Aurélien stares at his phone screen, scrolling through Instagram with the kind of desperate hope that feels pathetic even to him. It's been five days since their night out—five days of radio silence from Jiana that has him questioning everything about their interaction.

The only proof she still exists in his world comes through her social media presence. Her latest story shows her in the gym at six o’clock that morning, hair pulled back in a messy bun, sweat already beading on her forehead as she works through what looks like a brutal training session. She's wearing a black sports bra and matching biker shorts that shows off her athletic build and belly piercing, with a caption reads: Morning meditation 🏀 #GetBetter #MadridLife

He screenshots it before he can stop himself, then immediately feels like a creep and deletes it.

His DMs to her sit pathetically unanswered—a casual "How was practice?" from Tuesday, a "Hope you're settling in well" from Wednesday, and yesterday's slightly more desperate "Did I do something wrong?" that he regrets sending the moment it left his phone. The blue checkmarks show she's read them all, but her responses are as absent as his patience is becoming.

The worst part is that he knows she's chronically online. Her main feed shows carefully curated advertisement posts from her training sessions, her exploration of Madrid, even a photo of some tapas she tried at a restaurant he'd mentioned during their dinner. She's living her life, documenting it for the world to see, but somehow he's been completely shut out.

Maybe she really was just being polite, he thinks, running a hand through his hair as he finally forces himself to put the phone down. Maybe I read the whole thing wrong.

But he doesn't think he did. There had been something in her eyes that night, a warmth that broke through her careful defenses when she laughed at his stories about Ocho or when she admitted she'd never been on a date. The way she'd looked at him in the car, like she was seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking from a guy who's used to women being more direct about their interest.

The alarm on his nightstand buzzes insistently, pulling him away from his spiraling thoughts. 7:30 AM. Time to get ready for training, time to focus on football instead of obsessing over a woman who's clearly decided he's not worth her time.

His morning routine is usually automatic—shower, coffee, light breakfast while checking tactical videos Ancelotti sends to the squad group chat. But today everything feels off-kilter, like he's moving through water instead of air. Even Ocho seems to sense his mood, following him around the villa with concerned brown eyes and the occasional worried whine.

"I know, boy," Aurélien says, scratching behind the dog's ears as he makes his way to the kitchen. "I'm being pathetic."

Uncle Bertrand is supposed to return from Bordeaux today, which means the house will feel less empty tonight. Aurélien finds himself looking forward to his uncle's practical presence, the way Bertrand can cut through emotional nonsense with the kind of straightforward advice that comes from raising four children and being married for over thirty years.

The espresso maker hisses to life, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of premium Colombian beans that Bertrand insists on ordering from a specific roaster in Paris. Aurélien has tried to explain that he can't actually taste the difference between this and regular coffee, but his uncle maintains that details matter, that small luxuries are what make the difference between living well and merely existing.

Maybe that's my problem, Aurélien thinks, watching the dark liquid stream into his cup. I'm trying to live well while she's just trying to exist.

The thought hits harder than he expects. From what little Jiana has shared about her background—raised by her grandmother, no mention of parents, that careful wariness around physical contact—it's clear she's carrying baggage he can't begin to understand. Maybe his interest feels like pressure she doesn't need right now.

His phone buzzes with a message from Jude: Training in 30. You better not be moping about the basketball girl again.

Aurélien types back: I don't mope.

Sure you don't. See you there, lover boy.

The drive to Valdebebas usually helps clear his head—the familiar route through Madrid's northern suburbs, the gradual transition from residential areas to the sprawling sports complex that houses Real Madrid's training facilities. Today it just gives him more time to overthink, to replay every moment of their dinner conversation and wonder where he went wrong.

Maybe it was the NOBU comment—too presumptuous, too much too fast. Maybe it was the way he'd opened her car door, a gesture that might have felt patronizing instead of polite. Maybe it was simply the fact that he's a footballer, and she's already dealing with enough attention and assumptions about her life.

The security guard at the training center gate waves him through with a familiar nod, and Aurélien parks his Urus in his assigned spot between Jude's Bentley and Camavinga's Mercedes. The contrast between their cars says something about their personalities—Jude's is flashy and attention-grabbing, Cama's is sleek and understated, and his own splits the difference between power and sophistication.

The locker room is already buzzing with activity when he arrives. Vinícius and Rodrygo are engaged in their usual pre-training banter in Portuguese, while Modrić sits quietly in his corner, going through his pre-session meditation routine. The veteran Croatian has been Aurélien's unofficial mentor since he arrived at Madrid, teaching him about the mental side of the game as much as the tactical aspects.

"You look like shit," Jude says by way of greeting, appearing beside Aurélien's locker with his usual grin.

"Thanks," Aurélien mutters, pulling his training shirt over his head. "Really needed to hear that this morning."

"Still no word from the American?" Cama asks, clearly eavesdropping from his nearby locker.

"Her name is Jiana," Aurélien says, though he's not sure why he's defending someone who won't return his messages.

"Whatever her name is, she's clearly not interested, bro," Cama says with the blunt honesty that makes him both a good friend and occasionally insufferable. "Maybe it's time to move on."

"It's been five days," Jude points out. "That's not exactly a long time."

"Five days of complete silence after what seemed like a good time," Cama counters. "That's pretty clear communication."

Aurélien ties his boots with more force than necessary, frustration making his movements sharp. "Maybe she's just busy. New team, new country, adjusting to everything."

"Or maybe she's just not that into you," Cama says. "It happens, man. Even to pretty boys like us."

"Speak for yourself," Jude says, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "I don't get rejected."

"Everyone gets rejected," Modrić says quietly from his corner, not opening his eyes but clearly listening to their conversation. "The difference between boys and men is how you handle it."

The observation stings because it's accurate. Aurélien is used to success—in football, in life, with women. The combination of being a professional athlete, reasonably attractive, and financially successful has meant that romantic interest has generally come easily. This feeling of uncertainty, of wanting something he can't simply achieve through effort or talent, is foreign territory.

"Maybe I should just forget about it," he says, voicing the thought that's been circling his mind since yesterday.

"Or maybe you should figure out what you actually want," Modrić suggests, finally opening his eyes and fixing Aurélien with the kind of steady gaze that has intimidated opposing midfielders for two decades. "Are you interested in her because she's beautiful and challenging, or because you actually want to know who she is?"

The question hits deeper than Aurélien expects. He'd been attracted to Jiana physically from the moment he saw her highlights, drawn to her talent and presence on the basketball court. But the woman he'd had dinner with—guarded but intelligent, funny in unexpected ways, carrying herself with a strength that suggested she'd survived things he couldn't imagine—was more complex than his initial fascination.

"Both," he admits.

"Then maybe patience is worth considering," Modrić says simply. "Some people need more time to trust."

Training is brutal in the way that Ancelotti specializes in—technical drills that demand perfect execution, small-sided games that simulate match intensity, tactical work that requires constant mental engagement. Normally, Aurélien thrives on this kind of focused preparation, the way it allows him to lose himself completely in the demands of elite-level football.

Today, his concentration keeps drifting. During passing drills, he finds himself thinking about the way Jiana had laughed when he showed her photos of Ocho. In small-sided games, he remembers how she'd looked in the Bernabéu family box, completely absorbed in trying to understand what she was watching. Even during tactical discussions, part of his mind wanders to the way she'd admitted she'd never been on a date, the vulnerability behind her defensive walls.

"Focus, Aurélien!" Ancelotti's voice cuts through his distraction during a particularly sloppy sequence of play. "Your head is somewhere else today."

Somewhere else is an understatement. His head is in a parking garage with a woman who shoots perfect three-pointers and looks at him like he might be worth knowing, if she could just figure out how to trust him.

The session ends with fitness work—sprints and agility drills that leave the entire squad exhausted and sweating in the Madrid sun. Aurélien pushes himself harder than usual, hoping physical exhaustion might quiet the mental noise, but even as his lungs burn and his legs ache, he can't stop thinking about Jiana.

"Shower, food, home," Jude says as they walk off the training pitch. "And maybe stop checking your phone every five minutes."

"I don't—"

"You do," Cama interrupts. "You've looked at it like twenty times during training. It's getting weird, bro."

Aurélien wants to argue, but they're right. He's being pathetic, checking for messages that aren't coming, hoping for interest that clearly doesn't exist. It's not like him to chase someone who's made their disinterest clear, and it's definitely not like him to let romantic complications affect his football.

The shower helps wash away the sweat and frustration of training, but it doesn't touch the deeper confusion about what he wants from Jiana Jackson. The practical part of his brain—the part that's helped him navigate professional football and international attention—says to move on, to focus on the season ahead, to remember that there are plenty of women who would be happy to spend time with him.

But the part of him that had sat across from her at Tacos El Primo, watching her light up when she talked about basketball or tease him about living with his uncle, isn't ready to give up yet.

His phone buzzes as he's getting dressed, and for a moment his heart jumps with the possibility that it might be her. Instead, it's a text from his mother in Rouen: How are you, mon cœur? Your father says you looked distracted in the match highlights.

Aurélien smiles. His parents have an uncanny ability to read his moods even through television broadcasts, a superpower developed over years of watching their son play football at increasingly high levels.

I'm fine, Maman. Just thinking about some things.

Girl problems? comes the immediate response, because apparently his mother's intuition extends to matters of the heart as well as football performance.

Maybe. It's complicated.

The best ones always are. Don't give up too easily, but don't chase someone who doesn't want to be caught.

It's exactly the kind of balanced advice he'd expect from his mother—encouraging without being naive, realistic without being cynical. Josette Tchouaméni has navigated twenty-six years of marriage to a man whose work required constant travel, raised three children while managing her own career, and somehow maintained the kind of optimistic pragmatism that keeps families together.

Thanks, Maman. Love you.

Love you too. And Aurélien? Trust your instincts. They've never led you wrong.

The drive home takes him through the heart of Madrid, past the Prado and the Retiro Park, through neighborhoods where normal people live normal lives that don't involve tactical analyses or social media scrutiny. At a red light near the city center, he finds himself wondering what Jiana is doing right now—probably finishing her afternoon training session, maybe exploring another part of Madrid, possibly sitting in her apartment thinking about anything other than the footballer who can't seem to take a hint.

His villa feels too quiet when he arrives, even with Ocho's enthusiastic greeting. The dog seems to sense his mood, staying closer than usual as Aurélien moves through the house, occasionally nudging his leg with a massive head that demands attention.

"You miss him too, don't you?" Aurélien says, settling onto the couch with Ocho pressed against his side. "Uncle Bertrand spoils you worse than I do."

The afternoon stretches ahead of him—no training, no match preparations, just empty time that used to feel like luxury but now seems like an opportunity for his mind to wander to places it shouldn't go. He considers calling one of his teammates, maybe meeting up with some friends for dinner, anything to avoid the temptation of checking his phone again.

Instead, he finds himself opening Instagram, telling himself he's just scrolling through his general feed, not specifically looking for updates from a certain American basketball player.

But when her story appears at the top of his feed, he clicks on it before he can stop himself.

It's a photo of a plate of paella, taken at what looks like a traditional Spanish restaurant, with the caption: When in Spain 🥘 #CultureImmersion #LearningToLoveRice

The location tag shows it's at Casa Botín, one of the oldest restaurants in Madrid and a place he's mentioned wanting to take her someday. She's there without him, trying the foods he'd suggested, experiencing the city he'd wanted to show her.

The realization hits him—she's not hiding from Madrid or avoiding new experiences. She's just avoiding him.

Before he can lose his nerve, he opens their message thread and types: Casa Botín has amazing cochinillo too. Hope you're enjoying Madrid.

He sends it before he can overthink it, then immediately regrets the impulse. It sounds desperate, like he's monitoring her location, like he can't take a hint.

But to his surprise, three dots appear almost immediately, indicating she's typing a response.

The paella was incredible. Thanks for the recommendation.

It's not much—polite, distant, the kind of response you'd give to an acquaintance rather than someone you'd spent an evening getting to know. But it's something, the first communication they've had since their dinner, and Aurélien finds himself staring at the words like they contain hidden meaning.

He types and deletes several responses, unsure of the right tone. Too casual and he might seem like he doesn't care. Too interested and he might scare her off completely. Finally, he settles on: Glad you liked it. How's training going?

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times, like she's struggling with how to respond. When her answer finally comes, it's brief: Good. Busy. Still adjusting to everything.

I know. New team, new system, new country. That's a lot.

Yeah.

The conversation stalls there, single-word responses that suggest she's answering out of politeness rather than genuine interest in talking to him. Aurélien stares at the screen, trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between the easy conversation they'd had over tacos and this stilted exchange.

Listen, he types, then deletes it. Too serious.

Are you okay? he tries, then deletes that too. Too presumptuous.

Finally, he settles on: If I did something wrong the other night, I'd rather you tell me than just disappear.

The honesty feels risky, but it's better than this liminal space where he doesn't know what happened or why she's pulling away.

This time, the typing indicator appears and stays for a long time. He can picture her on the other side of the conversation, struggling with how much to reveal, how honest to be with someone she barely knows.

You didn't do anything wrong. I just need space to focus on basketball right now.

It's a diplomatic answer, the kind of thing you say when you want to let someone down gently without getting into the messy details of why. But there's something in the phrasing that suggests it's not the whole truth.

I understand. Basketball comes first.

Thanks.

But Jiana?

Yeah?

The offer to be friends still stands. No pressure, no expectations. Just... if you need someone who knows what it's like to be far from home, I'm around.

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times before her final response: I'll keep that in mind.

It's not a yes, but it's not a definitive no either. It's the kind of maybe that leaves room for possibility, even if that possibility feels distant right now.

Aurélien sets his phone aside and leans back into the couch, Ocho's warm weight against his side providing a comfort that's purely physical. The conversation hadn't gone the way he'd hoped, but at least they'd talked. At least she knew he wasn't going anywhere, even if she needed him to stay at a distance for now.

His phone buzzes with a message from Uncle Bertrand: Flight delayed. Won't be home until tomorrow evening. Don't burn the house down.

House is still standing, Aurélien types back. Mostly.

Girl problems?

How does everyone keep knowing that?

Because you're terrible at hiding your feelings, nephew. Always have been.

She's complicated.

The best ones usually are. Be patient.

That seems to be everyone's advice today.

Because it's good advice. Some people need more time to trust. Doesn't mean they're not worth waiting for.

Aurélien stares at his uncle's message, thinking about Jiana's careful defenses, the way she'd flinched when he'd touched her shoulder, the admission that she'd never been on a date. There are stories there, experiences that have taught her to be cautious about letting people close.

Maybe patience isn't just good advice—maybe it's the only advice that matters.

He spends the evening watching match footage from other La Liga teams, trying to focus on tactical preparation for their upcoming fixtures. But part of his mind keeps drifting to a woman who's learning to love paella and keeping the world at arm's length for reasons he's only beginning to understand.

When he finally goes to bed, his phone is on the nightstand instead of in his hand, and for the first time in five days, he doesn't check her Instagram stories before falling asleep.

Progress, he thinks. Small steps toward patience.

But as he drifts off, he's already planning how long he should wait before texting her again.

_______________________________________________

Jiana has always been good at running. Not just on the basketball court—though her fast break speed is legendary—but from feelings, situations, and people who make her feel things she doesn't know how to process. The past week since her dinner with Aurélien has been a masterclass in avoidance, and she's starting to realize she might be too good at it for her own good.

The apartment in Malasaña feels smaller every day, the walls closing in as she tries to convince herself that ghosting him was the right choice. She'd spent three days after their dinner replaying every moment—the way he'd laughed at her McDonald's comment, how he'd opened her car door like it was the most natural thing in the world, the genuine concern in his voice when she'd mentioned never being on a date. The analysis had driven her crazy until she'd done what she always does when emotions threaten to overwhelm her: she'd shut down completely.

Back in LA, when the pressure got too much, she had ways of coping that weren't exactly healthy but were effective. A night out in WeHo, drinking until her grandmother's disappointed voice in her head got quiet. Or finding some asshole at a bar who was looking for a fight, giving her an excuse to throw punches until her knuckles bled and her heart stopped racing. Physical pain was easier to understand than whatever this feeling was—this warm, terrifying possibility that maybe someone could actually want to know her without expecting anything in return.

But Madrid isn't LA, and she doesn't know where to find those familiar distractions. So instead, she's been throwing herself into basketball with an intensity that's making even her new teammates worry. Six in the morning training sessions followed by individual skill work until the facility closes. Film study until her eyes burn. Anything to avoid the quiet moments when her mind drifts to dark eyes and patient smiles and the way Aurélien had said her name like it meant something.

This is exactly why I don't do this shit, she thinks for the hundredth time this week, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she gets ready for tonight's game against Valencia. Men are complicated. Feelings are complicated. Basketball is simple.

But even basketball feels different now. During practice yesterday, María had asked her if she was okay. Lucia had been more direct: "You look like you need to get laid." The comment had made Jiana's face burn with embarrassment because the truth is, she's twenty-four years old and has never even gotten close to that level with anyone.

The trauma from when she was fourteen—her mother's dealer taking what he thought he was owed when Carla Jackson couldn't pay her debts—had warped her relationship with physical touch so completely that she'd never learned how to separate attraction from danger. Therapy had helped her understand the connection, but understanding something intellectually and feeling safe enough to change it were two very different things.

Which makes her reaction to Aurélien all the more confusing. She'd felt things watching him play that she'd never experienced before—a deep, visceral attraction that had nothing to do with safety or logic and everything to do with the way he moved, the confidence in his body, the casual masculinity that should have triggered her defenses but somehow didn't.

Focus on the game, she tells herself, checking her outfit one more time in the mirror. She'd finally found a Dominican woman named Isabella who could do Black hair in Madrid, and for the first time since arriving, her lace front looks absolutely perfect. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, edges laid to perfection, and she feels more like herself than she has in weeks.

Her pregame outfit is on point too—a vintage graphic tee from a Kendrick Lamar concert that she'd cropped to show just a hint of her stomach, paired with a denim mini skirt and black heels that add three inches to her already imposing height. The look is effortlessly cool, the kind of fit that will definitely end up on basketball fashion blogs and in her MAC Cosmetics social media campaigns.

The arena atmosphere tonight is electric, the Spanish crowd fully invested in their women's basketball team in a way that still surprises her. Valencia is a strong opponent, and there's genuine tension in the air as both teams go through their warm-up routines.

She's in the middle of a post-warm-up interview with a Spanish sports broadcaster, struggling through answers in her still-developing Spanish, when she spots a familiar figure sitting courtside. Aurélien is there again, wearing all black and looking effortlessly handsome.

The sight of him catches her so off guard that she loses her train of thought mid-sentence, leaving the reporter waiting patiently for her to finish answering a question about adapting to European basketball.

"Lo siento," she apologizes, forcing herself to focus. "Could you repeat the question?"

But her eyes keep drifting back to Aurélien, who seems completely absorbed in watching the teams prepare. There's something different about seeing him here, in her space, supporting her sport. It feels... intentional. Personal.

After she finishes the interview, she finds herself walking over to him before she can talk herself out of it.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, more confrontational than she intends.

Aurélien looks up at her with those dark eyes that seem to see everything, and his smile is genuinely warm despite her tone. "I like basketball," he says simply, spreading his hands. "What do you mean?"

He's sitting in that particular way men do when they're completely comfortable in their own skin—legs spread wide, one arm draped over the back of his seat, the other resting casually on his thigh. It's unselfconsciously masculine, taking up space without apology, and instead of irritating her the way men's casual dominance usually does, she finds it... attractive.

"You were here last week too," she points out, settling into the seat beside him.

"And I'll probably be here next week," he says with a shrug. "I told you, I follow women's basketball. Plus, you're good to watch."

There's something in the way he says it—appreciation for her skill rather than her appearance—that makes her defensive walls lower slightly.

"How's the team treating you?" he asks, genuinely interested.

"Good," she says, surprised by how easy it is to fall back into conversation with him. "They're patient with my Spanish, which is more than I deserve."

"Your Spanish is getting better," he observes. "I heard your interview. Very impressive."

"You speak Spanish?"

"Fluently," he grins. "French, English, Spanish, and enough Portuguese to get by. Comes with the territory when you play for clubs in different countries."

They fall into easy banter about language learning, about the differences between American and European basketball culture, about his own experiences adapting to new countries and teams. It's exactly like their dinner conversation—natural, unforced, the kind of easy connection she's never experienced with anyone.

"Jiana!" María's voice calls out, interrupting their conversation. "Vamos, time to get ready!"

Aurélien switches to Spanish so smoothly it takes Jiana a moment to follow. "¿Qué tal, María? ¿Cómo está la temporada?"

"¡Muy bien!" María responds enthusiastically. "Though our American here needs to relax more. Too much pressure on herself."

They chat for a few moments in rapid Spanish that Jiana can only partially follow, but she catches enough to understand that María is being inappropriate as usual.

"Come on," María says, switching back to English and grabbing Jiana's arm. "Coach wants us in the locker room in five minutes."

As they walk away, María immediately starts grinning like she knows something Jiana doesn't.

"Girl, you picked a good one," María says as soon as they're out of earshot.

"What are you talking about?" Jiana asks, genuinely confused.

"Aurélien," María says like it's obvious. "He's fine as hell, successful, and clearly interested. Gets lonely here in Madrid, you know? Man like that would be perfect for keeping your bed warm when it gets cold."

Jiana completely misses the innuendo, her brain stuck on the practical concern. "It's hot here," she says seriously. "Ain't nobody trying to have a warm bed."

María bursts out laughing, the sound echoing through the corridor. "Ay, Dios mío, you're hopeless."

In the locker room, the energy is focused and intense. Coach Vargas goes over final tactical adjustments while the players get changed into their uniforms. Jiana has always loved this part—the ritual of transformation from regular person to athlete, the way the team jersey makes her feel like she belongs to something bigger than herself.

The game is a battle from the opening tip. Valencia came to play, and their defense is suffocating in a way that reminds Jiana of the best WNBA teams. Every possession is a grind, every basket earned through perfect execution or individual brilliance.

She plays well—23 points, 8 rebounds, 6 assists—but it's not enough. A late three-pointer from Valencia's star guard puts them up by three with ten seconds left, and Madrid's final shot rims out. Final score: 71-68, Valencia.

The locker room after the loss is quiet, that particular silence that comes after giving everything and having it not be enough. Jiana sits in front of her locker, still in her uniform, replaying every missed shot and defensive breakdown.

"You played well," Coach Vargas tells her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes the shots don't fall. That's basketball."

But Jiana can't shake the feeling that she should have done more, been better, found a way to will her team to victory the way she had so many times in LA.

"Hey," Lucia says, plopping down beside her. "Stop beating yourself up. We played good basketball tonight."

"Not good enough," Jiana mutters.

"Good enough to know we belong on this level," María adds, joining the conversation. "Valencia is one of the best teams in the league. Three points isn't a blowout."

"Let's go out," suggests Ana, one of the younger players. "There's this club in Malasaña that plays good music. Dancing will help us forget about tonight."

"I don't really do clubs," Jiana says automatically.

"Come on," María cajoles. "You've been working too hard, training too much. You need to let loose."

"Dancing is good for the soul," Lucia adds with a grin. "Plus, you look amazing tonight. That hair is perfection."

It takes another ten minutes of convincing, but eventually Jiana finds herself agreeing to go out. She's never been much of a club person but maybe María is right. Maybe she needs to do something other than basketball and sleep and avoiding complicated feelings.

They finish changing back into their street clothes, the post-game routine of showers and interviews and media obligations. By the time they're ready to leave the arena, it's nearly midnight, and Jiana is looking forward to mindless music and overpriced drinks.

But when they exit the players' area, she stops short. Aurélien is still there, leaning against the wall near the exit, looking impossibly handsome in his black shirt and jeans. His red Nike high-tops are a pop of color against the monochrome outfit, and his Cuban link necklace and bracelet catches the light whenever he moves.

"Ooh, never mind, girl," María says with a wicked grin. "Let your boo take you out tonight."

"He's not my boo," Jiana protests, but her teammates are already greeting Aurélien with enthusiasm.

"¡Hola, Aurélien!" they chorus, waving at him as they head toward the exit. Their giggling echoes through the hallway as they leave, clearly delighted by the romantic possibilities they're imagining.

Jiana finds herself alone with Aurélien, suddenly hyperaware of how he looks in the dim arena lighting. The black shirt fits him perfectly, highlighting his athletic build, and there's something about the casual way he's dressed that makes him seem more approachable than the polished footballer she'd seen before.

He pushes off from the wall, running a hand over his neck in a gesture that seems nervous. "You wanna grab something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry—" she starts automatically, but her stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough to echo through the empty hallway.

Aurélien chuckles, that warm sound she's been trying not to miss. "Why do you lie, Ji?"

The use of her nickname—casual, familiar, like they've known each other for years instead of a couple weeks—makes something flutter in her chest that she doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Fine," she says, trying to sound annoyed instead of pleased. "But nowhere fancy."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grins, gesturing toward the exit.

The walk to his car is quiet, the Madrid night air warm against her skin. The Urus is parked in the VIP section, gleaming black paint reflecting the streetlights like a mirror. He opens her door with the same casual courtesy as before, and she slides into the passenger seat before she can overthink it.

The interior still smells like his cologne. He starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, the sound system automatically connecting to his phone and filling the car with smooth R&B that's somehow exactly what she would have expected him to listen to.

They drive in silence for several minutes, Aurélien's left hand resting casually on the steering wheel while his right adjusts the air conditioning. The streetlights cast moving shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. His Cuban link bracelet catches the light every time he moves, a subtle display of wealth that's somehow not ostentatious.

The silence stretches between them, not exactly uncomfortable but loaded with things neither of them is saying. Jiana finds herself studying his profile, the way he drives with complete confidence, like he's equally at home behind the wheel of an expensive car as he is controlling a football match.

The quiet is starting to make her anxious, her mind spinning with thoughts she's been trying to avoid all week. Finally, she can't take it anymore.

"Sorry for going ghost on you," she says abruptly, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

Aurélien scoffs, a sound that might be amusement or frustration. "That was crazy," he says simply.

"Yeah," she agrees, her voice smaller than she intends. "It was."

"What happened?" he asks, glancing at her briefly before focusing back on the road. "I thought we had a good time."

"We did," she says quickly. "It's just... a lot going on with me right now."

"I know," he says patiently. "But I thought we were cool."

"We are," she insists.

"Doesn't seem like it," he points out, his voice matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "You did ghost me."

She sits with that for a moment, biting her bottom lip as she tries to figure out how to explain something she doesn't fully understand herself. The truth is complicated—wrapped up in trauma and trust issues and a lifetime of learning that men always want something in return for their attention.

"I'm very..." she starts, then stops, searching for the right words. "I'm very weird around men."

"Yeah?" he says, his voice encouraging without being pushy.

She exhales a long breath, her fingers twisting together in her lap. "Most men want something in return, you know? Like, they're nice to you, they buy you dinner, they act all interested, but it's always because they want something back. And I'm not that kind of girl." She's stumbling over the words, trying to explain without revealing too much. "Not that I'm judging girls who are like that! I mean, everyone's different, and if that works for them then that's cool, I just—" She huffs out a frustrated breath. "You know what I mean?"

Aurélien nods slowly, considering her words. "A little, yeah. But Ji..." He pauses at a red light, turning to look at her directly. "I don't want nothing you're uncomfortable giving me. If you want a friend, I can be that."

The simple statement hits her like a physical blow. She's so used to having to defend herself, to explain why she's not available for whatever men think they're entitled to, that his easy acceptance catches her completely off guard.

"Why?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He shrugs, the gesture casual but his voice serious when he answers. "I just like you as a person. You're cool." The light turns green and he starts driving again, his tone becoming slightly teasing. "Plus, you look like you need a friend."

"Am I that obvious?" she asks, sarcasm creeping into her voice as a defense mechanism.

"You are so obvious," he says with a grin, clearly enjoying this. "Even with that chip on your shoulder."

Despite herself, she almost smiles at that. "I don't have a chip on my shoulder."

"You absolutely do," he says confidently. "But that's okay. I'm not going to force you to explain anything to me. I do want to hang out with you, though. And if you want to talk, we can talk. If you just need a friend to hang out with, I'm good for that too."

The offer hangs between them, simple and complicated at the same time. Jiana stares out the window at the passing Madrid streets, trying to process what he's saying. In her experience, men don't offer friendship without ulterior motives. But there's something in Aurélien's voice—genuine, patient, free of the underlying expectation she's learned to recognize—that makes her want to believe him.

"With no strings?" she asks, her voice careful.

He pauses at another red light, turning to meet her eyes directly. "No strings, no motives. All truth."

She stares at him in the dim light of the car, searching his face for signs of deception or hidden agenda. But all she sees is sincerity, patience, and something that might be hope.

She's not quite sure she believes him—years of experience have taught her to be suspicious of men who claim to want nothing from her. But for the first time in her life, she finds herself cautiously open to the possibility that someone might actually want to know her without expecting anything in return.

"Okay," she says quietly, the word feeling like a leap of faith. "Friends."

"Friends," he agrees, his smile warm and genuine as the light turns green and they drive deeper into the Madrid night.

The restaurant he takes her to is another hidden gem—a family-owned Turkish place tucked into a narrow street in the Lavapiés neighborhood. The owner greets Aurélien like an old friend, speaking rapid Spanish mixed with what sounds like Turkish, clearly delighted to see him.

"You come here often?" Jiana asks as they settle into a corner booth.

"When I want good food without paparazzi," he says simply. "Mehmet makes the best kebabs in Madrid, and he doesn't care about football."

The food is incredible—perfectly spiced lamb, fresh bread that's still warm from the oven, and vegetables that taste like they were picked that morning. They fall into easy conversation about everything and nothing—her adjustment to Madrid, his experiences playing in different countries, their shared love of good food.

"I like that you're tall," Jiana says suddenly, then immediately looks mortified that the words came out of her mouth. "I mean—shit—that sounded weird."

Aurélien laughs, clearly delighted by her embarrassment. "You like that I'm tall?"

"Forget I said anything," she mutters, taking a large bite of her food to avoid having to elaborate.

"No, no, this is interesting," he grins. "You like tall men?"

"I like that you're actually tall," she clarifies, her face heating up. "Like, really six-three. Most guys lie about their height."

"Six-three and a half, actually," he says with mock seriousness. "Very important distinction."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes, but she's fighting a smile.

"My younger brother is taller," Aurélien says casually. "Almost six-five. Yannis. He plays basketball too."

"Really?" Jiana perks up immediately, her competitive instincts kicking in. "Where?"

"High school in the States. Boarding school in North Carolina. He wants to go pro."

"Do you miss him?" she asks, something in his voice suggesting this is a sensitive topic.

Aurélien nods, his expression becoming more serious. "Yeah, but it's the best option for him. American high school basketball is different—better competition, better exposure. If he wants to make it to the NBA, that's where he needs to be."

"That's rough though," Jiana says softly. "Being that far from family."

"It is," he admits. "But Yannis is determined. Has been since he was little. Used to drive me crazy, always wanting to play one-on-one in the backyard."

"So if you like basketball and your brother plays, do you play?" she asks, genuinely curious.

Aurélien shrugs with false modesty. "I'm not no Steph Curry, but I can ball."

"Oh, you can ball?" Jiana teases, leaning back in her seat with a skeptical expression. "That's what we're calling it?"

Without warning, Aurélien stands up and strikes the perfect Kobe Bryant pose—tongue out, shooting form impeccable, complete with the follow-through. He balls up his napkin and takes a shot at the garbage can across the restaurant.

The napkin arcs perfectly through the air and lands dead center in the trash.

"Kobe!" he calls out, grinning widely as he sits back down.

Jiana stares at him, genuinely impressed despite herself. "Okay, that was actually kind of smooth."

"Kind of?"

"Don't let it go to your head," she warns, but she's smiling now. "I thought you said free throws weren't your thing?"

He shrugs, that same casual confidence that seems to come naturally to him. "I said I probably couldn't make one to save my life. Didn't say I couldn't do a little something."

The competitive fire that's always simmering just below the surface immediately flares to life. "We should play one-on-one sometime," she says, leaning forward slightly. "See if you can actually ball or if that was just luck."

"I'm down," he says immediately. "I know a place with a nice court. Indoor, good lighting, we can rent it out in the afternoon."

"Okay, cool," she says, then catches his expression. "What?"

"'Okay, cool,'" he repeats in an exaggerated American accent. "You're very California."

"Shut up," she laughs, throwing her balled-up napkin at him. "Like you don't say weird French shit all the time."

"My French is sophisticated," he says with mock dignity. "Your slang is... regional."

"Regional," she scoffs. "Says the man who just yelled 'Kobe' in a Turkish restaurant."

After dinner, they walk through the winding streets of Lavapiés, the neighborhood alive with late-night energy. Street musicians play on corners, people spill out of bars and cafés, and the warm air carries the scent of a dozen different cuisines.

"Gelato?" Aurélien suggests, pointing to a small shop with a line of locals waiting outside. "Best in the city."

"You know all the best spots," Jiana observes as they join the queue.

"Part of living here for three years," he says. "You learn where to find the good stuff."

The gelato is perfect—she gets stracciatella while he opts for pistachio, and they eat while wandering through the Plaza de Lavapiés, the ancient fountain in the center lit up against the night sky.

"This is nice," Jiana admits, surprising herself with the honesty. "I don't usually do... this."

"What, eat gelato?"

"Hang out," she clarifies. "With people. Especially men."

"I'm honored to be the exception," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes her look at him sideways.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she warns, but there's no heat in it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grins, and somehow she believes him.

As they walk back toward his car, Jiana finds herself thinking that she's been wrong about men like Aurélien. Maybe some people really can offer friendship without expecting anything in return. Maybe some connections don't have to end in disappointment or betrayal.

Maybe, for the first time in her life, she's found someone who might actually be worth the risk of trusting.

The Colorado mountains stretched endlessly in front of me as I sat on the deck of our family cabin, my legs propped up on the railing, watching Larke attempt to teach Brutus and Maximus some elaborate trick through the holographic pet training app she'd downloaded. The dogs were old now - Roscoe's boys - but they still had that stubborn Hamilton streak that ran through everything in our family, including the four-legged members.

"Lyric, tell your sister that dogs can't learn quantum physics," Mama called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that amused exasperation she'd perfected over twenty-one years of dealing with us Hamilton kids.

"Larke, the dogs said they're more of a classical mechanics family!" I shouted back, earning myself a middle finger from my little sister.

Real mature, sis.

"They're smarter than you think!" she yelled back, but Brutus had already given up and was sprawling in a patch of sunlight, completely unbothered by her academic ambitions for him.

This was our thing - winter break at the Colorado cabin before the chaos of the new racing season kicked into gear. Pops had bought this place years ago when I was still karting, back when Larke was just a baby who cried through most of his races on TV. Now here we were, me at twenty-one and working as her race engineer, her at eighteen and already making history every time she got behind the wheel.

Wild how life works out.

My phone buzzed with a text from Laura - L'waura in my contacts because I'm apparently still five years old at heart and it never fails to get an eye roll out of her when she sees it.

L'waura 💕: Miss you already. Stockholm is gray and depressing without your stupid jokes.

Me: My jokes aren't stupid, they're sophisticated comedy that you're too Swedish to understand

L'waura 💕: I'm literally Danish-British you absolute muppet

Me: Tomato, tomahto. Still love you though

L'waura 💕: Unfortunately I love you too. Say hi to your family for me

"Yo, Abel!" I called out as I spotted him emerging from the guest room, looking like he'd just woken up from the best sleep of his life. "Laura says hi to everyone, including your ugly mug!"

"Your girlfriend has excellent taste," Abel grinned, dapping me up with that elaborate handshake we'd developed over the past few months. Kid had grown on me, I'll admit it. Plus, anyone who could keep up with Larke's intensity deserved respect.

"She really does. That's why she's dating me and not you."

"Mate, I'm spoken for," Abel laughed, nodding toward where Larke was now trying to convince Maximus to participate in her holographic training session. "Besides, your sister would murder me if I even looked at another girl."

"True. She's got that Hamilton protective streak. Very possessive."

Pops emerged from the house carrying three cups of coffee, settling into the chair next to me with that contented sigh he always did when we were all together like this. At fifty-eight, he still moved like the athlete he'd always been, but there was something softer about him now. Less of that razor-sharp intensity that had defined his racing years, more of the man who'd taught me how to ride a bike and fix engines and treat people with respect no matter who they were.

"Morning, boys," he said, handing Abel a cup. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead, sir. This altitude is no joke."

"Stop calling him sir," I laughed. "You're practically family now. He's just Pops. Or Lewis if you're feeling fancy."

"I'm still getting used to it," Abel admitted. "Six months ago I was watching him on TV, now I'm drinking coffee with him in Colorado."

"Six months ago I was convinced you were going to break my daughter's heart and I'd have to end your football career," Pops said casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

"And now?"

"Now I'm only mostly convinced."

"Lewis!" Mama's voice carried from the kitchen.

"What? I'm being nice!"

Abel looked between us, clearly not sure if Pops was joking or not. I decided to help him out.

"He's messing with you, mate. If he actually thought you were going to hurt Larke, you wouldn't be here. Trust me."

"Plus," Pops added with a grin, "Lyric's the one you should really worry about. He's got that protective big brother energy."

"Please. I'm a lover, not a fighter," I protested. "Though I am six feet tall now and I've been working out, so..."

"You bench pressed the bar yesterday," Abel pointed out. "Just the bar."

"Hey! That bar was heavier than it looked!"

Rude but accurate.

________

That night, after dinner and way too much wine (for the adults) and hot chocolate (for those of us who were apparently still children according to Mama), Pops suggested we take a walk around the property. It was one of those clear Colorado nights where you could see every star, the kind of sky that made you feel small and infinite at the same time.

"So," Pops said as we walked, our breath visible in the cold air. "How are you boys feeling about the new season?"

"Excited," I said immediately. "The car's looking incredible, Larke's driving better than ever, and I think we've got a real shot at the championship."

"Nervous," Abel added. "Not about the racing, but about the attention. Larke's getting more famous by the day, and football's ramping up too. It's a lot to navigate."

"The attention never gets easier," Pops said thoughtfully. "But you learn to manage it. Focus on what matters, ignore the noise, and remember that most people are just trying to live their lives and don't actually care about your personal business."

"Most people," I emphasized. "The rest are complete psychopaths who analyze your grocery receipts."

"Lyric's not wrong," Pops laughed. "But here's the thing - you two are building something real together. That's rare in this world. Don't let other people's opinions mess with that."

"Any specific advice?" Abel asked.

"Communicate. Like, constantly. About everything. Schedule, priorities, fears, dreams, all of it." Pops looked at both of us. "And remember that you're both young and figuring things out. There's no rush to have everything perfect right away."

"What about the long-distance stuff?" I asked, thinking about Laura in Stockholm and how hard it was sometimes.

"Make the time you have together count. And when you're apart, be present in your own life instead of just waiting for the next time you'll see each other."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the night air and the kind of conversation that only happened when it was just the guys.

"Can I ask you something?" Abel said eventually.

"Shoot."

"How do you deal with people constantly comparing you to your father? Both of you?"

Ah. There it was. The question everyone was always too polite to ask directly.

"Honestly?" I said. "Some days it's motivating, some days it's exhausting. But mostly I just try to remember that I'm not trying to be Lewis Hamilton. I'm trying to be the best version of Lyric Hamilton."

"Same," I continued. "Like, Larke's not trying to replicate Pops' career. She's building her own legacy. And you're not trying to be anyone else either - you're just Abel, who happens to be really good at football and really good for my sister."

"Plus," Pops added, "people are going to have opinions no matter what you do. Might as well do what makes you happy and let them talk."

"Wise words from the old man," I grinned.

"Old man? Son, I can still outrun you."

"In your dreams, Pops."

"Want to test that theory?"

"Right now? In the snow? At ten thousand feet altitude?"

"Scared?"

Oh, it was on.

What followed was the most ridiculous sprint race in Hamilton family history - three generations of competitive stubbornness playing out on a snowy mountain path, with Abel recording everything because he said it was "content gold."

Pops won, obviously, because genetics are unfair and he's still in better shape than people half his age. But I came in a respectable second, and Abel... well, Abel learned that footballers aren't necessarily built for high-altitude sprinting.

"I'm dying," he gasped, bent over with his hands on his knees.

"You're fine," Larke said, appearing from nowhere with a cup of hot chocolate. "Though you do look like you're about to pass out."

"Your family is insane," he told her.

"You're just figuring this out now?"

_______________________________________________

The view from our family's São Paulo home on a hill was absolutely insane on New Year's Eve - the entire city sprawling out below us, fireworks already starting to pop off even though it was only nine p.m. Brazil always felt like home in a way that was hard to explain, probably because Pops, Larke, and I all had dual citizenship and had been coming here since we were kids.

"Lyric, vem cá!" called Isabela, our housekeeper who'd been with the family for like fifteen years. "Your hair needs work before the party!"

Yes. Isabela gave the best braids, and I'd been growing my hair out specifically for this trip. There was something about having her do my hair that felt like a tradition - she'd been braiding it since I was little, always adding these intricate patterns that somehow looked both classic and fresh.

I settled into the chair she'd set up on the balcony, the warm Brazilian air a perfect contrast to the Colorado cold we'd left behind.

"You're getting handsome like your pai," she said in her mix of Portuguese and English, starting to section my hair. "But you need to eat more. Too skinny."

"I eat plenty, Isa."

"McDonald's is not eating."

"I don't eat McDonald's!"

"Hmm." She clearly didn't believe me, but her hands were gentle as she worked. "Your namorada, she's coming tonight?"

"Laura's in Stockholm still, but she'll FaceTime in for midnight."

"Good girl, that one. Smart. Pretty. You keep her."

Planning on it.

As she worked, I could hear the chaos inside - Larke and Abel attempting to salsa with Uncle Franco and Aunt Aaliyah, who were trying to teach them the steps they'd learned on their honeymoon. Abel was... not good at it. Like, genuinely terrible. But he was trying, which earned him points.

"Meu Deus, your boyfriend has no rhythm," I heard Aaliyah laugh from inside.

"He's English!" Larke protested. "What did you expect?"

"Hey!" Abel's voice carried through the doors. "I have rhythm! Just... not for this!"

Franco was dying laughing, which wasn't helping the lesson at all. Their kids - my cousins Maria and Gabriel - were recording everything, probably for TikTok.

"Done," Isabela announced, holding up a mirror so I could see the back. The braids were perfect - neat, intricate, with a geometric pattern that somehow made me look older and more put-together.

"Isa, você é incrível," I said, giving her a hug.

"Of course I am. Now go take pictures so your followers can see my work."

She wasn't wrong. I pulled out my phone and took a few shots - one serious, one grinning, one with the São Paulo skyline in the background. Posted them to Instagram with the caption:

liked by f1, mclaren, and 200K others

lyrichamilton: NYE ready thanks to the best braider in Brazil 🇧🇷 Obrigado Isa! ❤️

The comments started rolling in immediately:

BRO YOU LOOK SO GOOD those braids are PERFECT you and your dad could be twins I swear daddy Lewis raised you right 😍 sir you are FINE Lewis Hamilton's genetics are undefeated both Hamilton men can GET IT

Ugh, gross. Some of these comments about Pops were just weird. Like, I get that he's objectively handsome and all, but these people needed to chill.

lyrichamilton replied with: y'all are nasty talking about my dad like that. He's literally married to my mother. Get help.

"What are you frowning at?" Larke asked, appearing on the balcony looking slightly disheveled from her dance lesson.

"People being thirsty on Instagram. As usual."

"About you or about Pops?"

"Both. It's disgusting."

She looked at my phone and made a face. "Ew. Block them."

"I can't block everyone. There'd be no one left."

"Fair point. Come inside, Uncle Franco's trying to teach Abel how to dip me and it's going very badly."

This I had to see.

Inside, the living room had been turned into an impromptu dance floor. Mama and Pops were actually pretty good at salsa - they'd learned years ago for some charity event and apparently still remembered the steps. Uncle Franco and Aunt Aaliyah were pure poetry together, moving like they'd been dancing their whole lives.

And then there was Abel, who was holding Larke like she might break while simultaneously looking like he was about to trip over his own feet.

"Mate, you're thinking too much," Franco called out. "Just feel the music!"

"I am feeling the music! The music is telling me I can't dance!"

"Here," I said, stepping in. "Let me show you. Larke, dance with your actually coordinated brother."

What followed was me giving Abel a crash course in basic salsa while dancing with my sister, who was trying not to laugh at both of us. I wasn't amazing at it either, but I had rhythm and I'd been forced to take dance lessons when I was younger (thanks, Mama).

"See? It's all about the hips," I demonstrated, earning wolf whistles from our cousins.

"Your hips lie though," Maria called out, recording everything.

"My hips tell beautiful stories, thank you very much."

By the time we switched partners back, Abel was at least not actively dangerous to dance with. Progress.

"Better?" I asked him.

"I didn't step on her feet that time, so yeah."

"Small victories."

As midnight approached, we all gathered on the terrace with champagne (sparkling cider for me and the cousins) and phones ready for the countdown. Laura's hologram was projected in the center of our group, and even though she was five hours ahead in Stockholm, she'd stayed up to celebrate with us.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!" we all shouted together, the fireworks from Copacabana visible in the distance.

"Seven! Six! Five!"

"Four! Three! Two!"

"FELIZ ANO NOVO!"

The sky exploded with color, and everyone was hugging and kissing and shouting. Larke and Abel had their New Year's kiss, Mama and Pops had theirs, and I blew a kiss to Laura's projection while she laughed at me from her Stockholm apartment.

"I love you all!" Larke shouted over the noise.

"We love you too!" everyone shouted back.

Looking around at our family - blood and chosen, present and projected - scattered across Brazil and Sweden but somehow all together, I felt that familiar surge of gratitude.

Tomorrow we'd start gearing up for another season of racing, another year of chasing dreams and managing pressure and living in the public eye. But tonight, we were just us. The Hamilton family, plus one South African footballer who still couldn't salsa, one Danish-British artist beaming in from across the world, and enough love to power this entire city.

"Ready for 2043?" Pops asked, raising his glass.

"Bring it on," Larke said confidently.

"Let's make it legendary," I added.

Yeah, definitely worth it.

The 2043 Formula 1 season had been nothing short of spectacular for Larke. Starting with her victory in Bahrain - where she'd controlled the race from pole position and reminded everyone why the Hamilton name meant excellence in motorsport - she'd gone on a tear that had the entire paddock talking.

Australia came next, another commanding performance where she'd managed the challenging street circuit with the kind of precision that made veteran drivers shake their heads in admiration. By the time we reached the third race, the media was already throwing around words like "dominance" and "historic."

Saudi Arabia was a night race, which meant everything felt slightly surreal - the neon lights, the late start time, the way the entire paddock seemed to be running on caffeine and adrenaline. Larke qualified second behind Kenzo Craigie, which was frustrating but not devastating. Sometimes you had to settle for a front-row start and trust that race pace would make the difference.

Laura had flown in from Stockholm, which was a surprise and also the best possible way to start the weekend. She looked tired from the travel but happy to be there, wearing one of my McLaren shirts and a pair of sunglasses that made her look like she belonged in the paddock.

"Shouldn't you be studying for finals?" I asked when I found her in the garage before practice sessions.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on your sister's car instead of questioning my academic priorities?"

Fair point.

"Besides," she continued, "I wanted to see you work. And Larke asked me to come."

"Larke asked you to come?"

"She said she needed another woman around who understood what it was like to date someone in this world. Apparently I'm now the relationship expert in your family."

Interesting. Things with Abel must have been more complicated than Larke was letting on.

The race itself was a thriller - Larke and Kenzo battling for the lead, wheel-to-wheel racing that had the entire paddock on their feet. In the end, she finished second, which was a great result but I could tell she was frustrated by the missed opportunity.

"Good drive," I told her over the radio as she crossed the finish line.

"Not good enough," came her reply, clipped and professional but I could hear the disappointment.

Later, in the garage while the media circus was happening outside, I found her sitting in her driver's room looking frustrated.

"Want to talk about it?"

"He made a mistake in sector two and I couldn't capitalize on it. Should have been my win."

Racing was cruel that way - sometimes perfect wasn't good enough.

"You drove brilliantly. Sometimes the other guy is just slightly better on the day."

"I hate losing to Kenzo."

This was new - Larke usually had good relationships with the other drivers, but there was something different in her voice when she talked about Kenzo Craigie. Something more personal than professional rivalry.

"Why?"

"Because he's cocky and he thinks he's entitled to everything because he's daddy's protégé and he acts like I only got my seat because of who our father is."

Ah. So it was like that.

"Have you talked to Pops about this?"

"What's he going to do? Tell Kenzo to be nicer to me? That would just prove Kenzo's point about me needing daddy to fight my battles."

She had a point there. The last thing Larke needed was for people to think she couldn't handle her own racing rivalries.

"You know what the best revenge is, right?"

"Beating him on track."

"Exactly. And you will. You're eighteen and already giving him trouble. He's thirty-three and supposed to be in his prime. Time is on your side."

She nodded, looking more determined than frustrated now. "You're right. Besides, Abel's flying in tomorrow and I want to actually enjoy having him here instead of being grumpy about finishing second."

There it was again - the mention of Abel with that slightly complicated expression.

"How are things with you two?"

"Better. We had a really good conversation after our fight. About priorities and communication and what we both need." She picked at her nail polish. "He's been trying really hard to understand the racing schedule, and I'm trying to be better about making time for us even when everything's crazy."

"That's good. Relationships take work, especially in this world."

"Speaking of relationships, Laura's been giving me advice about dealing with long distance. She's smart about this stuff."

Laura was smart about most things.

"Yeah, she is. Also probably good to have someone to talk to who gets it."

"Definitely. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only girl in the world trying to balance being a professional race car driver with having a normal relationship. But Laura makes it seem possible."

If anyone could make it work, it was Larke. She was stubborn enough to have both.

lyrichamilton posted on his instagram!

liked by larke_hamilton, lauraaaaaa, f1, mclaren, and 1.3M others

lyrichamilton: Still the fucking best driver! P2 in Saudi Arabia but we clinched in the WDC! #WeMove #NeverDoubtTheOrange #McLaren4L tagged; larke_hamilton, mclaren, f1

view all comments...

lauraaaaaa: go larke the shark!!

⤷ lyrichamilton: luv u l'waura 😘

⤷ lauraaaaaa: 🙄🙄🙄 - love you more! 💋

f1: 👏👏👏👏

mclaren: you got this larke_hamilton! next week we got the dub! 💪🧡

random_girl1001: your so fine!

⤷ thirstyhoe11: isn't he? looking like his equally fine af daddy

⤷ lyrichamilton: yall this is a wendy's....and we trying to support lil sis. off with that pls 😒

Larke was changing the sport itself. Every race weekend brought more young girls to the barriers, wearing #44 merchandise and carrying signs with messages like "Future Female Champion" and "Larke is my hero." It was the kind of thing that made Pops emotional.

The marketing team couldn't keep up with demand for her gear. Larke wasn't just racing - she was inspiring a revolution.

By the time we reached Miami, she was leading the championship by sixty points and showing no signs of slowing down. Three wins in the first five races, and each victory more dominant than the last.

Larke was somewhere in the middle of the popup store she had for her latest merch, taking pictures and signing autographs and being gracious to every single person who'd waited hours to meet her. She was in her element - confident and charming and completely natural with fans in a way that reminded me so much of Pops during his prime.

"She's a natural at this," Laura observed. She'd flown in for the Miami race weekend and was documenting everything for her summer art project about sports celebrity and fan culture.

"Takes after the old man," I said. "Though I think she might actually be better at it than he was at her age."

"Different generation. She grew up with social media and constant attention. You both did."

True. Pops had had to learn how to handle fame; Larke and I had been born into it. Sometimes I wondered if that made us better at managing it or if it just made us think we were better at it than we actually were.

My phone buzzed with a notification - someone had tagged me in a video of Larke signing a little girl's race suit. The girl couldn't have been more than eight, and she was wearing a full McLaren outfit that was clearly several sizes too big for her. Larke had gotten down on her level to talk to her, and you could see the exact moment the little girl realized she was meeting her hero.

Jesus, that was going to make me emotional.

"You okay?" Laura asked, noticing my expression.

"Just proud of her. Look at this." I showed her the video, which already had thousands of likes and comments.

making dreams come true this is why we love you future world champion and class act

"She's going to change everything, isn't she?" Laura said quietly.

"Yeah, I think she is."

The popup was scheduled to run until an hour before qualifying, but we had to shut it down early because the crowds were getting too big for the security team to handle safely. Not a bad problem to have, but definitely a learning experience for future events.

"Next time we're renting out a stadium," Pops joked when we finally made it back to the garage.

"Next time you're hiring more security," Mama corrected. "I aged ten years watching those crowds."

Larke looked tired but happy, still signing the occasional autograph for VIP guests and team members who'd missed the popup. She had that glow that came from doing something you loved and being appreciated for it.

"How do you feel?" I asked her.

"Like I just ran a marathon, but in the best way. Did you see how many kids were out there?"

"I saw. You're inspiring a whole generation of future drivers."

"That's the goal," she said simply. "If I can make it easier for the girls coming after me, then everything else is worth it."

This was why she was going to be special - not just the talent, but the understanding of what her success meant for other people.

Qualifying was later that afternoon, and Larke put the car on pole by three tenths of a second. The popup had been great, but this was what really mattered - showing up when it counted and proving that all the attention was deserved.

"Pole position in Miami," I said into my headset as she crossed the line. "That's how you shut up the doubters."

"Just getting started," came her reply, confident and focused.

God, I loved working with her.

___________________________________________

The basketball court they'd set up near the Miami paddock was supposed to be a fun promotional event - just Pops and me playing some one-on-one to hype up the Grand Prix weekend. What it turned into was me absolutely roasting my father in front of a crowd of fans and media while pretending I wasn't trying to impress the group of girls who'd somehow gotten VIP access to watch.

"You sure you want to do this, old man?" I called out, dribbling the ball between my legs in what I thought was a pretty slick move. "I've grown like six inches since the last time we played."

"Old man?" Pops laughed, stretching his arms above his head. Even at fifty-eight, he was in ridiculous shape - all lean muscle and quick reflexes, his tattoos catching the Miami sun as he moved. "Son, I was playing basketball before you were even a thought."

The speakers were pumping music to keep the crowd hyped, and when a Notorious B.I.G. track came on, I couldn't help myself. Started moving to the beat, adding some improvised bars that definitely weren't appropriate for the all-ages crowd but got the girls in the corner absolutely losing their minds.

"LYRIC!" one of them screamed, and I shot them a grin that I'd definitely inherited from my father.

"Are we playing basketball or are you putting on a concert?" Pops asked, but he was trying not to laugh.

"Why not both?" I shot back, still bouncing to the beat. "Gotta give the people what they want, right?"

What followed was twenty minutes of the most competitive father-son basketball you've ever seen. Pops might have been approaching sixty, but he still had those quick hands and that court vision that had made him dangerous in charity games for years. I had height and youth on my side, but he had experience and the kind of trash talk that reminded me where I'd learned it from.

"That's a foul!" I called when he got a little too physical defending.

"That's just good defense!" he shot back. "You're just soft!"

The crowd was eating it up, cheering every basket and laughing at our banter. By the end, we were both dripping sweat and breathing hard, but grinning like idiots.

"Water break?" Pops suggested, and we headed to the sideline where they'd set up chairs and towels.

"Not bad for an old guy," I conceded, accepting a bottle of water.

"Not bad for a string bean," he replied.

We sat there for a few minutes, catching our breath and sharing the vegan lunch they'd brought over - some kind of quinoa bowl that actually tasted decent. The crowd had dispersed a bit, giving us a moment of relative privacy.

"I've been thinking about getting some tattoos," I said casually, watching his reaction.

Pops raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What kind of tattoos?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe something racing-related? Or family stuff?" I shrugged. "Just feels like it's time, you know?"

He looked thoughtful, tracing one of his own tattoos absently. "It's a big decision. They're permanent, obviously."

"Obviously."

"What does Laura think?"

"She said as long as I don't get her name tattooed anywhere, she doesn't care what I do."

That got a laugh. "Smart girl. Never get someone's name unless you're married to them."

"Even then?"

"Even then. Your mama's the exception to every rule."

I rolled my eyes playfully. "You're such a sap."

"Says the kid who posts love poems on Instagram."

Touché.

"So you'd be okay with it? Me getting tattoos?"

"Son, you're twenty-one years old. You don't need my permission to get tattoos." He paused. "But if you want my advice, think about what they mean to you. Don't just get something because it looks cool. Get something that tells your story."

"Like yours do?"

"Like mine do."

Looking at him - sweat-soaked and relaxed, surrounded by the controlled chaos of race weekend but taking time to just be my dad - I felt that familiar surge of gratitude for how normal he'd managed to keep our family despite everything.

"Thanks, Pops."

"For what?"

"For being you. For this." I gestured around us. "For teaching me how to trash talk properly."

"That last one was all natural talent," he grinned. "But you're welcome."

______________________________________________

The Miami Grand Prix was one of those races that reminded you why you fell in love with motorsport in the first place. Larke controlled it from start to finish, managing her tires perfectly and making strategic decisions that had the commentary team comparing her to drivers twice her age.

I was in the garage, monitoring telemetry and radio communications, but I kept finding myself just watching her drive. There was something almost artistic about the way she took certain corners, the way she could find grip where other drivers couldn't, the way she seemed to understand exactly what the car needed at any given moment.

"She's in a class of her own today," Jamie said, shaking his head as he watched her lap times.

"Yeah, she is."

With ten laps to go, she had a fifteen-second lead over second place. Barring mechanical failure or an act of God, the race was hers.

"How are we looking, Lyric?" came her voice over the radio.

"You're absolutely flying. Fifteen seconds clear, tires are good, just bring it home."

"Copy. This one's for everyone who waited in line today."

Of course it was. Larke had this way of making everything personal, of connecting her racing to the bigger picture of what she represented. It was part of what made her special as a driver and as a person.

When she crossed the finish line, the garage erupted. I was screaming into my headset, probably loud enough to damage someone's hearing, but I didn't care. This was my little sister, winning races and making history and being absolutely brilliant at it.

"LARKE HAMILTON WINS THE MIAMI GRAND PRIX!" I shouted.

"YES! YES! YES! Thank you everyone, thank you to all the fans, this is incredible!" came her reply, pure joy and adrenaline in her voice.

Later, watching her on the podium with champagne in her hair and the biggest smile I'd ever seen, I felt that familiar surge of pride and protectiveness. She was eighteen years old and already changing the world, one race at a time.

After the ceremonies, when the media obligations were done and the garage was finally quiet, our family gathered for our traditional post-win dinner. Nothing fancy, just good food and wine and the kind of conversation that reminded you what was really important.

"Four wins in five races," Pops said, raising his glass. "At this rate, you'll clinch the championship before summer break."

"Don't jinx it," Larke laughed, but she looked confident in a way that suggested she might actually believe it was possible.

"To Larke," Mama said. "For driving like a champion and inspiring a generation."

"To family," Larke corrected. "For always believing in me, even when I don't believe in myself."

Yeah, we were pretty lucky.

______________________________________________

The Met Gala was one of those surreal experiences that reminded you how weird your life had become. One day you're covered in motor oil in a McLaren garage, the next you're walking up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo while photographers scream your name.

The theme was "Future Histories," which was perfect for our family - Pops in a vintage Virgil Abloh piece that somehow managed to be both classic and futuristic, Mama in something flowing and beautiful that made her look like a goddess, and Larke in a stunning gown that incorporated racing-inspired elements without being gimmicky.

"I can't believe this is my life," Larke whispered as we posed for photos at the bottom of the steps.

"Better get used to it," I whispered back. "You're only getting more famous."

The actual event was a mix of art, fashion, and networking that felt like the most expensive party in the world. I spent most of the evening talking to other young people who'd grown up in various spotlights - actors' kids, musicians' children, athletes' families - and was reminded that privilege came in many forms but always with its own unique set of complications.

Laura looked incredible in a dress she'd designed herself, something architectural and flowing that perfectly captured her aesthetic. She was in her element talking to artists and designers, and watching her hold her own in conversations with people who'd probably never heard of her was incredibly attractive.

"You clean up nice," I told her during a rare quiet moment.

"You're not so bad yourself. Though I preferred you in the garage clothes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're sexier when you're doing something you're passionate about."

Note to self: wear more McLaren gear around Laura.

The evening ended with our family at the after-party, Larke holding court with a group of young activists and artists who were fascinated by her perspective on sports and social change. She was in her element, talking about representation and inspiration and the responsibility that came with platform.

"She's going to be President someday," Laura observed, watching my sister charm a table full of influential people twice her age.

"Probably. Though I think she prefers racing cars to politics."

"Give her time. She's only eighteen."

True. Who knew what Larke would accomplish once she was done conquering Formula 1.

The Good Morning America studios in Times Square buzzed with the kind of energy that only came with live television. I'd been doing interviews since I was karting as a kid, but this felt different - more formal, more important somehow.

"Five minutes, Lyric," the producer called out, adjusting my mic one final time.

The host today was Janai Norman, who'd taken over the morning show after Robin Roberts finally retired about ten years or so back. She had that perfect morning TV energy - warm but professional, the kind of person who could make anyone feel comfortable on camera.

"So we're talking about the Netflix documentary, your role as Larke's engineer, and growing up Hamilton?" she confirmed, settling into her chair across from me.

"That's the plan. Though knowing me, I'll probably go off on some random tangent about why pineapple belongs on pizza or something."

She laughed. "Please don't. We only have ten minutes."

Fair point.

"So tell us about Life in the Fast Lane," Janai said. "What can viewers expect?"

"It's really about the next generation in Formula 1," I explained. "Kids who grew up in this world, whether their parents were drivers or team principals or engineers. The pressure, the privilege, the way it shapes your perspective on life and career choices."

"Your sister's having an incredible season. As her engineer, what's it like watching her make history?"

"It's surreal," I said honestly. "Like, I remember when she was this tiny kid following me around the garage, asking a million questions about everything. Now she's out there breaking records and inspiring a whole generation of young girls. As her brother, I'm proud as hell. As her engineer, I'm just trying to give her the best car possible so she can keep doing what she does."

"And what she does is pretty spectacular."

"Yeah, it really is."

After the interview, Laura and I met up outside the studio. She looked gorgeous in that effortless way she had - jeans, a blazer, and boots that somehow made her look like she belonged in New York more than anyone else.

"How'd it go?" she asked, falling into step beside me as we headed toward the street.

"Good, I think. Didn't say anything stupid or controversial."

"That's always the goal."

We'd made it maybe half a block when I noticed the crowd forming behind us. Phones were out, people were calling my name, and that familiar surge of adrenaline that came with unexpected attention kicked in.

"LYRIC! Can we get a picture?"

"Oh my god, you're so much taller in person!"

"Is that your girlfriend? She's gorgeous!"

"Laura, right? We love you!"

Here we go.

I grabbed Laura's hand and picked up the pace, smiling and waving but not stopping. This was the balance I'd learned over the years - be gracious but keep moving, acknowledge the fans but don't get trapped.

"Sorry," I called back to the growing crowd. "Late for dinner!"

Which was actually true. We were meeting friends at Carbone in an hour, and knowing that place, being late meant losing your table.

"Is it always like this now?" Laura asked as we finally escaped into a cab.

"Sometimes worse," I admitted. "But also sometimes I can go weeks without anyone recognizing me. It's weird how random it is."

"I don't know how you handle it."

"Practice. And good running shoes."

Carbone was exactly as chaotic and perfect as always. The kind of place where you had to know someone who knew someone to get a table, but the food was worth the hassle. Our group was already there when we arrived - my best friend Marcus, Sophie who worked in fashion, James from my brief stint at NYU, and Elena who was some kind of tech genius and always had the best stories.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Marcus grinned as we slid into the booth. "How was morning television?"

"Exhausting. They make you get up at like five AM for a ten-minute segment."

"The sacrifices you make for fame," Sophie teased. "So tragic."

"I know, right? My life is so hard."

Laura had met this group a couple times when she'd visited New York, but she still seemed a little quiet. I could tell she was trying to figure out the dynamic, which made sense - they were my friends from before her, from the brief period when I'd tried to be a normal college student.

"Laura, tell us about Stockholm," Elena said, clearly sensing the same thing I had. "Are you surviving Swedish winter?"

"Barely," Laura laughed, and I could see her relax a little. "Though my apartment has incredible heating, so I'm mostly just complaining for dramatic effect."

"Very Scandinavian of you," James said. "I spent a semester in Copenhagen and I'm pretty sure I didn't see the sun for three months."

"That's because you never left the library," Marcus pointed out.

"Fair point."

The conversation flowed easily after that - work, travel, relationships, the kind of normal twenty-something stuff that felt precious because of how rare it was in my usual world. Laura fit in perfectly once she relaxed, charming everyone with stories about her art installation and the weird Swedish cultural quirks she was still getting used to.

"So Lyric," Sophie said as we were finishing our pasta, "are you going to tell us about this documentary or do we have to wait for Netflix like peasants?"

"It's actually really cool," I said, trying not to sound like I was doing PR. "They followed a bunch of us around - kids of drivers, team principals, engineers, all sorts of F1 family members. The whole thing about what it's like growing up in this world."

"And you're the star, obviously," Elena grinned.

"Obviously. Though Larke steals every scene she's in, so really I'm just the comic relief."

"That tracks," Marcus said. "Remember freshman year when you tried to explain tire compounds to that girl at the party?"

"Hey, she asked!"

"She asked what you did for fun, not for a physics lecture."

Rude but accurate.

"In my defense," I said, "tire compounds are fascinating when you really think about it."

"This is why I love you," Laura said, kissing my cheek. "Your complete inability to be normal."

"I can be normal!"

"Name one normal thing about your life."

I considered this seriously. "I... put my pants on one leg at a time?"

"Your pants are custom-made by a designer who charges more per garment than most people make in a month."

Damn, she had me there.

"Fine, I'm abnormal. But I'm abnormally charming, so it works out."

As the night wound down and we were getting ready to leave, Marcus pulled me aside.

"She's good for you, man. Laura. Like, really good."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you though? Because you get this look when you talk about her. Like... settled. In a good way."

Settled. I'd never thought about it like that, but Marcus wasn't wrong. Being with Laura felt like finding something I hadn't realized I was looking for.

"Thanks, man. That means a lot."

"Just don't fuck it up by being an idiot."

"I'll do my best."

lyrichamilton posted on his stories 5 hours ago!

Austin was hands down my favorite race weekend of the year, and not just because the racing was always incredible. There was something about Texas that spoke to my soul - maybe because I'd grown up between California, Colorado, and Monaco, but had always been drawn to that whole cowboy aesthetic.

"Finally," I said, pulling my white Stetson out of my suitcase. "Been waiting all season to break this bad boy out."

"You're such a stereotype," Larke laughed from her bed, where she was scrolling through race data on her tablet. "California boy playing dress-up."

"Hey, I spent half my childhood in Colorado. That counts for something."

"Colorado isn't Texas."

"Cowboys are cowboys, sis."

We were driving to the circuit listening to Beyoncé's Cowboy Carter album - a vintage classic from like twenty years ago but still perfect for Austin vibes. When "Texas Hold 'Em" came on, both of us started singing along at full volume.

"This ain't Texas, ain't no hold 'em, so lay your cards down, down, down," we belted out, completely off-key but not caring at all.

"You know that song is literally about how this isn't Texas, right?" Larke pointed out between verses.

"Details," I waved her off. "It's got cowboy energy, that's all that matters."

The paddock was buzzing with pre-race energy, and I could already see the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders setting up for their traditional pre-race performance. That was another Austin tradition I never got tired of - something about the intersection of American sports culture and Formula 1 that just worked.

"You're not seriously going to do the bull riding thing again, are you?" Larke asked as we parked.

"Of course I am! It's tradition!"

"You nearly got thrown off last year."

"Nearly being the operative word. I stayed on."

"For like three seconds."

"Three seconds longer than most people manage on their first try."

True story. The mechanical bull they set up at Austin was no joke, but I'd been practicing. Well, sort of. I'd watched a lot of YouTube videos, which basically made me an expert.

The bull-riding station was set up near the main fan zone, complete with a proper Western-style arena and announcers who took the whole thing way too seriously. I'd signed up earlier in the week, partly because it was fun and partly because the fans loved it when the teams did the local culture stuff.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, "we've got Lyric Hamilton from the McLaren team ready to take on Tornado Tom!"

Tornado Tom. They'd named the mechanical bull. Of course they had.

I adjusted my Stetson, made sure my boots were secure, and climbed onto the bull. The crowd was cheering, phones were out recording everything, and I could see Larke shaking her head in the background while trying not to laugh.

"Eight seconds is the goal!" the operator called out. "You ready?"

"Born ready!"

Famous last words.

The first few seconds were actually manageable - a gentle rocking motion that made me think maybe I'd gotten better at this. Then Tornado Tom decided to remind me who was boss.

What followed was the most undignified thirty seconds of my life. The bull bucked, spun, and generally tried to launch me into orbit while I held on for dear life. The crowd was going absolutely wild, and I could hear my name being chanted from multiple directions.

I lasted exactly six seconds before Tornado Tom finally won and sent me flying onto the padded mats. But I landed on my feet, arms up like I'd just stuck a gymnastics routine, which got an even bigger cheer from the crowd.

"Six seconds!" the announcer proclaimed. "Not bad for a racing engineer!"

"I demand a rematch!" I called out, earning laughs from everyone watching.

"Maybe next year, cowboy!"

As I walked back toward the McLaren hospitality area, tipping my hat to fans along the way, I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline that came from doing something ridiculous in front of a crowd. This was what I loved about Austin - the permission to lean into the showmanship, to be a little extra.

_______________________________________________

The race had been a disaster for Larke - a DNF on lap forty-three when her engine let go in spectacular fashion. Mechanical failures were part of racing, but they always stung, especially when you were leading the championship and every point mattered.

I found her in her driver's room afterward, still in her race suit, staring at her phone with that blank expression she got when she was trying not to show how upset she was.

"Engine failure sucks," I said, settling into the chair across from her. "But that's racing. We'll bounce back next week."

"Yeah," she said quietly, not looking up from her phone.

"Want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps to go through what happened, figure out if there were any warning signs we missed."

"It's not about the race, Ly."

Oh. That explained why she seemed more upset than a DNF usually warranted. Larke was competitive as hell, but she was also practical about the realities of motorsport. This was something else.

"Want to talk about whatever it actually is?"

She was quiet for a long moment, scrolling through what looked like news articles on her phone. Then: "Do you ever feel like you're living someone else's life?"

That was not what I'd been expecting.

"Sometimes," I said carefully. "What do you mean?"

"Like... everyone expects me to be this confident, fearless racing driver who never doubts herself. And most of the time, I am that person. But sometimes I just want to be eighteen and not have the weight of representing all women in motorsport on my shoulders."

Ah. There it was.

The pressure that we all carried but rarely talked about - the expectation to be perfect, to never show weakness, to always be on.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." She finally looked up from her phone. "And then I feel guilty for complaining because I have this incredible life and opportunities that most people can only dream of."

"You're allowed to feel overwhelmed, Larke. You're eighteen years old carrying pressure that would break most adults."

"I know that logically. But..." She trailed off, then suddenly laughed. "God, I sound like such a privileged brat."

"You sound like someone who's human. Which, despite what the internet thinks, you still are."

That got a small smile. "Barely, some days. And....Abel and I are... struggling."

"The long distance?" I asked.

"Everything. The distance, his training schedule, my race calendar. We barely talk anymore, and when we do, it's like we're strangers." My voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"That sucks. Have you talked to him about it?"

"How can I? He's dealing with his injury and getting back to match fitness. The last thing he needs is me complaining about our relationship."

"Larke..." I said, gently. "Relationships are supposed to be a safe space to talk about this stuff. If you can't be honest with Abel about how you're feeling, then what's the point?"

She let out an exhale. "What if talking about it makes it worse? What if he realizes that dating someone who travels nine months out of the year isn't worth it?"

"Then at least you'll know. But hiding how you feel isn't going to fix anything."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the chaos of the paddock muffled by the walls of her driver's room. Outside, I could hear the post-race interviews happening, the usual analysis and speculation that followed every Grand Prix.

"You know what we need?" I said suddenly.

"What?"

"A Disney movie marathon. When's the last time we just sat around and watched Frozen seventeen times in a row?"

She laughed, the first genuine laugh I'd heard from her all day. "We're not children anymore, Ly."

"Speak for yourself. I maintain that Frozen is a cinematic masterpiece with universal appeal."

"You cried during 'Let It Go' last time we watched it."

"It's an emotional song! Elsa's embracing her true self despite societal pressure to conform! It's basically a metaphor for your entire career!"

"Oh my God, you're right," she said, laughing harder now. "I'm Elsa and motorsport is my ice powers."

"Exactly. And I'm obviously Anna because I'm loyal and charming and have excellent hair."

"You're Anna because you're goofy and talk too much."

"Hey!"

"But also loyal and charming," she added. "Fine. Disney marathon tonight?"

"Disney marathon tonight. But we're watching it at the hotel because if the McLaren social media team finds out we're having feelings, they'll want to film it for content."

"Deal. But I get to pick the movies."

"As long as one of them is Frozen."

"Obviously."

Later that night, we were sprawled across the oversized hotel room couch with room service snacks and a carefully curated Disney playlist. Larke had changed into sweatpants and one of my old hoodies, looking more like a regular teenager than a Formula 1 driver for the first time all weekend.

"You know," she said during the opening credits of Moana, "this is exactly what I needed."

"Disney movies?"

"This. Just being normal for a few hours. Not having to think about championship points or media obligations or what my success means for the future of women in motorsport."

"You can take breaks from being a symbol, you know. You're allowed to just be Larke sometimes."

"I'm working on it," she said. "It's just hard when everyone's watching all the time."

"Well, I'm always watching too," I said. "But not as your engineer or as Lewis Hamilton's son. Just as your annoying big brother who thinks you're pretty cool."

"Just pretty cool?"

"Fine, extremely cool. But don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," she grinned, settling back into the couch cushions.

As the familiar opening notes of "How Far I'll Go" filled the room, I thought about what Laura had said earlier about life in the fast lane. Yeah, we lived at a different speed than most people, with more pressure and scrutiny and opportunity than any twenty-somethings probably deserved.

But moments like this - just me and my sister, eating overpriced hotel room service and singing along to Disney songs - reminded me that underneath all the chaos, we were still just family. Still the Hamilton kids who'd grown up watching animated movies and dreaming about the future.

"Thanks, Ly," Larke said softly as Moana set sail for the first time.

"For what?"

"For reminding me that it's okay to not be perfect all the time."

"Always, sis. That's what annoying big brothers are for."

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lyrichamilton: thank u texas for always showing out n showing love. see y'all next time! 🐴

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⤷ lyrichamilton: pops.....lmfao 😭

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