Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
A/N: shoutout to the person who sent that ask and got me out of the grave lmao.
WC: idk I wrote this on my phone
Warnings: suggestive content
“Doctora, you’re the most heartless person I’ve ever seen. Everyone else is biting their nails and pulling their hair from their head, while you sit there and scroll through tiktok! At least sweet or show some nerves for your boyfriend on the field!”
You look up from your phone at Fermin, an uninhabited ball of nerves bouncing in the stands. He sat to your left as part of Gavi’s row, an extension of the frantic energy from his parents and sister.
“First of all, it is half time. I’m just waiting for BTS to come out. Second of all, my boyfriend isn’t even on the field — my bald nemesis has him benched again for some unknown reason. Finally, and most importantly, I already told you we’re going to win. What’s the use of panicking?”
Fermin lets out another exasperated sign and goes back to nervously picking his lip. That first part was true, and also the only reason you could hear Fermin at all. The stadium had been roaring since the gates had opened, chants and songs filling the air with passionate Spanish. That second part was also true. Gavi had seen few minutes since the knockouts began, and your existing frustration with the team’s head coach only grew further. Any medical professional in their right mind would have a burning vendetta against Luis De La Fuentes after what he did to Pedri, Gavi, and Lamine. But if that hairless man is able to bring home a World Cup for Spain? You may have to go just a tad easier on him. It was that third point that you had to insert some added confidence into. Spain were the dominant team, but as the clock ticked away the threat of Argentina’s last minute Remontada grew. There is no predictability in football at this level, let alone when Lionel Messi is on the pitch.
But there was something different about this team — your team — which calmed your nerves. You had seen so many of these boys in your office during their toughest moments, batting injury and mental uncertainty. Now I. The New Jersey sun they looked deadly, ready to leave their souls on the pitch to secure a second star. Your heart raced thinking of what this would mean for your team, your country, the love of your life. After everything he had been through, missing the Euros and so much time at Barca, the world championship would be the ultimate reward.
Gavi was doing much worse in the dressing room. The instructions from coaching staff and other players collided in his brain, mashing into a cacophony of painful gibberish. He wanted to be out there on the field, contributing to this final effort. But his leg bounced with anxiety he had rarely ever felt. This was different than his last World Cup, where the team fell at the first hurdle. This was it: glory or heartbreak. They were facing an opponent who had demonstrated the grit needed to win just four years prior, and now he prayed that his team would find the same drive.
As usual, his thoughts wandered to you. He knew vaguely where you were seated, knee to knee with his sister and parents and friends from home. He knew his name was on your back, a striking number 9 against the burning red. He wondered if you were doing better than he was. If you were laughing and taking photos and just enjoying a day at the stadium, repeating your famous catch phrase.
“Your worst day at work is you losing. My worst day at work is someone dying. This is nothing.”
The thought was the only thing that could bring the ghost of a smile to his lips. The two of you had bickered about this so many times before. That the feeling of losing may as well be the feeling of dying, just to wake up the following day and feel the crushing disappointment of millions based on your disappointment. Maybe he was glad that he was seated on the bench, because as the whistle blew to commence the second half, he registered nothing except the slap on the shoulder from Aymeric that told him it was time to move.
The second half commenced similar to the first, with moments of fear, frustration, and relief at a turned over ball.
“We have to win this.” You muttered to yourself. “Argentina is relying on Messi and the ghost of Maradona. There’s no comparison come on.” And almost as soon as the thought left your lips, Cubarsi was airborne. You were on your feet, fighting the natural instinct to run and check on his head after hitting the ground with such an impact. As the ringing in your ears cleared you finally registered Fermin’s death grip on your bicep.
“TEN MEN. ARGENTINA DOWN TO TEN. WERE GONNA WIN THE CUP!”
Your head snapped to the screen, a massive red card displayed next to Fernandez’s name. Your heart began to race, the magnitude of the referee’s decision fully sinking in.
“It’s going to be like 2010.” You say, more to yourself than anyone else.
“What?” Fermin yells back, the roar of the crowd beyond deafening from both fanbases in anger and elation.
“It’s going to be the same script as 2010. One incredible goal in overtime to secure our second star. If we let it get to penalties, Argentina will take it. Trust me.”
Gavi could hear nothing beyond the blood rushing in his ears. Had he been on the field, Enzo would be in a similar position to Cubarsi, but face first with a boot to the head. The man advantage was good, but they needed to score. The eyes of his coach never drifted in his direction, but the nerves swelled with the realization that extra time could mean minutes for him in this final. As the clock marched on, he began chanting to himself.
“We can’t go to penalties. We can’t go to penalties. Please score brothers we can’t go to penalties.”
He looked like a man possessed, and had the teammates around him had a single ounce of brain power to spare, it might have caused some fear. But like Gavi they were all on the edge of their seat, watching the history of their childhood repeat itself. Spain once again in the final, fighting in overtime to claim the title. He watched Pedri move with the spirit of Inesta a decade before, creating poetic plays in the midst of the chaos surrounding. His eyes flitted back and forth between his own team and Lionel, the god, the Goliath, the man that could rip this all away from them in a second.
But then it came. Tiki taka down the field. Nico battling tooth and nail for that possession. Then Ferran’s strike which seemed to move in slow motion. The ball floated, as if with all the time in the world, easily past the padded fingers of the goalie and nestled itself in the back of the net.
An explosion of sound and movement his Gavi before his brain could catch up. He was sprinting down the field to the corner of the pitch, meeting his Blaugrana brothers and embracing them as if they had just put the world in his hands — because in a way they did. They had one foot on the top step, with just ten minutes to hold back the incoming onslaught.
In the stands, you leapt from your seat as if set on fire. You screamed at the top of your lungs, hands grabbing you from every direction to celebrate the first and most lethal goal of the game. As you jumped and screamed, spots began to form on your vision, and suddenly your head felt too light. You stumbled and ungracefully plopped back into your seat, head swimming.
“Doctora are you okay?”
A feminine voice asked you, although you were unable to place the source in your state. As you blinked the silver specs from your eyes and took a deep breath, you looked at the concerned faces around you. With a wave of your hand, you laughed off the concern.
“I think I got so excited I almost fainted. But I’m okay — let’s worry about the end of this game.”
“Okay, but if you start swaying at full time,” Fermin began with a wary look, “Tell Gavi it was a medical necessity to touch you and prevent you from collapsing to the floor.”
Your laugh was breathless, but the thought hit you like a freight train. Gavi was almost there. He was sitting on the bench, waiting for the 4 minutes of added time to trickle away. He was going to have his moment and you would be there to celebrate alongside him.
After 124 minutes of grueling football, the referee sounded the final whistle, and your vision was a blurry mess of tears and red. You flew from your seat down the steps, making your way to the entrance for friends and family to celebrate.
Gavi was in the air the second the whistle touched the lips of the referee. He sprinted in ways he never thought he could with such a busted ACL and embraced the team who had been with him through it all. They had done it. Champions of the world all before he turned 23. He jumped on the shoulders of his teammates, running into the arms of anyone around. He kissed Ferran and Pedri on the head, their efforts in this World Cup and in his life absolutely monumental. As the screaming died down and he began to converse with the team, expletives caught his attention. One of his teammates was in a standoff with an Argentine player, and while he had decided to stay out of verbal altercations, this one had turned physical. As soon as he saw the kick Gavi began sprinting over.
You were near the edge of the field being patted on the back and congratulated by everyone in a 10 meter radius. You were on cloud 9, absolutely beaming. ‘Dr. And Mr. World Cup winners’ had a nice ring to it (not that you were thinking of marrying Gavi at this moment. Ofc not don’t be silly). Your gaze turned back to the field to see Gavi celebrating with his brothers in uniform, then suddenly running off. Before you could process what was happening your eyes widened and your breath caught. Gavi was being punched in the face.
There were many thoughts going through Gavi’s head as he went from standing to laid flat on his ass. Confusion, rage, but most of all: that his girlfriend was going to rip someone limb from limb if he got hurt. As he got his bearings and was pulled up from the floor, a sudden commotion on the sidelines caught the attention of all the players previously brawling.
“Gavi is that your mom? She’s yelling your name and the security can barely hold her back.”
“Worse. My physiotherapist. And also my girlfriend. She’s… a bit sensitive about my injuries.”
“Then let’s get you away from the fighting so we can all live to celebrate this cup.”
~~
The trophy presentation passed in a beautiful blur of red and gold. It made your heart twinge, watching Gavi cross that stage, medal around his neck and Andalusia’s flag slung low on his hips. As he lifted the trophy above his head, it finally sunk in how far the both of you had come. From stumbling awkwardness, petty fights, and tiptoeing around your feelings to being here, overcoming setback and injury and everything else life had thrown your way. You were here watching the love of your life achieve the dream he had thought just out of his reach.
As soon as you were permitted, you sprinted towards Gavi with a pace that put everyone in the tournament to shame. He noticed your approach, opening his arms wide to embrace you and cradle you to his chest, your legs circling his waist. Fingers gently caressed his cheekbones as your foreheads pressed together, and for a moment all the chaos around you dulled.
“Mi campeon.”
It was the only phrase you could utter before his lips collided with yours. He kissed you with all of the elation and relief and reverence that he felt in that moment. His lips were salty, a combination of sweat and tears that trickled down both your faces. This was his biggest moment, and he couldn’t believe he got to share it with you.
He set you down, keeping you close to his chest and allowing you to feel the racing of his heartbeat.
“I’m so lucky to be here with you.”
You looked up at him expecting a continuation, when Lamine approach with the trophy and his signature mischievous grin.
“Doctoraaaa!” He sang, swaying the golden prize above his head. “We finally did it! And all of our knees and ligaments are still intact because of you!”
You laughed breathlessly, hugging Lamine as he passed the prize to Gavi.
“I’m so proud of all you boys. Best club in the world!”
“With the best medical team as well. Gavi, remember before the celebrations that next season is two months away, not nine. We need her at work!”
Your eyes widened at the comment, but Lamine darted away before the both of you could give him a very deserved WHACK.
You watched Gavi gaze into his own reflection, the world quite literally in his hands. He bit his bottom lip, right knee flexing and showing off the scattered surgical scars. He dropped to his knees, beckoning you over to join him. You took a knee as well, slotting yourself under one arm.
“I really have the entire world in both hands right now.” He whispered, nearly inaudible over the commotion of the stadium. But the sentiment made your chest tighten again. He brought the cup to your lips and watched you give it a chaste kiss, eyes never leaving Gavi’s. He took his turn, kissing the gold on the exact same spot your lips had just occupied. You silently wished that some nosy photographer was capturing this moment. Someone’s iPhone 13 was recording from the stands. You hoped, almost selfishly, that someone was immortalizing this moment, just as Gavi had been immortalized in history as one of the kings of the world.
~~
The bus ride back to the hotel was one of the most chaotic experiences of your life, but you wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Gavi was flitting between people like a bumblebee, sharing his excitement with all the boys he had seen as brothers for years on end. He regaled all of them with his recount of hugging Leo, fighting Parades, and all the other microscopic moments engraved in his memory. You watched on proudly, grateful not to participate in this socialization. Pedri and Ferran sat behind you, snickering to one another for a while before Pedri popped up.
“Congratulations Doctora. I think you set the record for having the most patients win a World Cup.”
“I think you’re right. They should have given me my own medal but alas. Maybe during the women’s World Cup next year.”
“You’re their physio?” Ferran was the one to ask the question, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. He obviously had not refused a drink since the final whistle blew.
“We’re negotiating, but yeah they’ve asked me to do it.”
“Maybe that will help get Gavi back in the starting line up,” he said dreamily, obviously drunk beyond comprehension. “He had way more minutes when he was horny and pining after you. A month off might be amazing for his performance.”
“Is that why you had a good performance tonight, Ferran? Because Pedri left you horny and pining?”
Pedri’s cheeks flamed further than they had been, and someone listening in to the conversation spit out their beer. Poor obliterated Ferran was none the wiser.
“No! The week before the final he actually-“ the sentence was abruptly stopped by Pedri clapping a hand over his teammates mouth, almost smothering him in the process.
“No more questions until he’s sober. So that will be in about 9 days.” He sat Ferran back and started muttering under his breath, but Gavi retuned at this moment. As he slid in beside you and rested his head on your shoulder, you couldn’t help but ask.
“Pablo, are those two together?”
“Need to be more specific, Doctora,” he said after kissing the base of your neck. “Question could apply to basically the whole team.”
“The two behind us. Pedri and Ferran. Are they like… lovers?”
“Worse.”
~~
Gavi refused to remove his hands from you as soon as the two of you were alone. He gripped the flesh of your thighs, ass, allowed his fingers to graze the side of your breast and ghost your lips. He was splayed across the bed, clad only in boxers and his new champions tshirt.
“Everyone thought we would be in here having crazy sex, and you’re going to sleep. The tabloids would be so disappointed, Pablito.”
He raised his head at the comment, obviously not amused.
“We just played a World Cup final. I can’t take a shower and a little power nap before the crazy sex?”
“Such low stamina and you’re not even 23 yet…”
At this he shot up and grabbed your arm, dragging you onto the mattress with him. He attacked your face and neck with exaggerated kisses, tickling you and bringing an immense sense of joy.
“I was doing it for you, Doctora.” He teases, slowly stripping you of your shirt. “Seeing that you’re more advanced in age than I am.”
You began to protest, but he whipped off his own shirt and placed it over your head. You pouted but let him dress you, so proud to bask in his success. His arms wrapped around your middle and he fell back onto the mattress, his head contentedly on your chest. He really was exhausted, being soothed by the rhythmic pattering of your heart.
“You look so good with my last name on you.” He says, finally allowing his eyes to flutter open and look up at you. He was living out every dream he ever had. He was a World Cup winner, contributing to the success of his beloved España with every fiber of his being. He completed this feat with the boys he had trained with since he was 11 years old, manifesting the success built by years of hardship. And he was celebrating all of this with the light of his life, the most beautiful woman in the world, the most incredible soul he has had the privilege of knowing.
Gavi doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way. He actually can’t remember if he’s ever felt this way. Like his heart was so full it could burst at the seams and take up the whole room. Every person who he loves was there to witness him achieve it all. It was the first time in his young life that he really started to think about the future. He was one of the successors to the greats who secured the first star. They all came onto the pitch: Inesta, Puyol, and his successor in on field terrorism Ramos. They had all moved on from football, settling into peaceful lives filled with their wives and children and inspiring the next generation, his generation, of footballers.
He closed his eyes and imagined what that life would look like with you. Him in a suit watching from above, with you at his side in the box. Maybe two or three kids running around with his name on their miniature jerseys. Going home every day to a family, to the love of his life, to a peace he has never previously known. To the same type of stable love that his parents had surrounded him with throughout his childhood. He moved one hand to caress your stomach, fingers drawing slow circles. Soothed by the heat of your body and beat of your heart, he allowed himself to picture life after football, as a legend and your companion for years to come.
“Pablo, what’s going on? Did you take Lamine’s words to heart and now you’re thinking about getting me pregnant?” You laugh out.
“I’m always thinking about getting you pregnant.” He muttered, hopefully not noticing how your heart skipped a beat. “But no, not yet. I have other things in mind first. But after my nap.” He says before nuzzling deeper in your chest.
“After your nap.” You said, cheeks still warm at the confession from Gavi. You’d be lying if you said you never pictured a family with Pablo, but to know that amongst the hectic schedule or a young football prodigy he harbored the same thoughts? It was a strange but pleasant feeling.
Gavi’s thoughts began to get fuzzy at the edges as he faded into sleep, but his final one was on the ring hidden in the one place he knew you would never touch: the sock compartment of his kit bag. The two diamonds meeting at the center were meant to represent the two of you finding one another. But now they held a second meaning, resembling a second star that had brightened his life all over again. One day he would feel the moment was right enough to put those stars on your finger, but until then he let them lull him to sleep. The weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and he was in the embrace of the person who had helped him carry it all along.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you enjoyed this dynamic and want to read the entire Gavi x Doctora love story, you can find the completed series here.
A/N: guys I realized it’s been literal years since I posted any writing, but the World Cup woke something up within me. Sorry that it’s so late and so haphazard (I wrote the whole thing on my phone and then half of it didn’t save), but yeah. Maybe I pick it up writing again idk. Love yall and vamos mi campeones del mundoooooo ❤️
omg omg i can only imagine doctora’s reaction to gavi winning the WC and also did you see those absolutely disgusting Argentinian players legit jump gavi for absolutely nothing?????
Fuck it Gavi x doctora fic tomorrow in honor of the World Cup win
Gavi on his record as the youngest player to score for Spain in the world cup: "I'm always going to tease Lamine for this. It's a record that's here and I'm very proud of it because that bastard Lamine took all my other records and I'm left with this one" 😭😭
Look at the twinkle in his eyes. Those are tears. Tears of a child, a boy who will always cherish the memories, wisdom and company of his mentor. But to him, Lewa is like a second father to him. And to Lewa, Gavi is like the unofficial eldest child he never had.
It's so heartbreaking to see someone as energetic and powerful and cheerful like Pablito on the verge of tears. 🥺🥺
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
actually i'm reblogging this again with commentary, fuck it.
There's people in the notes talking about "not basing your worth off numbers", and like. that isn't what this post is about. It's not a threat, either, it's a comment on how this site works, at a mechanical level.
Likes are worthless. Let me say that again.
Likes. Are. Worthless.
They don't do anything. They're a bookmark. They were never part of how tumblr works - in the early days we didn't even have a like button, and the site still more or less acts as though we don't. They're personal bookmarks and the only people who "get" anything from them are you (you bookmark the post) and the OP (maybe a very slight serotonin boost), but they don't keep the post in circulation, they don't keep it alive.
Without reblogs, a post will be dead in the water within an hour. No matter how good it is, no matter how many hours of painstaking love and attention its creator put into it, it will be dead within an hour and never seen again. It gets pushed down the dashboard and nobody aside from the followers who were online when it was posted will see it.
And there's a huge difference in engagement on posts that get even one lucky reblog from someone with wider reach - that one reblog shows your post to five, ten, fifteen other people, and if one of those people also reblogs it, and so on and so forth, that's how posts stay alive and in circulation.
It's like a contagion, but we're sharing creativity instead of disease.
And that matters. That "lifespan" of the post matters, artists and writers give up on this site and go to sites where posts have longer lifespans because it sucks to spend hours of your life, maybe even days, to get two notes and some fucking pocket lint for your efforts.
We create for ourselves, but we share because we want people to see it, because that engagement offers positive feedback and encouragement to continue.
But more than that, if every post (whether art, fic, gifset, whatever) is dying within an hour or a day of being posted, that means it's not making it onto your dashboard. And if it's not on your dashboard, you won't see it. This kills the site, after a while. You stop seeing the posts, because nobody is putting them on your dashboard, because this site doesn't have an algorithm like twitter and insta's and it shouldn't, it's the last bastion of chronological timelines.
Forgive my giant fucking rant I am so tired right now and full of the plague but like stop acting like artists and writers are just being whiny little babies, or "threatening" to withhold our fucking work (you're not entitled to it! it's ours! if we get nothing out of sharing it we're well within our rights to keep it private!) when we say this site will dry up without reblogs. We're just stating facts.
also I’ve seen some people in the tags say ‘oh there have always been more likes on posts’ no there haven’t ????
these are posts from 2013, look at the ratio
not to sound like a nursing home resident but back then people know that the point of this site was to reblog things and share them, not to bury them away among your other 23k liked posts
Hey love ❤️ do you plan on releasing a part three to the pedri series? I’m really enjoying it so far!
Hi all - I know it’s been a long time since I’ve posted writing. I’m going through a pretty bad depressive episode. Whenever I have motivation I’ve been working on school stuff rather than creative writing. I will hopefully come back once the semester ends and my mental health has improved. Love you all and thankful for your support <3
I genuinely can’t believe some people online are posting for anything other than engagement and ragebait.
Lando Norris has under multiple circumstances said that the new tires under red flag is not fair even when it has benefited him.
Red flags are nothing but luck. Literally it’s not a guarantee in the sport even with bad conditions or on a tough track, so pointing out that fact doesn’t make him mean or egotistical or whatever other adjective you wanna throw around.
Saying that the Alpine podium is was luck is the absolute goddamn truth. Just because it’s a happy moment it doesn’t negate that!!! If not for the timing of the red flag, they would not have been on that podium. Ocon overtook about 1 car this race, and it was Yuki Tsunoda. Before this race he was p19 in the championship and Ollie Bearman had more points than him. He’s not a garbage driver, but it’s not like he put in a max level performance to get that podium spot.
And it’s totally fine if you don’t like a certain driver but to then be like “oh he was mean to the other drivers so let me say vile shit about him” is the absolutely most ludicrous thing I’ve heard in my life. You don’t like the meanness so you’re going to be mean????
After Lando’s first win Max said that he was unlucky with the safety car. That’s an objective truth, and he’s not a hater or a bad person for saying it. The same applies now. If not for that safety car, the alpines would not be here. So it’s not talent, it’s luck. But sure, go bully this dude because he told the truth and you didn’t like it.
Not even going to put f1 tags on this because the internet fanbase of this sport is so incredibly toxic it makes me nauseous. Always looking to tear drivers down and manipulate their words to fit the persona you’ve created for them in your head. Just because you don’t like the truth doesn’t make it wrong.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing: reader x franco colapinto
summary: when you find a curly-haired rookie lost in the wrong garage, you don't think much of it - that is, until he continues showing up, and you begin questioning his intentions
w/c: 1.3k (wow jet writing an actual long-ish fic? you better believe it)
a/n: FIRST FRANCO FIC !!!! i've literally been having franco brainrot ever since azerbaijan so here you go (this is your sign to send in franco requests <3)
You spot him out of the corner of your eye nervously ducking out of the way of engineers and strategists, as you prepare for the race ahead. Considering that this is the Red Bull garage, his bright white fireproof sticks out like a sore thumb and when you turn to look at him, his own eyes widen in embarrassment - confirming your theory that he's lost. He's that newbie you've been hearing about, frank? or something, you don't really care to be honest, but he's in the wrong garage and even though he's not one of your drivers you're sure Williams is worried about where he is.
"Are you alright?" you say, and he stops his frantic looking around to look at you with flushed cheeks.
"Yeah, I'm-"
"In the wrong garage," you say flatly, trying your best to stay serious and hide how amused you are at this.
"Yes, I got that, I just can't figure out how to get back to mine," he laughs in a slightly offended tone.
You nod, feigning annoyance as you silently walk ahead and hope he knows to follow you. "Look kid, I don't know if this is your first time on a paddock but you can't really be wandering around other team's garages, even if you are lost. It kind of looks like you're spying on us or something and feeding information back to whoever you've reserve driving for."
His footsteps pause behind you. "Who are you calling Kid?" he scoffs, equal parts irritated and entertained.
"Huh? Well, how old are you? You don't look older than 19."
"I'm 21, thank you very much," he spits out, crossing his arms with a smug look, "and how old are you?"
You pause, awkwardly looking around, "20, but it's clear I have a lot more experience in this than you do." You huff and spin back around, trying to ignore the fact you can hear him stifling laughter.
As you finally make it back to the Williams garage, you open the door and let him in through it, but before he does he pauses to turn you.
"Thank you-" he says, pausing for you to give him your name, and even though you're reluctant to give him the opportunity to spread the news about this embarrassing encounter, you do anyways. Something about the way he looks at you, eyes expecting and a smile toying at his lips, you feel strangely like you'd do about anything he asked.
"And you are?"
"Franco," he says, with an earnest smile, almost as if he's enjoying this situation more knowing how awkward you feel. "I'd wish you good luck, but I doubt you guys will need it," is the last thing he says before he disappears back into his own garage.
And even though you feel a little flustered about the entire situation, you shake it off and head back to your own area, determined not to let it get the best of you - not now, not before a race. You don't even think of him again, besides an occasional glance up when you hear his name said by a commentator, or when you spot his car coming into the pit lane, but that's nothing outside the realm of your duties as a mechanic. You really couldn't care less about him, you tell yourself, and you feel as though you'd be perfectly fine never crossing paths with him again.
But he doesn't seem to share the same idea, because the minute the race is over and you're turning to join the rest of the team out near the podium, you spot him lingering near the door of your garage once more.
"Lost again?" you say as you walk up to him, trying your best to keep as straight a face as you can.
"Not anymore," he replies once he sees you, a reassured smile on his face, "did you see how I did?"
Two feelings wash through you simultaneously - one rational, one asking who the hell this guy is and why the hell he thinks you'd be watching him instead of the very team you work for, and the other a sense of embarrassment, because as much as it pained you to admit, you had been watching him.
"8th?" is all you say in response - not wanting to give too much away about how you felt.
"Yeah, my first points!"
"Well, it's hardly a podium," you scoff, eager not to inflate his ego - after all, he was older than you and surely didn't need to be treated like a preschooler with gold stars. But the minute the words leave your mouth, you watch his excited expression change until slowly he dons a look of embarrassment. Your heart twists and you're suddenly reminded that for whatever reason, instead of celebrating with his team, his family, the girlfriend - which you were sure he had - he had come here, to tell you - someone he had met for the first time mere hours ago.
"Sorry, that was rude, congra-" you begin.
"Is that a challenge?" His voice is low, and it hits you unexpectedly.
"Pardon?"
"Are you challenging me, to get a podium? I mean, I'm still a rookie but I guess if I had a good enough motivator I could do it."
You're caught in a dilemma again, why on earth would you be motivating a different team's driver to do well? If anything, you should be doing the opposite, you had the opportunity to do something for the sake of your team right in front of you - albeit something definitely against FIA ruling - but for some strange reason you couldn't bring yourself to take it, instead playing into his game further.
"And what kind of motivator are we talking about here Franco," you pause to watch him smirk at the sound of his own name, "if you're after secret team intel I can't help you there but if you want, let's say, to know where to get the best coffee on paddock or-"
"How about your number?"
"Wh- Huh?"
"Your number? How about if I get a podium, you give me your number."
He says it so plainly as if it's a simple conclusion, and yet you're speechless. As you stand there silently taking in what he's just said you're equally aware of the fact that he's watching you, which only makes you more flustered.
"What for?" is all you manage to get out, and even though you know it's a stupid question, you want to be sure.
"Oh c'mon, you're a mechanic, surely you can't be that clueless."
"Right," you nod, looking down at your feet shyly and after a moment of silence his concerned voice pipes up again.
"I mean, I know we basically just met, and I know how ridiculous this is, so if you really don't want to I'm not going to force you into anything. You see, I'm really not that kind of guy, I'm actually really a gentleman and usually I'd-"
"Alright," you say definitively, cutting off his nervous rambling - which, if you're being honest, you can only just hear over the pounding sound of your own heart.
"Wh- really?" he asks in disbelief, even though he's the one who proposed the bet.
"Sure, if you can get a podium before the end of this race season, I'll give you my number."
Just at that moment, you hear the rest of your team filing back into the garage to pack up, as well as the distant sound of someone calling for Franco. You look up, partially to silently tell him that the two of you needed to be wrapping up soon, but mostly to watch his face turn from shock to a proud smile as he nods eagerly.
"Okay, yes, sure!" he says sort of breathlessly, "well I guess I'll see you around then. Same time next week?"
You let out a low laugh at his joke, "Sure see you then, and good luck." You watch him turn to jog out of your garage, and as he turns the corner you can still see a beaming smile on his face as he goes - leaving you with the weight of realising just what the hell you've gotten yourself into.
