chest and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Nika,” Azzi said, inviting her to the couch across from them with a flick of her wrist. In the VIP booth that Nika had booked and paid for that evening. “Grab a drink and we can all talk like adults. For once.” 

Nika looked like she might actually combust. Honestly, at this point, Paige genuinely couldn’t tell whether Nika wanted to scream or cry. Probably both and maybe the thoughts were just so conflicting it was making her brain short circuit, which was why Paige and Azzi were still alive. 

Paige finally let out a helpless laugh, rubbing a hand down her face. “Okay, baby, you are not helping.”

Silence followed. Nika blinked once, then again, much slower this time. Finally, she closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh before looking back at Paige. 

“Baby?”

Ah.

Right.

That sounded bad.

Nika had been around long enough to know Paige didn’t do pet names. At least not with random hookups. The only time she’d used any sort of term of endearment in front of Nika had been in college, when she’d dated Brooke for a couple of years.

Azzi, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted. Chuffed, if you will. She shifted slightly in Paige’s lap, practically radiating smug satisfaction while Paige mentally drafted her own obituary. The only thing worse than Paige fucking Azzi Fudd, would be actually liking Azzi Fudd.

“Are you… like not just fucking?” Nika asked carefully, like she was scared of the answer. “Like… are you… dating?” 

By now the outrage had softened into confusion. The question hit differently than Paige expected. Suddenly the issue wasn’t just the hooking up or the secrecy or even the rivalry. It was the fact that this might be something serious. Something that mattered. 

Paige felt Azzi glance at her briefly before she answered.

“Kinda?” Paige said cautiously.

Azzi immediately scoffed, looking offended. “Kinda?”

In all of the romcoms Paige had watched over the years—which was a lot because Nika fucking loved them—none had prepared her for being trapped between her best friend and girlfriend. There was no winning. And literally, Paige’s favorite thing to do was win. 

She blew out a shaky breath, remembering the night a few months ago when she had nervously confessed to Azzi that she wanted to be exclusive. 

It certainly hadn’t started out that way. They’d met two years ago at an ESPY party. Paige beat Azzi for Best Championship Performance and had sauntered over to her at the bar, wearing a custom Louis Vuitton suit and a smug little grin. Her intention was to gloat, to rub it in a little bit so she could tell Nika all about it.

And she had gloated and she had rubbed it in, and the interaction had confirmed that Azzi Fudd was the terrible little shit she and Nika always thought she was. But Azzi Fudd was also hot, and Paige apparently liked it when a woman was mean to her, because suddenly she was eating Azzi out in the back of a limo, and they were hate fucking in Paige’s hotel room, and she’d woken up in the morning with Azzi’s head between her legs already halfway to an orgasm. 

She thought that was that. It was easy enough to chalk up to a drunken night where two people that hated each other fucked. Until she got a “You in my city?” text from Azzi a few months later when the Lynx were in DC playing the Mystics. Followed by an address. 

Paige had debated whether or not to go. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Azzi, sober at least. And she also wasn’t entirely convinced Azzi hadn’t sent directions to a crack house. But then she remembered how Azzi tasted. How she felt writhing underneath her. How she sounded—so breathless and needy and whiny—when she came. And Paige figured one more time wouldn’t hurt. 

The next time, Paige happened to be staying in the same hotel as Azzi at New York Fashion Week. A month later it was a Nike event in Los Angeles. Two weeks after that, Azzi was in Minneapolis for a game. 

Every time was more of the same. They’d fuck and then one of them would leave. Part of Paige did feel guilty keeping it from Nika, but it was a small part. There was really nothing to tell. No feelings involved. Just two people who didn’t particularly like each other, doling out mind blowing orgasms.

Except, it didn’t stay that way. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about hate fucking, and just became fucking. Then it became more than fucking, and Paige knew Nika would implode but she was honestly already in too deep.

And as much as Paige knew it was risking life and limb to admit to Nika, this was serious. It did matter. 

“Okay, yes, we’re dating.”

Nika stared at both of them like she was trying to keep herself rooted in place, hands shoved in her pockets because if she stepped forward there was no telling what she’d do with them. 

“When did this start?” she asked weakly.

Paige grimaced. Unfortunately for her, Azzi looked thrilled by the question.

“When did we start fucking?” Azzi asked sweetly. “Or when did we actually start dating?”

Nika’s soul visibly exited her body.

Paige grabbed Azzi’s thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. “Okay, chill,” she warned, though not unkindly. “You did not need to say it like that.”

Nika dropped heavily onto the edge of the booth beside them like her knees stopped functioning altogether.

“I hate both of you.”

Azzi leaned slightly toward Nika, curls slipping over one shoulder. “To be fair, you hated me before this too.”

“That’s true,” Nika grumbled immediately before grabbing the almost empty bottle of tequila from the bucket of melted ice and taking a big swig.

Then she pointed the bottle accusingly at Paige. “But your girlfriend being so fucking smug right now is making this significantly worse.”

Azzi grinned wider. “I’m trying really hard to be normal actually.”

“Shut up, Fudd.”

That finally broke Paige. She laughed hard enough her shoulders shook, because the entire situation had become so catastrophically stupid that there was nothing else to do anymore.

Nika looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “You’re laughing right now?” 

Paige’s heart rate had ticked down a few notches now that it seemed Nika wasn’t planning on killing either of them. At least for the moment. Maybe she did love Paige more than she hated Azzi. 

“I never planned for this to happen, Nika,” Paige said exasperatedly, before blowing out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry for keeping it from you. Whatever you want to know I’ll tell you.”

Nika rubbed both hands over her face before groaning toward the ceiling. She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. 

“You know what?” she huffed. “I’m too drunk for this shit.”

Paige bit the inside of her cheek to stop smiling. Nika stood again, grabbing her jacket before pointing firmly at both of them.

“I’ll see you at brunch tomorrow.” Then, more aggressively, she added, “Both of you.”

Azzi saluted lazily from Paige’s lap. “Can’t wait.”

Nika made it approximately two steps before whipping around one final time.

“And by the way,” she snapped, pointing directly at Azzi now, “that was a shit tackle and you know it, Fudd.”

Azzi looked deeply unrepentant and Nika’s eyes immediately cut toward Paige.

“Tell her it was a shit tackle, Paige.”

Paige inhaled slowly because this, right here, was the actual trap. She could already feel Azzi watching her, waiting to see which side she’d pick. Her heart slammed against her ribcage and she honestly wished it’d break free. At least then they’d have to call an ambulance and she wouldn’t have to answer, right? Although the two of them would probably start arguing about who got to ride in it with Paige to the hospital and she could only imagine how that would go... 

“Nika, I—”

Azzi grabbed Paige’s jaw before she could finish, kissing her hard enough to completely derail the sentence. Paige laughed against her mouth, one arm tightening around Azzi’s waist automatically as Nika let out the most exhausted groan Paige had ever heard in her life.

“See you tomorrow, Nika,” Azzi hummed against Paige’s lips, waving her hand dismissively. 

“My best friend,” Nika muttered while walking away, “is fucking my opp.”

Paige didn’t have it in her to fight, instead grabbing Azzi’s hips and pulling her in closer.

She probably should’ve felt more concerned about the impending doom waiting for her at brunch. There was a very real chance Nika would spend the rest of the night drafting a list of crimes she’d like to commit against both of them.

Chapter 10: Interlagos, Part 1

Hartford, Connecticut 2012

Bumming around Barnes & Noble is a nice way to spend a Saturday. 

Kathy had to run errands in Hartford, and she likes to browse as much as the next middle aged white lady; she bought Paige a Frappuccino from the cafe and went to look at the gardening section, leaving Paige free to wander the isles and cover skim. 

Hanging out in a bookstore to pass the time feels like a world apart from any Saturday afternoon that she ever spent at home. 

Back in Hopkins, if it wasn’t a racing weekend — or if they didn’t have money for the kart gas — her Saturdays were almost always spent with Mrs. Cuthbert, the old lady who lives in the unit below theirs. She didn’t mind having Paige around the place while her dad worked first shift at the warehouse, happy to have someone to pass the time with. She’d make Paige pancakes and they would watch the Golden Girls. 

Walking around Barnes & Noble still feels so different to her life back in Hopkins, even though it’s been almost two years since she’s been living with Geno and Kathy. 

After browsing the youth literature section, Paige walks through the magazine racks. She’s paged through them before — Barnes & Noble is included in the usual rotation when Kathy runs errands in Hartford — but buying something that will be out of date within a few weeks isn’t how Paige wants to spend her money. What little pocket change she has. 

She settles in one of the plush armchairs that’s been deposited in the psychology section of the store, because it probably gets the least amount of foot traffic.There’s a stack of car magazines in her lap and the Double Chocolate Mint Frappuccino with whip cream and mocha sauce sweats droplets onto her thigh as she idly sips at it. 

It’s been almost forty-five minutes since she and Kathy arrived, which means there’s probably ten more minutes until Kathy comes to find her. Paige is almost finished with the last magazine she picked at random; AutoTalk Racing Magazine. 

There are a few interviews that are interesting, and Paige reads them slowly so she can remember the most important parts to soak up. There’s one with the Sauber F1 Team Principal, and another with one of the coaches who’s fairly well known on the karting circuit. 

She almost bypasses a Q&A write-up and listing of advice from ‘the next generation of motorsport minds’ because what do they know, but as she’s glancing through, her attention gets pulled toward one of the unique names that’s bolded in a yellow circular graphic, the double ‘z’ catching her eye. Azzi. Azzi Fudd. 

Q: Your high school engineering team recently won the national Shell Marathon competition for designing a racing vehicle. What’s the most important thing you’ve learned through the process?

A: Downforce is faith. It only works when you commit before it feels safe

Azzi Fudd, 16, incoming First Year at Imperial College London 

The name sticks out in Paige’s brain; this is the girl Geno’s talked about. The one who asked him for help with the competition. The one with the big brain. 

“Paige? Let’s go honey, we should get going if we want to eat dinner at a reasonable time.”

She looks up to see Kathy approaching, and nods. “I’ll put these back,” she says, already moving to stand. 

“You find anything interesting?” Kathy asks.

“This one,” Paige says, deciding. “I’m gonna buy it.”

“Put it in the basket. My treat.”

Kathy doesn’t need to be spending her money on Paige, but she always does. It feels nice, to have someone who wants her to smile, but awkward, because Paige always feels a little bit like a charity case. 

“Just this one,” she says, putting the magazine on top of the basket, over a knitting pattern book and a gardening magazine. “Thank you.”

“Maybe we should get a cookie for the road,” Kathy says, smiling. She digs into her wallet and hands Paige a ten dollar bill. “Get two of the big ones and I’ll meet you up front.”

Paige nods and takes the remaining stack of magazines and the money to head back to the cafe. She’ll tell Geno what she saw; he’ll be interested that Azzi Fudd is going to London. 

After all, he says he wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up running an F1 team someday. 

—--

October 3 - 5, Brazilian Grand Prix: São Paulo: The Autódromo José Carlos Pace (Interlagos)

“Looking great, looking great. Okay, Paige, let’s do eyes on the camera for a few shots.”

She turns her head and makes eye contact with the camera lens, her lips settling into something that isn’t a smile but doesn’t feel too severe. On her left, Nika looks out at the street as she was directed to do, her gaze assessing as always. 

The sound of the camera shutter is one more sound to the soundtrack of the morning, the vibrant bustle of São Paulo on a Tuesday; music from the crew to keep the mood high, a semi-busy street, and what feels like a hundred people scurrying around. 

“These are great,” the photographer says. “Absolute flames.”

“Flames,” Nika murmurs, too quietly for anyone else to hear. She’s been outfitted in a sporty little crop top and a pair of jeans that Paige is envious of. Nika has the face of a high fashion model so she always looks photoshoot ready, but the hair, makeup, and styling teams have really transformed her into the kind of vision that any label in the world would covet. 

“Chill,” Paige soothes her, letting the photographer capture a few more shots before she looks away and smirks in Nika’s direction. 

They’re seated in Beco de Batman at a little table brought in specifically for them. The popular street art area serves as a colorful and cultural backdrop for these photos; Paige can’t wait to see them. 

It’s a photoshoot designed to show off the young might of Team Lamborghini. Paige and Nika are in one location; Soni and Georgia are in another, and the four of them are supposed to converge at some tourist attraction in the center of the city in a little bit for a few shots of them just casually looking like they could grace a magazine cover. 

The photos will hit the internet by the end of the week, coinciding with a long form article that Soni and Paige both sat for. The Future of Lamborghini, or some shit like that. 

The whole thing has been planned for a while, but the timing couldn’t be better; Lamborghini has a 105 point lead over McLaren in the Constructors’ Championship and it’s creating a lot of buzz. Paige and Soni aren’t winning every race, but they’re consistently delivering good points and it’s really making a difference in the standings. Everyone — the analysts, the commentators, the fans — are frothing about how two rookies are giving the veterans on the grid the run around. 

It’s too early and everyone’s too superstitious to throw around the term uncatchable or runaway winners but numbers don’t lie; Lamborghini is narrowing in on the title. 

“Okay let’s do some fun ones,” the photographer chirps. “Can you do a little cheers with your drinks?”

Truly ridiculous. 

Paige lifts her glass of Guaraná Antarctica and Nika does the same with her cafézinho; they clink together and dissolve into laughter, because there’s definitely some part of them that can’t believe this is their life. That they get to do this together is the sweetest part. 

Ten more minutes of photos and the photographer announces that she’s gotten what she needs. Everyone begins to pack up and the poor handler assigned to shuttle Nika and Paige from place to place steps in to guide them to the car. 

“You’ll go through the styling teams again at the next location,” she says, opening the door to the SUV so they can climb inside.

São Paulo is an incredible city, vibrant and alive. Scope the size that confounds the mind. Paige has been three times before but each time she discovers a new side to the metropolis. A different personality to the concrete jungle that speaks to whomever Paige has been at that moment. 

Not always for the best.

“So we’re going to one of those observation boxes?” Paige thinks that’s what she remembers being told. “Forty floors up or something.”

“Who comes up with these ideas?” Nika asks. “At least the clothes are good. Do I get to keep this?”

“No.”

“What? What a racket. Life is a disappointment.” Nika frowns down at the crop, pulling on the bodice like she’s going to physically restrain someone from taking it off her person. But then she glances out the window and her face lights up. 

“Can we stop?” She calls up to the driver. 

Paige is sure that the driver is going to say no to whatever it is Nika’s requesting, but to her surprise, the assistant who’s in charge of them tells the driver to pull off. A few minutes later they pull into a parking lot, and Paige follows Nika out of the SUV.

“Oh fuck,” she murmurs. “Here it is.”

Above all else, racing in Brazil means paying homage to the most iconic F1 driver to ever exist. 

Ayrton Senna. 

“It really is a sick mural,” Nika comments, looking up. 

Across the very busy street is the famous mural. It’s over a hundred feet tall, a beautiful and colorful representation of Senna in his helmet, the visor up. 

The first time Paige saw it, she was drunk on an F2 win. It had rained before her race, during her race, and after. She’d stood nearby, drenched head to toe with rainwater, the feel of a random girl’s lips on her neck. 

The random girl and their night together is gone from her memory but for a blur of neon lights and slick skin and the taste of Cachaça, but she remembers the mural. Remembers looking up at it, at his eyes. 

It’s strange to feel things about someone who’s long dead, but there’s something about the legacy of Ayrton Senna that’s always spoken to Paige. She drives like him and it isn’t even purposeful. It’s the way the rain speaks to her, the way the car can dance. It’s a lot, sometimes, to feel the car so deeply.  

She’d stood that night, brimming with confidence and victory and wondered if she could really do it — if she could actually be one of the greats. Everything in the world would say no, that greatness is for a lucky few. But Paige has always been greedy. It’s a constant; she’s always wanted more than she’s been allotted and all signs point to that never changing. With her family, with racing, with Azzi. 

But Ayrton Senna died on the track and Paige supposes that might be a fitting way to go for someone who lives and breathes for it. That it’s the trade off, a bargain made with fate. Signed and sealed with her blood before she ever gave her verbal agreement. She still doesn’t know who the other signatory is; God or the devil. Time will tell.

“Imagine being so beloved by two hundred million people,” Nika continues, her gaze reverent as she studies the art. It’s the softest her face has looked in ages. 

“Imagine having that talent,” Paige muses. 

There’s a famous Senna quote that always stuck with Paige; if you no longer go for a gap which exists, you are no longer a racing driver. 

She thinks about those words as she walks to the edge of the parking lot, almost drawn to the mural. The calling doesn’t pull her into the traffic but it’s close. She’s been chasing the gap her whole life, trying to slip her way in. It’s inevitable that it opens up, after all. 

A few feet behind her, Nika pulls out her phone to snap a few photos. 

The click of the camera shutter surprises Paige; she turns around to see the photographer from their shoot, who was following in another car. Hers must have pulled off as well. She takes another photo as Paige makes unintentional eye contact with the lens. 

“We should get going,” the photographer says after a moment of shooting, when Paige has turned back to the mural. “Lots more to do today still.”

Paige nods but she lingers at the edge of the concrete lot, her eyes still on the only man she’s maybe ever loved. 

It’s hard to love a ghost. And yet. 

—--

1:22: …out of a meeting with Diana — more administrative bullshit, honestly — , they’re interviewing her about the new Ayrton Senna documentary. Thirty years on and people are still talking about his driving. Imagine meaning that much to a sport. I always thought his…

—--

Dinner is being held at an extremely fancy steakhouse. There’s live music being strummed somewhere nearby, in combination with the low beat of some kind of base. Waiters float around, barely visible unless someone needs something at which point they materialize. 

Diana wanted to treat everyone. That was the official narrative spread around, an order disguised as an invitation. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Soni is saying, waving her red wine airily. “Think you must be imagining things.”

It’s a good atmosphere at the restaurant; people are feeling fairly upbeat about the weekend. Not too confident, just…capable. And Paige knows her role in this space, she’s aware of what’s expected from her. So she’s charming and easy going; she jokes around with the heads of the different teams and the other leadership level folks present and puts actual effort into being the most genial version of herself. 

“Bro you looked like you were gonna pass out,” Paige shakes her head. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were afraid of heights.”

“Because I’m not afraid.”

“Sonia,” she chastises, “it’s wrong to lie.”

A fancy dinner at an exclusive steakhouse isn’t necessary to encourage team cohesion and positivity, but Paige knows it’s about more than the food or the atmosphere. Diana wants people present, she wants to lay eyes and stare them down. Lamborghini has never had a season that’s been this dominant. They’ve led a few times, but they’ve never brought home the Constructors’ Championship. 

At this point, the only team that could catch them is McLaren, and they’d almost have to win out. The talking heads on the sports channels and the analysts on the internet are all yapping about what the magic number will be, what race it’ll happen, if Lamborghini can keep it up. Paige doesn’t pay any attention to that; she gets in the car and does what she can, and sometimes she also does what she’s told, and altogether she fucking hopes it adds up to success. 

She’s engaged in a conversation with the heads of the tyre crew, returning from a trip to the bar for a sparkling water, when she finally catches sight of Azzi. Big group get-togethers like this aren’t Azzi’s favorite; Paige remembers with clarity the way she used to hype Azzi up before she left to go meet Sue or Nneka or the others at Mercedes. 

It’s easy to excuse herself, to make her way across the restaurant and to the balcony where Azzi stands at the railing, looking over the view. She’s wearing her usual nice black dress, the one that Paige picked out for her. It’s exactly right for this kind of event; nice enough to look dressy but still acceptable for a professional setting. Seeing Azzi draped in something Paige picked out will never get old but it still hits her like a punch to the gut. 

“Hey,” Paige says, walking to join her. 

Azzi turns. She has a glass of wine in her hand and she’s been drinking it; Paige can see the imprint of her lips on the rim. Red and full. 

“I heard you spent the day posing for the camera,” she says.

“It loves me,” Paige preens, unashamed to be so beautiful. “I’m blessed.”

“And humble.” Azzi sounds like she’s not charmed but Paige knows differently. 

Well, she certainly believes differently. 

Things are different now. Paige thought they would be, but being near Azzi again confirms it. Zandvoort changed the lay of the land, the ground under her feet. So did Monza and her win there. Because they did that together. 

But Austin - Austin - they can't go back after Austin. After she took care of Azzi and put her to bed and sat next to her while she finally succumbed to the needs of her body. Reading poetry to Azzi as a comfort. 

Paige doesn't know what it means, where they go from here. But she knows that things are different. In a good way. 

“This is a fun little event.” She leans her elbows on the balcony railing, taking in the view. São Paulo is similar to Mexico City in feel. Alive and electric and huge. And Azzi always loved big cities. 

“Diana’s feeling the pressure of leading. She’s obsessed with cohesion.” 

“Bet that’s fun,” Paige comments. 

Azzi smiles to herself, a tiny little smirk. “She won’t say it. She’s too cool to admit that she actually feels the pressure.” 

She turns to open to Paige just a little more. The lights from inside flicker against her skin, little golden flames that dance across her face. There’s a change about her. It’s not that she seems…lighter. In fact, it almost feels like the opposite. 

But in a good way. 

“She doesn’t want to put too much pressure on you,” Azzi adds; she’s amused. “Thinks it’ll ruin your vibe.”

The way she annunciates vibe is going to live in Paige’s fantasies. 

“Let me guess,” Paige hypothesizes. “You told her it’s just not possible. Not with an ego as big as mine.”

The smug grin that graces Azzi’s face is so self satisfactory that Paige’s mouth waters a little bit. Azzi’s always pretended to not care about being right, but Paige knows she relishes in it, that she delights in always being right. How she manages to keep it a secret from most folks is a mystery; Paige has always been able to see right through her artifice. 

But Azzi just shrugs. “I told her you could handle it.”

“I can,” Paige confirms. “You feeling better?” 

Obviously Azzi is feeling better. She looks like a different human being than she did in Austin, when she was a snotty and sick mess and resembled patient zero in a post-apocalypse horror movie. They’ve exchanged voice notes since then; first just one a day and then two. Yesterday they traded five back and forth. 

“I am. Thank you,” she adds, and it’s the first time she’s said it. 

“You’re welcome.”

Azzi may be physically better but Paige can’t stop thinking about the hotel room in Austin. About the lack of poetry and the dress and the way that Azzi fell asleep next to her. It seems like every intimate encounter only adds to the list of questions. 

“You stop anywhere on your way down?”

Azzi’s commitment to work is unmatched but her dedication to seeing the world has deeper roots than her love of numbers. 

“No. I stayed two extra days in Austin, just sleeping. But then Diana wanted me back at the factory.”

It’s insane what these teams do; the US to Italy to Brazil in the span of two weeks. The trans-Atlantic flight probably negated all the good that Azzi did her body by sleeping two days away in Austin, but at this point in the season it’s really just about getting to the end. How can Paige nitpick at her when she’s done worse herself.

“You doing okay, after Austin?” Azzi asks, glancing over. She takes another sip of her wine and Paige tries not to focus on the way her lips kiss the rim of her glass.

“I hate what happened at COTA,” she admits, exhaling a deep sigh. “Racing like that didn’t feel good.” 

Paige doesn’t need to explain that to Azzi, of all people. But Azzi asked, after all.

“It won’t happen again,” Azzi promises her.

Paige shakes her head. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“And I don’t need you to fight mine.”

There’s strength in Azzi’s words, the kind that comes from getting deep into it and emerging victorious. Things must have gone down, back in Sant’Agata; Paige wants to know the ins and outs of it all, the messy and gossipy details. But that’s never been Azzi’s thing. 

“So it’s a battle we fight together,” she offers, and it’s worth it to see the way Azzi softens into a smile.

“It’s going to be a good week,” Azzi murmurs a moment later. She glances down at her wine and then over at Paige, like lingering eye contact is too much for her to sustain. “It’s a good track for you. For the car.”

Interlagos is a demanding track; it doesn’t prioritize one type of driver over another, or even one type of car over another. With twists and turns, elevation changes and a need for efficient aero, it’s a track that accepts only the best of the best. To truly master Interlagos is something beautiful to watch. 

The design of the Lamborghini car also helps them here, because Paige isn’t a driver who needs to rely only on straight line speed to get an advantage. At Mercedes, it was part of Azzi’s job to help mold the car, to give her feedback on the design process so that the engineers could align it as best as they could to suit Sabrina’s driving style. But now, at Lamborghini, it’s starting from scratch again, and Paige’s strengths combined with Soni’s strengths mean they have a little more breathing room. 

There will be expectations for Paige this weekend; she was good at Interlagos in F2. Better than Sabrina was when she was in F2. But it also means that there will be pressure. She pushes the thought out of her head.

“It’ll be different in the F1 car,” she says instead, always happy to pad her ego but never comfortable enough to take the direct compliment from Azzi. Not until she’s earned it.

“You’ll manage.”

There’s a buzz inside; Paige turns her head to see people starting to take their seats. Diana must be gearing up to start her on-location pep talk.

“We should head in,” she says, reluctantly.

Azzi hums in agreement, but neither of them make a big move to leave their quiet little bubble. It’s nice here, just the two of them, the silence no longer filled with anger or resentment like it was at the beginning of the season.

But they can’t stay cocooned away from the team, because chairs are scraping and people are moving and it’ll be obvious that they’re missing soon enough. Paige turns to leave but before she goes she steps in just a hair, just close enough for the scent of citrus and motor oil to invade her nostrils. 

“You look beautiful,” she whispers, her chin just brushing the side of Azzi’s head. 

—--

“Dig, Paige, you got this.”

Paige breathes through the exertion, through the discomfort. She’s on one hand and the opposite foot, planking with her other hand on a roller disk. Sweat drips down her nose as she extends the arm on the roller disk to redistribute her core balance and stretch her arm beyond 90 degrees. 

Beside her, DiJonai counts as Paige adds reps. She’s taken some video already, since Paige’s management team asked for a little more content. Given her success so far in the standings, people are clamoring for more; she doesn’t want it to be a distraction so she put DiJonai in charge. 

“Alright, three more.”

She groans into it, then collapses, exhausted, onto her stomach. 

“Dead,” she manages, flopping onto her back to starfish. 

It’s a fancy gym. Some place in downtown São Paulo nearly as high as that observational tower they went to. DiJonai is punishing Paige for the steak, ruining the buzz of a good evening with sweat and exertion. It’s too extreme to say Paige loves it, but she can appreciate what a workout does for her mind and her body. 

It’s just her spirit that constantly needs mending.  

“Five minute rest and then let’s do some combos.”

Paige nods, catching the water bottle that DiJonai tosses at her. She takes three long swigs, relishing in the sensation of the ice water in her body. She worked hard to keep herself in shape during F3 and F2, to make sure that she was ready for what the car demanded of her, but the F1 car is a different beast; it takes more than Paige sometimes thinks she’s capable of giving. And she was able to keep up when the season started, but now she knows how much it will take. DiJonai keeps her ready. In more ways than just one. 

“Alright,” Paige says, heaving herself up and stretching. “Let’s do this.”

They go to the balcony, because the fresh air feels good on her overheated skin. The view of São Paulo doesn’t hurt either. 

“Good,” DiJonai says as Paige follows the instructed throwing combination. “Lean in a little more with your shoulder.”

They go five full minutes, and Paige’s arms are almost shaking when the timer dings. She walks a little circle to wind down, focusing on her breathing. 

“How you feeling?” DiJonai asks. “With everything?”

She didn’t tell DiJonai anything about what happened in Austin. Didn’t tell anyone, really, though all the engineers know that Paige and Azzi left the track together after the race and Nika gave her a few meaningful glances when they met up in São Paulo. 

“I’m feeling good,” Paige admits. It’s the truth. Even though Austin was a clusterfuck on track, Paige is feeling more positive than she’s felt in a long time. She’s not back to how she was last season, when she was narrowing in on her third consecutive F3 victory — she’s not even close to that — but she’s climbing the mountain. One step at a time. 

“What’s the word on the car for this week?”

“Briefings say we’re competitive. Understeer shouldn’t be too bad, and Interlagos is a good track. So long as it doesn’t rain, plan looks good.” 

Almost immediately, there’s a crack of thunder. She and DiJonai both look up to see that the sky has turned from gray and overcast to dark and stormy. 

“Cool,” Paige mutters. “Welcome to Brazil.”

—--

“It’s an extratropical cyclone,” Nika says when Paige arrives at the track. 

The entire mood around the garage has transformed; gone is the goodwill that last night promised. Lamborghini — and every other team on the grid — has been following satellite images and weather forecasts for weeks. Everyone expected Interlagos to be a dry race given the weather patterns. The current deluge doesn’t seem to be engendering a lot of positivity. 

Also, in extremely annoying fashion, Paige’s hair is wet and raindrops cling to her eyelashes, because an umbrella did literally nothing to keep her dry. She shakes out her hair like a wet dog and throws the damp strands into a messy ponytail. Beside her, Nika looks on with disgust. 

“You’re getting water everywhere. You’re like an actual dog.”

“I hate being here before the car is assembled,” Paige complains, eyeing the massive crates that contain the chassis, engine, and gearboxes. 

Mechanics are hurrying around, checking parts against lists and communicating with one another in rapid Italian. She forgets, sometimes, that the bulk of the mechanics and a good portion of the engineers are Italian. Everyone speaks English at the track around her, but most of the project teams communicate in Italian. Lamborghini has deep ties to their country or origin. 

“Are you going to be a baby all weekend?” Nika’s clearly not in the mood for Paige’s moody bullshit, and honestly it feels like the entire garage is in the same mindset. 

“Is extratropical cyclone a stand in for ‘we fucked up on the weather report’?” She asks, just to be annoying. 

“The storm formed at sea. It’s unexpected. You want the rundown?”

“Not really,” Paige admits. “Rain is rain, right?”

Nika shrugs. “Nobody can say how long it’ll last. Might be this bad through Sunday. Might resolve and go dry again.”

“How much do weather analysts make? Like, could I make a good living and not risk my life on four wheels and a seat going fast? Because it feels like the fuck up rate would work in my favor.”

One of the mechanics approaches Nika and says something in Italian; he hands her a clipboard and she scribbles her name. She probably doesn’t even know what it is; Paige hopes she just watched Nika sign her life away to a timeshare. 

“Would you consider an existence where you don’t risk your life on four wheels and a seat to go fast a good life?”

“Fair,” Paige acknowledges. “Has Azzi exploded on the boys in the factory yet?”

Nika snorts. “Yes, but it was disappointing because she did it in Italian. But I got the gist.”

Damn. Missed opportunity. Paige would pay actual money to see Azzi chastising the weather analysts in Sant’Agata in Italian. She bets it would be hot; Azzi speaking another language is always hot. 

As if Nika can read Paige’s thoughts, she rolls her eyes. “Mind out of the gutter. You’re worse than the tyre team.”

Whatever. Paige isn’t going to apologize for appreciating beauty in its most elevated form. She looks around, surreptitiously trying to see if Azzi’s anywhere near. Annoyingly, she’s not in the garage and Paige idly calculates the odds of running into CD or Azurá if she goes looking. It’s not a great outlook for her, all things considered. 

“I’m gonna check in with the tyre guys,” she tells Nika, who only rolls her eyes. 

“Sure you are.”

Paige gives her the side eye as she walks away. 

—--

When she does, eventually, run into Azzi, it’s because everyone at the track has been called together for a briefing. Diana’s pulled all team members who are onsite into the garage to give a reframed version of the pep talk she delivered at dinner to the leadership team; this time, she’s added an ease and lightness to her delivery that Paige can tell is a front from the way her eyes continue to crinkle. 

“Look at that,” she says with a wry smile. “It’s Brazil. It rains.”

That pulls a laugh from the crowd. Maybe there will be a master performance at Interlagos this weekend. Maybe Paige is about to see the maestro at work. 

"So," Diana continues, a hint of amusement still lacing her tone. "We thought we were going to have a dry race. Now it looks like that's not the case. That’s alright. We'll adjust. F1 races in the rain. We're ready for this; it's why we do all the preparation that we do. We take nothing for granted."

Pretty words, and there’s feeling behind them. The tyre crew and the assorted engineers in the garage are all nodding in agreement. They want to win too. 

Paige scans the room for Azzi and finds her across the crowd, standing next to a tall woman with goddess braids. They aren’t talking, though they’re standing closely; close enough that Paige cocks her head in interest. She doesn’t recognize her, and she prides herself on knowing everyone who works through the garage on race weekends. 

“Who is that,” she whispers to Nika, pressing their elbows together and gesturing with her head. “With Azzi?”

Nika looks over. “Sarah… Strong, I think. She’s one of Diana’s minions. She’s usually at the factory.”

That makes sense. But it’s still odd, the way Azzi’s fine with this woman inside her personal space. 

Of course, Azzi’s not paying any attention; not to Paige, or this Sarah Strong woman, or to Diana’s speech. Instead, she’s leaning against one of the tool cabinets and staring out the garage door at the rain, playing with a Rubik’s Cube. Her fingers twist and turn the six sided square with precision, even though she doesn’t look down to see what she’s doing. Paige can see the full square starting to establish, the sides beginning to form in full squares of color. Azzi’s going much slower than what she’s capable of. Paige once timed her doing it wine drunk and she got it in twenty-one seconds. Her fingers kept turning into butter and it pushed her time up. 

The two of them laughing themselves silly probably didn’t help. 

“We have everything we need to be successful,” Diana is concluding her speech. At least, Paige hopes it’s the end. “We have a good car. We have incredible drivers. We have a dedicated and capable team. We race as one.”

People clap, Paige included. She watches as the team starts to disperse; engineers begin to turn their attention back to data readouts and the tyre crew heads to their own huddle. Across the garage, Soni and Kiki are involved in deep conversation with Georgia and Caroline. 

“Hey,” she says to Azzi. The cube is long solved and Azzi’s just twisting it aimlessly now, her attention still on the rain. 

But Paige’s presence and words pull Azzi out of her daydreaming. 

“Hey.” 

She’s wearing an old pair of shorts. Not so thin to be indecent but enough to make Paige’s eyes linger. God, she’s so inappropriate about her senior race strategist. 

“You fiddling,” she says, glancing at the cube. Azzi only fiddles when she’s particularly focused. 

“Just needed something to keep my fingers busy,” Azzi says, and abruptly freezes. “I mean, that’s not, I—”

“Please,” Paige grins, “tell me more.” 

“You’re the worst,” Azzi informs her, but her cheeks are red. Paige loves it. “Such a child.”

Paige shrugs, unrepentant. “You’re the one who thought about it being sexual. Can’t blame me for my mind wandering to—”

“A wet race,” Azzi interrupts, and then looks like she wants to run her face into a wall. Paige is delighted. “Oh my god, Paige. I — you — ugh.” 

She groans and storms off, leaving Paige standing there absolutely shocked with glee. 

“I love Brazil,” she whispers to herself, a different kind of understanding dawning. This is going to be a good week. A very good week. 

—--

Rain in São Paulo is different from rain in Monaco, or anywhere else Paige has been in Europe. It’s warmer in Brazil, and more humid. Even in a loose T-shirt and shorts, she feels sweaty and gross from the inside out; it’s an uncomfortable combination.

The outlook doesn’t improve when she walks into the office waiting room and stops short.

“You again,” she mutters, immediately unenthused about life. Charlotte Atlier, in the flesh; Paige is reminded of seeing her in Mexico City and immediately scowls. 

Unlike Paige, Charlie doesn’t look like she’s in any discomfort or having difficulty. Her hair is braided back into a low bun and it looks especially ginger with the dark green blouse and form fitting skirt. 

“Good to see you too, Bueckers.”

“Why are you here,” Paige sighs. “In this room, not in South America,” she adds, because she can just see that stupid smirk starting to pull across Charlie’s face. 

“I’m here on official business.” 

“Have you been practicing saying that in the mirror?”

It’s nice to be such a bitch to Charlie. When she and Azzi were dating, Paige had to pretend to be cordial. Even then, when she and Azzi were only at the beginning of their friendship, Paige hadn’t wanted to cause Azzi distress. Now there’s no reason she has to play nice. 

“I promise you, it kills me to say this,” Charlie sighs, “but you’re wanted on TV tomorrow. Brazil’s morning show. It's called Hoje em Dia.”

It’s just like Charlie to omit all the juicy information. 

“What’s with the eleventh hour request? I’m not scheduled for external media this weekend.” 

Paige isn’t trying to be actively difficult; it’s a relief to have a week away from any media duties other than the usual post-session/race press lines. But being on a morning show means she’ll have to get up at fuck o’clock in the morning on a Thursday and let herself get dolled up and – without question, the worst part — spend time with Charlie. 

“Red Bull has declined all additional social media and public opportunities until further notice. After what happened in Austin with Nastya—”

“Nothing happened in Austin with Nastya,” Paige interrupts, because if that’s a narrative that’s spreading then she’s going to absolutely lose her shit. Especially since Nastya wasn’t scheduled to cover the Interlagos race for the communications team. She’ll be back to the paddock in Vegas, but she’s not in São Paulo.  

Charlie raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Protective, huh. Moved on from Azzi so fast, then?”

Christ, this woman is like an antibiotic resistant virus. No amount of herd immunity can get rid of her. 

“Sophie’s just on her usual bullshit,” Paige snaps, ignoring the dig about her friendship with Nastya. “So stop making that about something that it isn’t.” 

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually have all the power in F1. Red Bull is sticking by Sophie and they’ve pulled Caitlin from media duty. So I have a spot to fill.”

What a fucking power move. Paige wants to throw something. It’s bad enough that all of them have to deal with Sophie and her fuckass antics on track; she’s a dangerous driver and sooner or later someone is going to get hurt by her recklessness. But to add to the unbearable frustration of that, she inexplicably commands power at Red Bull. Nika thinks it’s because Sophie does such a good job of courting the sponsors; they see her as the anti-woke shero that the more conservative F1 money has always clamored for. Whatever the reason, it’s galling that Red Bull is actually standing on business because of Sophie’s nonsense. 

“I’m not the championship leader anymore,” Paige reminds Charlie. It stings, a little, because Austin was a shit show in every sense of the word, but being a driver means having a short memory. She can’t be concerned about what happened on the last track; Paige needs to focus on what’s ahead of her. Besides, her priority is Team Lamborghini and what she can do to ensure success for the team. 

All to say, she doesn’t relish the idea of getting on national television after she led the Drivers’ Championship for exactly one week and having to answer questions about how great it is to be a Formula 1 driver. 

“For reasons that truly confound me, people still want to hear from you.”

Paige rolls her eyes, unamused and annoyed.  “What about Sabrina? Shouldn’t it go to her first?”

“Sabrina’s popular,” Charlie says. But there’s reluctance in her tone, a serious note of loathing that tells Paige what she’s really thinking. 

Because the second part of her sentence goes unsaid, and Paige would bet there’s no universe where Charlie would admit it out loud. 

But not as popular as you. 

Someday, far in the future — when she and Azzi have grandchildren and a stupidly successful 401K — she’ll ask Azzi about Charlie. About what could have possibly drawn her to this woman. 

Far, far in the future. 

Maybe when they have great-grandchildren and they’re moving to Mars to establish a colony there. 

“You gonna do it or am I going to have to go through more official channels?” Charlie snaps, annoyed at being made to wait. 

The urge to make her crawl for it is strong; it fizzes in Paige’s fingertips, lays on her vocal cords like carbonation. For reasons that have nothing to do with Azzi or her affections, Paige finally has Charlie in the position of having to ask for something. The power trip ought to feel good. 

“Send the details to my performance coach,” she says instead, agreeing to the TV segment. She’s done her due diligence and tried to get out of the entire thing but the last thing she needs is Charlie running to Diana to complain about Paige being difficult to work with. Everyone knows Diana is wound up, word on the paddock is that she and Sue are still feuding. So now’s not the time to push. 

Charlie nods, and leaves Paige with a disparaging glance. She doesn’t even say thank you. 

“You’re welcome,” Paige calls after her, rolling her eyes. 

It would probably be good if they could find a way to work together in peace; Paige wants a long career in Formula 1, after all, and Charlie is high enough on the Public Relations team that she’s a fixture at many of the North and South American races. There’s a world where not having Azzi between them would fix the bad blood. 

But not this world. Not this universe, where Paige still wants Azzi with a burning that lights her bones on fire. Not when she can still remember the cracked ceiling of her apartment in Brackley and the way she used to stare at it in the dark while knowing that a few blocks away Azzi slept next to Charlie. 

Not when all that technically tethers Azzi and Paige right now are the contracts they each have with this Formula 1 racing team. And it seems that all that keeps them apart are the contracts they have with this Formula 1 team. 

There’s too much to overcome. If Paige has to pick her battles, she’ll always choose to be suited up against Charlie. 

—--

2:11: …like I can’t concentrate with all this nonsense happening. I never paid attention in earth sciences because it honestly just seemed fairly useless, given everything else that was going on…

—--

Toward the end of the day, she goes looking for Nika and finds KK and Jana first. Because God clearly has a sense of humor. The two of them — and Kelis — are settled in the conference room arguing about lap differentials. There are six different binders spread open in front of them; Kelis is seated on top of the table, patiently highlighting numbers as she calls them out and Jana inputs them into some kind of spreadsheet. 

“Yo,” Paige greets, reaching across the table to dap KK up. “This fucking rain, man.”

“The worst,” Jana agrees. She twists her hair into a high bun, her face shiny from the humidity. 

Paige surveys the mess on the table and makes a face. “What are you guys doing?”

“Azzi asked us to run the deltas from wet races and account for the power train differentials,” Jana informs her grumpily. 

Paige isn’t surprised at the attitude; it sounds tedious as fuck. “Factory team couldn’t do it?”

KK shrugs. “It’s good to do it on-site. Helps to get familiar with the data. Plus, nobody wanted to wait for the factory team.”

“It’s a punishment,” Kelis announces, ignoring the look of betrayal from KK. “Jana pissed off the weather team.”

That sounds like the more plausible explanation. Paige turns an amused glance to Jana, obviously wanting the scoop. 

“What did you do?”

“Bro,” Jana immediately launches. “It was a complete misunderstanding.’

“You told them they’re glorified witch doctors with the competency of a first year Neville Longbottom.”

Jana looks unrepentant. “Actually, I stand by it.”

Kelis sighs and gives Paige the rest of the dirt. “The satellite tech told Azzi she was gonna revoke our database privileges.”

Oof. Paige almost wants to laugh. 

“Azzi can’t have taken that well.”

“She ripped them a new one,” Kelis confirms. “But we still have to pay for making her life harder.” She sends a glare at Jana and KK, who don't look at all concerned. 

“She’s in with Diana,” KK tells Paige. “If you’re looking for her.”

“I’m not,” Paige lies. 

She’s always looking for Azzi. Even when she’s not. 

—--

Nika comes to her suite on that night, already dressed in lounge pants and a tank. She has a plethora of sheet masks with her and she shoves Paige into the armchair and plasters a wet napkin onto her face that’s supposedly imbued with the healing properties of a pomegranate. 

“This is gross,” Paige complains. 

“It’s good for your skin,” Nika reminds her. “Especially you since you’re sitting in a hot box for two hours.”

Paige is lounging in her boxers and a sports bra, the fluffy hotel robe tied loosely about her waist. She’s got her hair thrown on top of her head in a housewife bun, the kind of look she’d never be caught dead in outside her hotel room. 

“I’ve got skin like a newborn baby,” she argues. 

“More like you are a baby.”

They argue about how to pass the time. It’s a very fancy hotel so every channel known to woman is available. Paige almost makes Nika watch lesbian porn just to fuck with her, but they eventually agree to just play Fortnite instead. 

“You want to go on a trip after the end of the season? Oh, fuck they’re on me,” Nika says as the last remaining team in their battle royale creeps up on them. “We could do another house stay? Or go on a road trip, if you aren’t sick of being in a car. You wanna drive down the Portuguese coast? You’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Nah. I just wanna sleep for a hundred years after the end of the season. Oh fuck me they’ve got ice gauntlets. Get in the car!” 

This close to a win, they’re both louder, their focus on the TV absolute as they grip their controllers tightly. On screen, Paige drives them up the mountain and they find a better vantage point.  

“You gonna go see your pops?”

“Maybe.

“Bringing him to Monaco? Oh get them! Nice one. Take that you pre-pubescant shit.” 

Paige shrugs. “Honestly, bro, I hate Monaco.”

She can almost hear Nika’s eyes roll around her head. 

“Only you could hate living in the most fabulous and exclusive country in the world.” 

“Whatever, it’s stuffy. I can’t breathe there.” 

On the screen a Juice WRLD peeks out from the bunker below and disappears. Paige waits for him to do it again then goes for the headshot.

“Fuck yes,” she cries as she eliminates him, pumping her arm in the air when the #1 Victory Royale branding pops up. She and Nika high five, and it’s perfect timing because room service arrives with their fries and shakes. Paige feels a little guilt, but honestly not much; she’s not getting into the car until Friday so it’s not the end of the world to be enjoying some of life’s few victories.  

“I think I wanna move,” she says, blurting out the thoughts that have been bouncing around in her head for a while. 

Nika looks over in surprise, a fry halfway to her mouth. “For real?”

Paige drinks a few sips of her milkshake and nods. It tastes like happiness and putting teenage boys in their place. 

“Yeah. What if I moved to the factory? Into the apartment?” 

Nika has a two bedroom flat in Modena and Paige stays with her whenever she needs to be at the factory in Sant’Agata. Nika won’t let her pay for the entire place but Paige bullied her into accepting fifty-fifty. The monthly is pocket change compared to what she pays in Monaco, even with the steep discount that Phee’s fiancé tosses her. 

“There’s nothing to do in Modena,” Nika warns. “It’s boring as shit after dark.”

“Yeah, because Brackley was so different,” Paige counters. “And I’m not going clubbing every night in Monaco or trying to hang out on yachts every afternoon so it’s not that much different.”

She likes the yachts but it gets old after a while. Especially without her closest there. Soni won’t be around in the offseason because of her boyfriend, and the other drivers are paired up or have their own things going on. Paige can only third wheel so many times. 

“Just feels like a colossal waste of money,” she adds, dunking one of her fries in ketchup. She’s made an extreme exception about letting Nika eat in the bed, because the couch is uncomfortable as shit and the two of them aren’t going to sit at the massive dining table. “And, like. For why?”

For a long moment, Nika’s quiet. She swirls one of her fries through the milkshake because she’s disgusting like that, and munches on it quietly. 

“I can get my own place,” Paige continues. “Like, I’m sure you like your space now—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Nika scoffs. “It’s just different than Brackley, that’s all. I work a lot fucking more now that I’m on the F1 team. I don’t want you moving to the middle of nowhere and thinking it’ll be one way and it not turning out to be what you thought.”

Nika hesitates, like she’s going to say more, and they probably both know what’s likely to come out of her mouth. But she must decide that this isn’t the moment. 

“I miss having you around all the time,” she says instead. “You’re my favorite rash.”

She’s bold because she knows Paige won’t shove her and risk getting food all over the bed. And she’s right. 

“Love you too, twin.” 

—--

The morning show is terrible. Paige is used to waking up before she’d prefer, but going on morning shows is another kind of early. She sits in hair and makeup with her eyes closed, trying to pretend that she’s asleep to trick her mind. DiJonai came with, and hangs around nearby scrolling on her phone.  

“Good, you’re here already,” Charlie says, entering the little ready room. 

Paige opens an eye and glares at her. “It’s too early in the morning for your bullshit.”

Being that she’s sponsored by the devil, Charlie looks perfect. Her dark navy dress hits right above her knee, the usual style of “business botox” that she embodies so very beautifully. Never trust a ginger, Paige always says. Has said since she encountered Charlie. 

“I could say the absolute same, Bueckers. Did you review the talking points that got sent over?”

“Sure did. I can talk all I want about the egregious social inequity in São Paulo, severe traffic issues, and the impact of extreme urbanization on the air pollution. Right?”

Goading Charlie has always been a fun pastime, and a lot has changed in the years since she fucked off to America, but that certainly hasn’t. There’s a lot of pride that Paige takes in the fact that she’s probably one of the few people on earth who can push Charlie’s buttons so beautifully. 

“Mention how excited everyone was about the three-year contract renewal,” Charlie says through gritted teeth.

“Got it,” she responds, and gives a little salute. 

But Charlie clearly has no belief in Paige’s ability to actually know what she’s doing. 

“Do not answer anything about rumors that F1 is bringing another race to South America.”

The makeup artist finishes up, and Paige gives a grateful smile with a murmured obrigado for being made to look presentable for national television. Behind her, DiJonai has put her phone away and is laser focused on the tension that simmers between Paige and Charlie; she’s ready to jump in for whatever Paige needs. 

“Charlie,” Paige sighs. “Go jump in the Atlantic.” 

It’s going to be a long fucking morning. 

—--

By the time Paige arrives at the track following her stint on Brazilian morning television, she’s started to feel the buzzing in her bones. It’s a race weekend, it’s a race weekend, it’s a race weekend. Being around the garage and not in the car is making her skin itch. 

And it seems like she’s not the only one.

“I hate these NWP models,” Azzi complains, in a louder tone than Paige thinks she’s probably aware of. 

She has her walkie attached to her belt loop like she often does, the weight of it causing her pants to fight the laws of gravity. 

“I know. And the team at the factory is aware of your displeasure,” Kelis tells her. To her credit, she keeps her voice absolutely even; Paige is impressed. 

“What’s going on?” Paige asks. She gets the delight of Azzi’s full ire directed at her. 

“The storm was expected to head inward and decline in strength,” Kelis informs her. 

“And it’s not doing that?” Paige guesses. 

“No,” Azzi interjects, clipped. “It’s not.”

“It’s shifted to head back to sea. But there’s a warm front coming in from the east,” Kelis adds. “Which means it’s probably just going to hover for a bit right off the coast and drive more rain across the area.”

“Chill, Azzi,” Paige says, because she can’t help but needle her. “I’m good in the rain. We’ll be fine.”

Azzi looks like she’s going to launch across the small space between them and knock Paige’s head off with one glancing blow. In response, Paige can only beam at her. 

“Maybe you should…go,” Kelis suggests, no doubt well aware that Azzi’s only recourse is to take her frustration out on her team instead of with Paige. 

“I’m due for media, anyway.” 

But she lingers for a moment, enjoying the prolonged eye contact. Because there’s something pricking at Paige and she knows Azzi knows; they’re really going to be fucked this weekend. Silverstone was one day of inclement weather and if this rain keeps up. 

Well. 

“I’ll see you later,” she tosses at Azzi, because that’s who Paige is. Then she ducks away and heads to do her press interview. 

—--

It’s the worst possible driver combination that Paige could have imagined. She sits between Sabrina and Caitlin, cold from the air conditioning on her already wet hair, shirt, and jeans. 

“Paige, do you feel like Interlagos means more now that you’ve led the championship and are within striking distance of the lead again?” 

It’s so awkward, God it’s so horribly awkward. 

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter about my personal points. Last week was disappointing because of what I didn’t bring home for the team. I’m only focused on that.”

She wishes she had gum, but CD made her spit it out before she walked into the press room. 

Beside her, Sabrina’s sitting pretty. She’s not the kind of person who has nervous energy — she’s too serial killer focused for that — but her unnatural stillness is really disconcerting. On Paige’s other side, Caitlin keeps twitching and readjusting; it’s driving Paige fucking crazy. 

“Sabrina, there’s been a lot of chatter this week about Paige’s success driving in the rain. Any of that a concern for you?”

Jesus. Paige does everything in her power to keep her facial expression from changing. 

“I’ve had success at Interlagos in the past,” Sabrina answers, totally monotone. “I know this track in an F1 car. Success in F2 and F3 doesn’t always translate here.”

For fuck’s sake. Paige internally sighs, more annoyed than insulted. If Sab could just keep her goddamn mouth shut they wouldn’t have to go through this bullshit. 

“Paige, any response?”

“No.”

CD would be proud of her.

Afterward, the three of them trudge out together, each of them careful not to touch or bump or get into each other’s space. Surprisingly, it’s Caitlin who breaks first. 

“Was that really necessary,” she mutters, throwing Sabrina an annoyed glance. They’re holed up in the green room, waiting for security to announce their covered golf carts are ready so they can be transferred back to the main part of the paddock without getting caught in the deluge. 

“They asked a question,” Sabrina says as she shrugs. “I answered it.”

“You answered it and opened us up to another round of bullshit questions,” Caitlin bites out. She looks like an owl with her eyes so wide. 

“You got anything to add?” Sabrina spits at Paige. 

“Seems like you got enough to say for both of us,” Paige answers, her words syrupy slow. She doesn’t have any reason to get into it with Sabrina but she’s also not someone who ever walks away from the disrespect.

Sabrina doesn’t reply, doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t escalate. Her assessing eye roves over Paige, like she’s trying to figure something out. Whatever she takes from the interaction, Paige doesn’t know. 

Why did Azzi visit you over summer break? Do you know why she left Mercedes?

She wonders if Sabrina would tell her, if she were to ask. But Paige can’t be that soft with another driver who isn’t Soni; she’s not going to make herself an easier target than she already is. Formula 1 is about more than just what you can do on a track, and Sab and Azzi seem to have some kind of perplexing bond. She’s not going to wade into waters she can’t see into just to ask questions she doesn’t know the answer to. 

"Be a robot if you like," Sab says, moving her gaze away from Paige and back to Caitlin. "That's not how I drive."

Caitlin clenches her jaw and brushes past Sabrina, who clearly doesn't have any trouble picking fights today. And Paige really isn't trying to make it worse so she follows Caitlin out at a measured pace. Not running away, but choosing not to stay. 

The three of them sit silently on the golf cart as they’re driven away from the Interlagos HQ building and back to the garage. The poor minion assigned to shuttle them around must be able to feel the tension, but none of them make any effort to diffuse the atmosphere. 

It’s raining too hard for any kind of conversation, anyway. 

—--

The afternoon strategy meeting goes well. 

“Our goal this weekend is to be early, not reactive,” Azzi says. 

She and Caroline typically alternate on running the Thursday briefing, depending on Dorka’s schedule. But Dorka is holed up on a conference call and Paige doesn’t have a lot of interest in what she has to say anyway, after the cluster fuck in Austin. 

There are really only two people that Paige trusts with her life; Azzi and Nika. She doesn’t know what she’ll do on the day that they disagree. 

“Interlagos drains unevenly. Sector 2 will stay wet longer than Sector 1.”

“If it stops raining,” Paige says, interrupting. 

Azzi looks at her, annoyed at the interjection. “Yes, Paige. If it stops raining.”

God, Azzi looks good. Her hair is even curlier because of the rain and humidity; it keeps getting wet and then drying and it means her curls are out of control. The ringlets look like they would wind around Paige’s fingers beautifully, like she could tug and pull them with gusto because they’d just bounce right back into place. She imagines what it might be like to be able to win at Interlagos and get a congratulatory kiss from Azzi. That type of thing was never going to be a possibility for her, not with the original plan of them working for other teams and it’s not possible now with them both at Lamborghini, but it means Paige can freely fantasize about it. 

“People suffer here because they hesitate and we’re not doing that. We’re making gains this weekend by being in front. By going bold and going strong.”

And now Azzi’s talking dirty, which makes it all the worse. 

“We’ll be relying on driver feedback, so Paige and Soni, we want to hear from you this weekend. Everything and anything.”

She wants Paige to yap at her through the headset? Paige is happy to accommodate. 

“We also have a smaller pit lap delta because of the short on/off. Twenty second loss. That works in our favor too.” 

The meeting continues; general outline of the race weekend and their goals for the strategy sessions, recon on what other teams will be likely to focus on, additional technical information about the track. 

Paige listens and takes notes; she’s been studying her pre-race assignments and she knows Interlagos as a track. Because it looks simple, but the Autódromo José Carlos Pace is brutal. The combination of layout, elevation, and how little margin there is for error would make it difficult enough. Add in inclement weather and low visibility and it changes everything. 

But she’s ready. 

She’s fucking ready. 

—--

Paige gets summoned to Diana’s makeshift office at HQ before the day is over, and the reasoning doesn’t make her happy. 

“You’re joking.”

Diana stares at her, eyebrows raised. The Lamborghini Team Principal doesn’t have time to waste on bullshit like this and they both know it. Standing next to the desk, CD sighs. 

“What if this wasn’t a big deal and you just said yes and got it over with quickly?”

Paige turns a glare toward CD. “No.”

In front of her, Diana rubs the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows are pinched together in frustration and Paige can feel the ice beneath her feet getting thinner with each passing moment. Diana’s been under so much stress, she’s wound so very tight. And things with Sue Bird haven’t settled; gossip on the paddock is they’re still on the outs. 

“They’ve asked, Paige, and I’m inclined to say yes. This is their third request in a month. You were a big draw on that morning show today.”

Paige hasn’t had to worry about the Netflix docuseries Drive to Survive all season. With Soni the only driver taking part from Lamborghini, it isn’t even something that’s been on Paige’s radar. 

“We agreed at the beginning of the year,” Paige reminds Diana. “One driver from Lamborghini was enough, and Soni’s been subjected to this nonsense for months now. I don’t understand why there’s so much desire to change it up mid-season.”

“Because nobody thought you’d be in any kind of position to win at the beginning of the season,” CD says, stating the obvious. She looks a little too happy about Paige’s misery.

It makes everything inside Paige recoil. She doesn’t mind the brand deals and the photoshoots because that feels like a different beast; it’s just her image, it’s just her touting a few lines in commercials, or random shit like that. But this — this is different. This is quiet and close up and people who are in the know asking probing questions. It’s needling when she’s vulnerable and creative editing. It’s giving someone else the ability to control the narrative. 

And if there’s anything Paige hates, it’s giving up the power to control her own narrative. Especially given the events of the last year. 

“The point of having only Soni take part was to raise her profile.”

“Soni was always going to take part, and so were you,” Diana reminds Paige. “Now things are different; you’re a serious contender for the championship this year and Lamborghini is leading in the Constructors’ and I want to maximize on that.”

“We don’t control the editing,” she says, trying one last time to talk Diana out of it. 

“So don’t say anything stupid,” Diana says with a wave of her hand. “They’re expecting you for an interview before you leave the track for the day.”

It’s a dismissal, and it takes all of Paige’s self restraint not to stomp her way out of the office suite. Unsurprisingly, she’s only one in a line of people who want Diana’s time; the woman with the braids from earlier — Sarah Strong, her brain supplies — is sitting on the bench in the waiting area. 

They nod at each other, but Paige is too worked up to really put any thought into the interaction; she storms away and Paige fumes all the way back to the garage. She finds DiJonai and unloads as she paces back and forth in her ready room, her hair a frizzy mess and her frustration bubbling over. 

But DiJonai only surveys Paige with skepticism. “So you’re upset over having to give an interview? I really don’t see the problem.”

“I have to sit for a recording at the beginning and end of every race weekend,” she corrects, because she’s a professional driver and her time being wasted is important. “Dissecting what went wrong or how I fucked up and all that bullshit. And they’re always digging for a story to make drama. I don’t want any part of it.”

Paige had been a mess at the beginning of the season; she’d been angry with Azzi and furious with herself and generally pissed at the world. It had taken everything in her to play nice at work and she hadn’t even been that successful, given how bad things had been with Azzi. Taking part in Drive to Survive and opening herself to that kind of insight and scrutiny hadn’t been a good idea. She’s lucky that Diana either realized that or just didn’t care enough to disagree. 

“All you have to do is talk about how excited you are and how difficult the track is,” DiJonai reminds her. “That’s literally it.”

It’s hard to explain. Paige doesn’t even really have the words, only a deep feeling of reluctance. Maybe part of her had wanted to avoid the docuseries on the off chance Azzi changed her mind about them, about working with Lamborghini, about any and all things. The last thing she needed — or needs, really — is for the camera crew to pick up on any of her feelings. On any dynamics. 

But Paige sighs and tells herself that things are different now. That this is where she’s meant to be, and she’s capable. They want her because she led the championship, because she’s still a contender. And she doesn’t have to give them a sound bite that they can use against her interests; all she needs to do is stay on message. 

So she walks back to the HQ building and shakes hands with the recording crew, introducing herself and swallowing the frustration in lieu of learning what’ll be expected of her. They put a little make up on her, but she insists on a more natural look. The last thing she fucking needs is to look like a child beauty pageant contestant. 

The wardrobe is easy, at least; a crisp Lamborghini polo and the team hat. 

They get her into the chair, under the lights and across from the camera. It all feels strange, because this is different from the other ways she does publicity or press. Everything else feels like a persona, even the interviews. This is longer, more serious, more probing. 

The cameras start rolling, even as the assistant is finalizing attaching the lavalier microphone to Paige’s collar and testing the sound quality. 

“Just introduce yourself and say what team you drive for,” the coordinator says. “Do you know the team name?”

Paige scoffs with bravado; she knows it’ll come across as charming. This is who they want. 

“‘Course I know the team name. Did Soni, the first time?”

“She needed a little help.” 

This is all going to air. Netflix loves a good moment. So Paige readjusts herself a little, then looks at the camera with a big, self satisfactory grin. 

Her moneymaker, her agent always says. 

“I’m Paige Bueckers. I drive for Scuderia Lamborghini Corse Velocità Formula One Team.”

—--

She ducks in to say goodnight to Nika before she leaves the track for the day. It’s still raining, still humid; everything feels like it’s taking extra effort.  

“Get outta my seat,” she grumbles, frowning as Nika wiggles her bony ass and makes herself even more comfortable in the cockpit. A few feet away, Georgia is knelt near the front wheels with a digital reader that’s hooked up through a long cord to somewhere underneath the car. 

“It’s not your seat,” Nika murmurs, though she’s distracted with making notes. 

“Um, beg to disagree. That’s my number on the nose.”

“PB5,” Nika mutters. “So humble.”

“It’s cute how you drivers are possessive over a hunk of metal,” Georgia comments, and Paige flips her off immediately. 

She gives them the rundown of Drive to Survive, complaining about it being a waste of time and regurgitating all the silly questions they made her answer in a confessional style recording. Nika tells her they haven’t had any update on the weather front and Georgia unhelpfully adds that Azzi is ready to put her fist through a wall. None of it is surprising; Azzi gets annoyed with any problem that can’t be answered by mathematics. 

“I’ll pop in before I head out.”

“Because that will improve her mood for sure,” Georgia laughs. 

“Whatchu talking about,” Paige laughs. “My presence is always a delight.”

But she goes to find Azzi anyway, because Azzi taking out frustration on her team isn’t Paige’s problem. And when she does find Azzi, it’s to the absolutely glorious version of her yelling in Italian. 

“Francisco, questo è assolutamente inaccettabile. Non puoi continuare a cambiarmi le previsioni ogni ora. Non posso prendere decisioni basate sull'incompetenza.”

Azzi’s standing next to the table in the conference room, furiously swiping through something on her tablet as she expresses her frustration on the conference speakerphone. When she looks up and sees Paige, her expression darkens even further. 

Paige takes it as an invitation. 

“Hey,” she whispers, stepping closer. 

“Quanto tempo impiegherà il vostro team per effettuare un'altra valutazione?” Azzi’s tone drops into something even more deadly as she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, maintaining eye contact with Paige. “Parla con loro proprio ora e chiedi. Voglio una risposta vera. Aspetterò.”

She pushes mute on the conference phone. “What.”

Paige grins. “Can’t I say hi?”

Azzi lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you think you’re about this weekend, but you need to knock it the fuck off.”

Paige leans a hip against the conference table, the most angelic expression she can possibly make plastered across her face. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” she says, her eyes wide. 

"I know what you're doing," Azzi accuses. "You're trying to rile me up." 

"Genuinely don't know what you're talking about," she lies. If Azzi were actually angry they both know Paige would knock it off. "You ready for this weekend?"

That only serves to make Azzi's jawline tighter. 

"Am I ready for this weekend? Fuck right off, Paige, and wipe that stupid goddamn smirk off your face. A rain race is nothing to smile about."

Paige shrugs. This is a dynamic that feels so familiar it might as well be a year ago, messing about during a race. 

"I mean, I'm good in the rain."

"I will absolutely not deal with bullshit this weekend," Azzi warns her. "We have a strategy; we are going to execute on that strategy." 

"Course we are," Paige agrees, as genially as she can. "You maxed out on steak or you wanna grab a bite?"

She doesn't bat her eyes, but it's a near thing. 

Azzi's eyes are dark: lightning flickers in them, ready to fry Paige. 

"Get out," she orders, and Paige stands up. 

"I'm goin," she says as she backs away. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

—--

The bravado of who she has to be falls away as she sits in the car on the way back to the hotel. 

Her forehead tips against the window, the glass cool against her skin. It's always her preference to drive herself around, but it was an unequivocal no from the team lawyers; the insurance on her or Soni would be insane and the admin folks were super clear that they weren't having it. Paige isn't concerned about being kidnapped; too many times she’s been told she would be too much trouble for anyone to keep for long. 

But now that she’s alone, she’s having trouble wading through how she feels, as the adrenaline of being around other people wears off. It’s strange to have everything feel so up and down; the ups being Azzi’s presence and how Paige is feeling about the track and the downs being all the bullshit that surrounds everything in F1. She refuses to consider that Azzi is anything but a net positive in her life.  

There are people waiting at the gate as the car pulls into the hotel area. Fans or paparazzi; the windows are too tinted for anyone to know it’s her and she’s glad for the anonymity. She doesn’t feel up to being Paige Bueckers tonight. 

The hotel suite is absurd; it has a dining room. A dining room with an enormous table. What could Paige possibly want in a giant suite that has a dining table that can seat twelve? She’s not running a Last Supper situation. 

But she will avail herself of the giant fruit basket that’s been left in the middle. 

There’s a voice memo from Azzi on her phone. Paige looks at it and her heart is already racing, her vena cava quivering deep inside her chest. She doesn’t know how to do this anymore, how to keep the balance where it’s comfortable and not dangerous. 

It feels like everything is conspiring against her; every external force is pushing her into the state of mind that makes her do crazy shit. Charlie. Sabrina. The rain. It’s like every little bit adds pressure, sits on her shoulders and settles her spine into formation. It whispers in her ear, a soft little this is who she’s meant to be. Like the snake in the Garden of Eden; Paige knows her scripture. She’s living out her own Book of Genesis. 

Paige sits at her dining room table and picks a fruit at random. It’s green and oblong. She’s never seen it and doesn’t know what it is. 

But she has an app for this. There’s an app for everything. Except for what she really, really needs. 

—--

20 seconds: I know you think you’re cute, you really do, but don’t you dare try something crazy this weekend, Paige. I mean it. 

—--

 Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

“Paige,” Azzi warns, glaring her way. She’s clearly annoyed with the restless energy Paige is putting into the room. 

Whatever. She can’t help it. She’s buzzing and everyone knows it; Paige can’t even find it in herself to be apologetic. 

But she does stop tapping her pen against the table. 

The clock on the wall ticks down to the start of FP1; twenty-eight minutes. But there’s no way. Not with the rain as heavy as it is. 

“So just to repeat back,” Caroline is saying, hunched over the conference phone, “you estimate that it could be anywhere between thirty minutes and two hours of rain at this intensity?”

At her side, Azzi looks like she’s ready to toss herself out of the garage and swim her way around the track. 

“That is correct,” the heavily accented voice on the other end of the conference phone says. 

“I can’t live like this,” Caroline sighs, pressing mute on the conference phone and turning her head to Azzi. “What do you want to do? Dorka’s on a call with the Aero team.”

Azzi runs her hands through her hair, and Paige is surprised that actual clumps don’t come with them when she brings her hands down and presses them together. 

“Okay. Okay. Let’s break into Rain 1 protocol. I want every single thing triple checked. Quadruple checked, even. On my team, Jana and KK will run point. Get assignments and report up to them. Caroline?”

Azzi stands up as Caroline gives her own set of instructions. Paige doesn't have to pay attention anymore because Caroline isn't her senior race strategist. Instead, she swivels her chair in Azzi’s direction. 

“Go find something useful to do,” Azzy says to Paige before picking up her pace and striding out of the room. 

“Useful,” Paige mutters. “Like I’m not useful around here for what I do in the car.”

She hears an undignified snort and turns to see Kelis, who blushes at being caught. Paige raises an eyebrow and Kelis scurries off. 

“No appreciation for your talent,” Soni coos. 

“Long suffering me,” Paige agrees. 

—--

Paige is zero percent surprised when race officials announce that the start to FP1 will be delayed by at least one hour. The rain is pounding the track; there’s very little visibility and nobody wants a bunch of crashes in a practice session. 

“The two of you couldn’t find anything else to do?” Jana asks as she passes by them in the hallway. “Where did you even find a fútbol?”

Soni traps the ball with her left foot and sends it arching back to Paige. It lands neatly at her feet. Suspicious. Her boyfriend must be teaching her. 

“It’s Brazil,” Paige shrugs, providing no additional explanation. 

“If Azzi and Caroline hear that you two are out here playing games instead of reading delta reports—”

“Bro, there’s nothing useful in the delta reports.”

Soni snorts. “I mean, she’s right,” she appeals to Jana, who looks scandalized by Paige’s  sacrilegious statement. “Not with this rain.”

Jana leaves them be, though Paige assumes it’s because she doesn’t want to get caught too near the crime of goofing around when there’s actual work to be done. She and the rest of the engineering team are scrambling, because everyone wants answers and nobody’s going to get them until the cars actually get onto the track and data comes back on how they behave in the rain. With the elevation changes it’s going to be brutal. 

They kill twenty minutes passing the soccer ball back and forth, chatting idly about paddock gossip, until word reaches them that the engineers are ready to meet. 

Everyone is set up in the garage; the heart of the engineering team is gathered around one of the big monitors, watching the reassessed deltas coming in. Paige situates herself in the back, leaning against a tool cabinet. 

“Your thirst is unknown to human kind,” Soni laughs at Paige, eyeing the unzipped racing overalls that hang down and the way she’s shed the fireproof turtleneck and tied it around her waist. It leaves Paige in only her sports bra. 

“It’s humid as shit,” she waves Soni off. “And you’re one to talk,” she adds, eying the loose tank top that Soni’s donned that shows off more than it covers. 

“Nope. Thirsty.”

Paige rolls her eyes, and pulls out her phone to check her messages. At the front of the group, Azzi’s yapping about the weather. 

“...so we should expect the rain to stick around. We’ve also been warned that lightning is expected and if that’s spotted, we’re looking at thirty minute window delays. This might be a bumpy day.”

Azzi goes on for another ten minutes, giving more of an overview of the day and the weather expectations, and answers a few questions from various team members. 

“Any other questions?” 

Azzi’s eyes drift over the crowd. Because Paige is in the back — and because she’s super invested in everything Azzi does — she’s probably the only person who notices the way Azzi glances at her three times over the course of ten seconds. Like she can’t help herself. 

Like Monza all over again. 

“I guess your thirst pays off,” Soni muses, clearly catching it as well. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Paige hisses, turning red. But she can’t help the way her lips turn up at the ends. 

—--

She jumps out of the car when FP1 ends and water drips from her overalls onto the cement of the garage floor. KK swoops in to pat at her with a towel, vigorously drying Paige off. 

“Hold on,” she says, and undoes the clips so she can take the helmet off, finally emerging into relief. “Jeez Louise, ease up!”

KK only twists the towel and snaps it at her. 

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You fucking know what it’s for,” KK glares at her. 

And, well, maybe Paige does. 

She’s not going to get changed completely because it’s too much hassle, but Paige undoes the top of her racing overalls and lets them hang, then peels off the fireproof turtleneck again as well. Across the garage, Nika eyes her and rolls her eyes. 

“It’s so freaking humid,” Paige says, her tone just a hair short of whiny. 

And it is humid; the heat and the rain is a disgusting combination. 

“She wants to see you,” KK informs Paige. 

“Wonderful,” Paige says with a smile. “I love being yelled at. Also, see if we can add something to the back of my gloves so I can swipe at the visor; even at speed it was hard to see with rain on it.”

She loves the helmet that she’s wearing this weekend. F1 drivers like to customize the skins on the helmet; it’s the only way they can show personality through fashion on the track. Everything else is sponsor branded and subject to regulations, but for some reason the helmets haven’t been brought under scrutiny yet. Like a few of the other drivers on the grid, Paige has a special helmet this weekend; it’s yellow with blue, an homage to the Brazilian flag and there’s a watercolor depiction of Ayrton Senna on the back. 

It’s good luck, she tells herself. 

Paige hands KK the helmet and her in-ears and scrapes her hair into a ponytail. It’s always better to have her hair tied back when she goes into battle. 

Azzi’s in the conference room and she’s got murder in her eyes; the genuine kind, the kind that really, really means that Paige’s life is in jeopardy. Her eyes flick over Paige for a nanosecond and then she’s right back to glaring.  

It was a good choice, to shed the fireproof turtleneck and show off her ab muscles. Paige is acing all her decisions today. 

“What were you thinking,” Azzi says, very much a statement and not a question. “We had a plan. We went over the plan. You said you were clear on the plan.”

Paige leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed. She doesn’t clench her abs on purpose, it’s just what happens. 

“I sent you out on full wets to make the most of the thirty minutes,” Azzi reminds her, though it sounds more like an accusation than a retelling of what happened. “Three laps to warm-up and get a baseline. You wanted ride height and I gave it to you. Fine. Another three to get better data and then two laps to push at the target delta, and in-lap break temps.”

Azzi’s really gathering momentum now. Behind her, Paige can see Blanca and Morgan exchange a look. Jana pops a jelly bean in her mouth like it’s popcorn at a movie theater. 

“You can’t just decide to experiment, Paige.” Azzi starts to pace, just little back and forth movements that hardly count as steps. “I know you think the deltas aren’t the most important indicator but we’ve got to get those. You went so far off the line through Curva do Sol you were into standing water. You should have lifted. You know the tyres were overheating. Genuinely, what the fuck were you thinking?” 

Paige arches an eyebrow. “I was thinking it’s definitely going to rain all weekend and I wanted to know how the wets actually behave.”

“You stayed north of seventy percent throttle,” Azzi hisses, like Paige has committed a cardinal sin.  

“I don’t like lifting if I don’t need to. The rear hooked up mid-corner instead of snapping.”

“You got greedy,” Azzi accuses, pointing her finger at Paige. She looks so angry it’s almost cute. Like an old school cartoon. But, of course, still gorgeous. 

Paige pauses, wondering if thinking such thoughts about Azzi is anti-feminist. Is she being patronizing? 

“I wouldn’t say greedy,” she says, after a moment, once she’s pulled her thoughts back to the argument at hand. “Just wanted to know the lay of the land. Test the water, really.” 

She smiles, pleased with the wordplay. 

Naturally, that’s what really pushes Azzi over the edge. Her fingers twitch, like maybe she’s going to slap Paige, or try to strangle her. Such violence between them. It really is their own little love language, a true hallmark of their friendship. 

“Figuring out the lay of the land—”

“Testing the water—”

“Fine, testing the fucking water! You got greedy and added more throttle and couldn’t control the massive snap oversteer and you spun out.”

It really looks like Azzi’s going to break her rule of no violence in the garage and try to beat the everloving shit out of Paige. 

God, Paige hasn’t had this much fun in ages. 

“There was no damage to the car.”

“Luckily. You could have crashed.”

“Extreme assessment,” Paige disagrees. “But I didn’t. She’s fully intact.”

“You have a flat spot on your back right and you burned a set of full wet tyres. I swear to god, I can’t with you drivers sometimes, always thinking you know better about everything. We planned for a long-run comparison and now we have nothing to compare it to.” 

Paige isn’t worried because they’ll be able to get what they need in FP2, and it’ll definitely still be raining. 

“I need to stretch with DiJonai,” she says, pushing off the doorframe. “My shoulder’s feeling a little tight.”

“I swear to god, Paige—”

“Take a look at the data,” Paige suggests. “And come find me.”

She can see the astonishment on Kaleigh’s face, the genuine amusement on Jana’s. Even Gandy looks skeptical. But this is a far cry from the fights Paige and Azzi had at the beginning of the season. Those were…mean, and messy. Full of digs and genuine anger that originated far from the track. Azzi’s team can see how different things feel now. Paige assumes they’re relieved by the new dynamic. 

With a nod, she walks away. 

—--

It takes forty-five minutes for Azzi to find Paige. 

It’s forty minutes more than Azzi likely needed to find the gem in the data readouts, plus another ten for her to make the team re-calculate and cross check the numbers. And then it would have taken her another fifteen minutes to stew about the entire situation, and she’d have needed time to debrief the rest of the data readouts with her team. 

All to say, Azzi walks into the hospitality suite right about when Paige expects her to. 

“You can’t just go all Maverick,” Azzi says, dripping water all over the table. 

Per usual, she looks like she didn’t even bother with an umbrella when she dashed across the paddock. The suspicion is confirmed when Paige sees Kelis enter the hospitality suite, holding the umbrella and Azzi’s rain jacket, like she ran after her. 

“Feels like maybe it paid off,” Paige suggests.

“Just because you got lucky doesn’t excuse you from doing stupid shit,” Azzi snaps. 

It’s not that Paige has low self preservation instincts. It’s that she clearly doesn’t have any value for her life. That must be why she can’t help but grin. 

“Was the down arc in the data beautiful? It just nosedived, right?”

She sees the way Azzi’s nose wrinkles, the minute little twitch that says how annoyed she is that Paige found some use from spinning out and getting back onto the track. 

Because the tyres are overheating, even in the heavy rain; Interlagos is known for having an incredibly abrasive asphalt and it cooks the rubber quickly. 

But when Paige spun out and moved off-line, her rear slip got better. When she wasn’t on the racing line — which is always going to be the driest part of the track — she had more grip because of the deeper water. It cooled the tyre surface. 

“You didn’t say anything on the radio.” 

“Because I can keep my fucking mouth shut.”

Azzi’s eyebrows raise. “Beg to differ.”

She and Azzi stare at each other for a moment. 

It’s already miserably hot in São Paulo. If anyone had asked Paige, she’d have said she didn’t know how it could possibly get any hotter. 

But she’d have been wrong. She’d have been very, very wrong. 

—--

There are no big blowups during FP2. 

It’s not exactly smooth sailing since it’s fucking pouring down rain, but Paige manages to make do and get all the necessary laps in. They test a little bit on the earlier theory that the deeper water just off the racing line cools the tyres, but they do it quietly; she complains on the radio about losing her grip and sliding around. Subterfuge is a common enough practice in Formula 1 and Paige will take any advantage she can get. 

The debrief sessions also go without incident, though Paige does feel like she’s in a crockpot and the dial is being slowly turned from low to high. 

Eventually, all bad things come to an end and make way for more bad things. She and Soni groan when it comes time to leave for the driver briefing; going back through the rain is as unwelcome a prospect as sitting in a room with the grumpiest and most aggressive bunch of racecar drivers known to womankind. But even as they grumble, they gather their things and start to leave.

“Paige,” Azzi calls, her voice soft among the din of the engineering chatter. She waits for Paige to pause and turn back before continuing. “Mercedes will push for an automatic VSC if visibility gets bad on the run to Turn 4.”

Paige holds her gaze for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

—--

40 seconds: …be careful this weekend. I know you think you’ve got it all handled but Interlagos has a way about her. 

—--

On their way to the briefing meeting, Paige and Soni make a plan. 

“Visibility and grip first?”

“Yeah,” Soni agrees. And then safety car versus virtual safety car. Caroline wants an answer on formation lap too.”

“Turn 4 as well,” Paige mutters. “This is going to be a fucking shit show.”

She’s not wrong. The atmosphere inside the drivers’ briefing room is tense with simmering frustration and animosity. Lamborghini has a good fucking lead in the Constructors’ Championship and it means everyone else is feeling the pressure. Paige wants to remind them all that she and Soni have the most pressure, because everything is a competition and what’s the point of being alive if you aren’t trying to win? 

“Is there going to be a mandated switch point?” 

Paige has to work hard not to physically let her eyes roll out of her head at Aliyah Boston’s question. 

Behind her, Kah isn’t as polite. 

“Rook, it’s gonna rain all weekend,” she calls. A few of the other drivers — specifically AT — chuckle in agreement. “Ain’t nobody getting onto inters.”

“Not a rookie,” Aliyah reminds Kah, loudly. She’s really in a mood now, and Paige sighs at the way the meeting has gone off the rails so very quickly.  

“To be fair,” Cam says to Aliyah, not trying to keep her voice down, “she calls everyone younger than her a rookie.”

Paige wants to bash her head against a wall. 

“We don’t have a mandated switch point,” Cathy says from her position at the front of the room. She’s standing behind a podium like she always does, but this far into the season it feels particularly ridiculous. It’s only the twenty of them plus Cathy’s two assistants in this room; there’s no need for a media posture when nobody from the media is present. 

“So it’s just like, a ‘hope and pray’ situation?” KMac’s feeling spicy. Paige can feel her disdain from five seats away. 

“Race Control is monitoring the situation very closely,” Cathy assures them. “If we see the track carrying more standing water than would be safe for intermediate tyres, it is possible that full wet tyres will be ordered. Or the opposite. We’re monitoring.”

Everyone grumbles about that, because a situation necessitating wet tyres is more likely than not a situation where a red flag should definitely be called. 

“Every weather report available in this hemisphere is projecting heavy rain and high winds,” Phee says. She’s got a McLaren binder with her, like the good girl that she is. “What’s the max point Race Control will allow before calling for a red flag?”

“I’m not prepared to share a number with you; if conditions are unsafe, we will red flag.”

They’ll let it go long, though, because even though hosting a race in São Paulo at the beginning of the rainy season makes no fucking sense, Formula 1 needs to get the most out of the weekend. There’s a lot of money on the line, and it always comes down to money. 

“Fine,” Sabrina calls from the middle of the room. “What about visibility at Turn 4. If we can’t see then it should be an automatic VSC.”

Damn. Paige should have been faster. 

“Even if visibility is low, we might still have grip,” she says, interjecting herself. It’s probably the most combative thing she’s ever said to Sabrina, and the look Sabrina sends Paige makes it clear that she fucking knows it.

“Grip doesn’t make a difference if we can’t see anything,” Sabrina rebuts, and everyone is taking notice now.

Something that Paige hasn’t focused on this season is that Sabrina’s the reigning world champion. Two time reigning world champion, actually. She knows a thing or two about driving, and Paige has been so laser focused on everything happening off track that it’s been a while since she’s really thought about what it means to be a contender against Sabrina when they’re in the cars. Not since Silverstone.

And the truth is, you don’t get to be a driver at this level without knowing where your talent is strongest and where you fall short.

Without knowing the same about the other drivers. So she pushes.

“I mean, are we going racing or are we going for a drive behind a VSC or safety car?”

It sounds brash even to her own ears, but sometimes persona means more than people give it credit for. Certainly more than Azzi ever gives it credit for. 

She’s setting herself up and she knows it, but Paige has been aching for a chance to put her elbows out and clash with Sab. She can only do it on the track, or about the track, which isn’t what she really wants but she’ll take what she can get. Seems like Interlagos is going to be the place that happens.

“You haven’t even driven this track in an F1 race yet,” Sabrina scoffs. 

“What’s the answer?” Paige asks Cathy, who’s draped herself over the podium and looks tired of being the referee between two toddlers. The expression on her face is one of extreme exhaustion; Paige almost feels bad for her.  

“No absolutes,” Cathy answers. “If it’s unsafe we’ll red flag, as I said.”

Well, Cathy can get fucked. 

The meeting continues like that. Track limits, the formation lap, restart conditions; it goes on and on and on. The drivers who are more confident in the rain ask for explicit parameters so they can push, and the drivers who aren’t as comfortable ask for earlier intervention. Sabrina doesn’t say anything else and neither does Paige, but it feels like they’re both extraordinarily aware of each other. 

 By the time they hit the seventy-five minute mark, Veronica and Jackie have outright argued and Phee has straight up started painting her nails. 

“Alright that’s all we can do for tonight. If you have additional requests you can run them through team channels to the stewards,” Cathy says, ignoring the groans that permeate the room. 

“What’s the point of doing it if you aren’t doing it right,” Kah mutters. 

Paige doesn’t care about any of it; people are whining and moaning about the rain but she just wants to race. A wet track has never been an issue for her and she’s not about to believe that Brazil of all places is where that will change. 

Azzi would call her delusional. Nika would agree.

Paige wants to walk away from the driver briefing room so quickly it would probably verge on sprinting, but she forces herself to relax and appear chill. Of course, Soni’s taking her sweet fucking time yapping with Kate, and it means that by the time they make their way out they’re practically shoulder to shoulder with the Mercedes drivers. 

“After you, rookie,” Sab says with a smile. Her face is so angular it’s hard to tell if it’s a sneer or just how her muscles work. Unless she’s got a giant grin on her face she always looks angry. 

“Really,” she mutters, and though Paige truly doesn’t mean for Sabrina to overhear, it’s obviously her shitty luck that the Ionescu family has fucking bat hearing. 

“What’s your problem,” Sabrina says, calling the question between them as they walk down the hall. 

Two steps ahead of them, Soni slows her gait even as her head is turned to something else. Ride or die. In more ways than one. 

“What’s my problem?” Paige asks, turning to post up just a little. She’s escalating with no good reason, really. Based on the look Soni tosses back at her, that’s clearly apparent. “I don’t got a problem, bro. Can’t speak the same for you.”

Sabrina opens her mouth to respond but right as she does, Sophie Cunningham walks by. 

“Oooh, trouble in paradise,” she coos in her stupid, annoying sing-song voice.  

“Shut the fuck up, Sophie.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sophie.”

Paige and Sab say it in unison, barely sparing Sophie a glare. 

Of course, it makes Soni snort and she has to smother it with a little cough because neither Paige nor Sab so much as crack a smile; even ganging up on Sophie isn’t enough to diffuse the pressure in the air. 

“You’re in over your fucking head,” Sabrina says. The worst part is she doesn’t even say it with any bite. She says it like she knows it’s true. Like she’s just telling Paige a fact that Paige ought to already know.

And that’s the part that really fucking digs at Paige, like a suckerpunch low in the stomach. No way to block properly and really goddamn painful because it’s such a surprise move. 

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you,” Paige spits, suddenly glad to let out the frustration she’s been keeping inside her chest. It’s taken voice and shape, morphing so rapidly its growth feels almost alarming. 

“God. The things you don’t know are eating at you. You want to know it all so badly, don’t you?” The words sound strange coming from Sab’s mouth in such a unique tone; a dichotomy between mockery and concern.  

If the driver briefing went off the rails, this is something in the vicinity of an epic crash. Messy, bloody, high casualty count. Soni starts to edge closer but Paige keeps her at bay with a quick flick of her eyes. 

Paige tries not to take the feint, but it’s hard — this is her life. This is her fucking life. 

“It’s not good to keep your feelings all bottled up,” Sab continues to goad. Her eyes narrow on Paige’s face before she gives an amused huff. 

But Paige is done keeping her mouth shut.

“Fuck you, Sab. I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you.”

The words don’t echo or drop like an anvil. They’re just words. Just three words. 

A contraction. 

An irregular verb. 

A second-person personal pronoun. 

Three easy words, meaningless on their own and strung together with massive implication. Like holding a firework. Or a bomb. 

“Sab.”

Paige can’t breathe.

“I’ll tell you,” Sabrina says again. “But you have to ask.”