#+81

I’m not sure if you remember, but a few months ago you reached out to me with a list of constructive feedback after the release of my young adult romance, Beyond the Next Corner. You mentioned that the premise was very compelling and the romance genuinely lovely, but that the setting lacked a bit of realism, and I completely agree.

Despite being a motorsport fan since childhood, I’ve never quite had the instinct for understanding the environment firsthand, the paddock, its dynamics, the ecosystem as a whole. But your feedback really brought that to my attention, and I’m reaching out because I believe you might be able to help me change that.

Which brings me to my question.

Would there be any possibility, however remote, of arranging a paddock or garage visit for research purposes? Ideally, I would love the opportunity to interview Max Verstappen, as the protagonist of my current project is loosely inspired by him. Understanding his perspective, presence in the paddock, and day-to-day environment would be incredibly valuable for the level of authenticity I’m aiming for.

Of course, I fully understand the level of coordination something like this would require, and I would never want to overstep or cause any inconvenience to the teams or their management. Transparency would be a priority, and I’m more than willing to adapt to whatever boundaries are necessary.

I realize this is a rather ambitious request, but I thought it might be worth asking.

Thank you for your time, and regardless, I truly appreciate the insight you’ve already shared.

Best regards.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: A Small Proposal

Oh my God! I can’t believe you actually reached out to me! I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed about everything I said before or genuinely honored to have you in my inbox!

Well, this took me a little longer to reply than you probably expected, but I needed some time to fully understand the scope of your request and find the right people to talk to.

Of course I want to help you develop your story. I truly love the way you write and what you do with the material the media puts out about the drivers. When it comes to mainstream narratives, you do an exceptional job!

Now, about the interview.

I spoke with a few contacts in the paddock, and I was informed this morning that a driver has been made available for you. I can’t guarantee it’s the one you initially mentioned, but it’s the best I could manage, and I really hope it works for you.

I’m sending you a paddock pass for the next race under my name, with full access included. The assigned driver will be expecting you.

Let me know once you receive everything!

"Gordon! You can drop me off here. We’ve arrived!" you exclaimed, leaning your head out of the window of the oversized pink limousine that had taken you all the way to the paddock, your smile bright enough to rival the sun.

Your driver of nearly five years — ever since, at nineteen, you managed to turn yourself into a bestselling young adult author, a story for another time — parked in the designated area without pointing out that, yes, he knew you had arrived. It was hard to miss the massive landmark that was the Circuit of the Americas, especially with miles of parking surrounding it.

He stepped out first and made his way to your door, opening it so you could step out safely. Before turning to leave, however, you used your cutesy voice to talk to Tiffany, the small, elderly chihuahua who went everywhere with you. Gordon didn’t even blink as you picked her up and tucked her into the bag hanging from your arm; he simply extended a hand to help you set your feet on the ground.

"I want you to have fun, Gordon. Seriously! You’re not staying in the car," you said, and he raised an eyebrow as you slipped your hand into the inner pocket of your bag, gently asking Tiffany for some space. When you finally found what you were looking for, you held up the tickets and handed them to him with a smile. "So you can see everything before the race.”

Gordon glanced down at the tickets, then back up at you, one brow still slightly raised.

“I’m working,” he reminded you, in that calm, patient tone he’d perfected over the years.

“And I’m your employer,” you shot back sweetly, tilting your head. “Which means I can order you to have fun.”

He looked at you for a beat longer, as if deciding whether this counted as a real instruction or just one of your many… interpretations of authority. In the end, he took the tickets with a half-smile.

You nodded, patted his shoulder, and finally walked away, waving your fingers in a quick little goodbye as you turned toward that absolute monstrosity of a building that was — no, absolutely not — going to intimidate you.

The sharp click of your heels barely made a dent in the scene: uniformed staff rushed back and forth, pushing shiny metal carts, while mechanics shouted over each other as they organized tires. Here and there, clusters of fans gathered — most of them dressed in cowboy hats and flannel shirts, dancing along to whatever country song blasted through the speakers and craning their necks in hopes of spotting an unsuspecting driver.

This was part of the research too.

You pulled your notebook and pencil from your bag and started jotting things down.

You weren’t sure this would be the circuit you’d choose for the story — it wasn’t your favorite, and definitely not your still-undecided-name protagonist’s either. You planned on letting him choose, after all, he’d be the one racing at 300 km/h to impress the brilliant still-undecided-name female lead.

Still, there was a certain charm to everything around you. And it felt very different from watching it on TV, no matter how big the screen.

You pushed your sunglasses up to the top of your head and narrowed your eyes slightly. Tiffany barked from inside your bag, and you gave a quiet “shh,” pulling her a little closer against you.

A group of Haas staff rushed past without sparing you a second glance. Phones and cameras were already up, all pointed toward the two tall figures at the center, Esteban Ocon and Oliver Bearman,ngiving instructions for whatever they were filming for media.

You had no interest in either of them.

“Maybe we should keep walking, Tiff…” you murmured, without admitting you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do next.

Biting the corner of your lip, you turned slightly, choosing a direction that simply felt right.

That was when you saw her.

A mass of bright, curly red hair rushed toward you, her wide, almost childlike smile forcing you to wave back.

“You made it!” she said, excited, stepping in to pull you into a tight hug. “It’s Cassie.”

With a relieved sigh, you hugged her back just as tightly — right before Tiffany barked in protest at the sudden division of attention. Cassie pulled away, immediately distracted, crouching to fuss over the little dog with a laugh.

“I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to know where I should wait for the interview,” you said, adjusting the hem of your light pink skirt.

Cassie nodded, reluctantly peeling herself away from Tiffany before pointing ahead for you to follow.

“I swear, I thought you were older…” she started, already talking a mile a minute.

She didn’t stop the entire way. You didn’t mind. You actually liked her enthusiasm. It reminded you of one of the interns at your publishing agency.

Amy… Jenny… what was her name again?

You tried to remember, you really did — but you’d just realized the Red Bull building was already shrinking behind you, its bright colors fading into the distance while Cassie kept walking without a second glance.

Your hand curled into a fist at your side. You needed to say something.

“And then you wrote that scene where Carter lifts Sofia by the hips and I almost died right th—”

“Cassie, sorry to interrupt. I have a question,” you said, raising your index finger.

She blinked and finally stopped, looking at you with those wide green eyes. You scratched the back of your neck, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and glanced over your shoulder.

“Red Bull is that way… Where are we going?” you asked gently.

Cassie glanced behind you just to check — and, well, yes. Red Bull was definitely that way.

“I know,” she confirmed with a nod. “But McLaren is this way.”

Her thumb pointing behind her gave you the strange impression that you were no longer speaking the same language. You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Wait… oh! I think I didn’t explain myself properly,” you said, a hand going to your chest, your voice already halfway into an apology.

Cassie looked at you curiously, openly interested in whatever you were about to say.

“Maybe I forgot to mention it in the email! My main inspiration for the character is Max Verstappen, you know? Red Bull driver.” Your voice, still sweet, gave away your intentions entirely. “I just assumed it had worked out. I mean… why wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, no, I know that! But it wasn’t possible to schedule that meeting with him. Max was unavailable.”

That was new information.

Okay.

What exactly was happening here?

You blinked, your hand lowering from your chest to your waist, your expression settling into mild confusion.

“What do you mean… it wasn’t possible?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“Oh, I mentioned in the email that there was no guarantee which driver you’d get! Their schedules are really tight,” she continued. “But Oscar Piastri agreed! And wow, that was a surprise.”

Wait, what?

She must have taken your reaction as the same kind of surprise she’d had, because she nodded enthusiastically.

“He’s usually so difficult about these things. Not difficult! Oh my god, that sounds rude. He’s nice. A nice person. But when it comes to media…”

And just like that, she started walking again, heading toward the McLaren facilities as if she hadn’t just delivered completely unexpected information.

You stayed where you were for a second too long before finally moving to follow her.

Everything was very, very orange.

From your spot inside the McLaren facilities, you watched the movement around you with a subtle expression of disapproval. Your interview would only happen after the end of the first Free Practice session and the drivers’ media duties. Bureaucratic, but fine.

In the meantime, you and your plastic cup full of coffee took notes of whatever you could.

The McLaren staff were nice, always checking in to make sure you were comfortable and letting you know how much time was left before the drivers returned to the garage. But honestly, they did not mess around when it came to being orange…

The walls were orange, the decorations matched, the uniforms didn’t help.

No—wait. You needed to adjust: not orange. Papaya.

The word alone sent a small shiver down your spine.

It was fine.

Just for today.

You found yourself drifting closer when everyone gathered around the TV in the reception area, watching the drivers climb into their cars. Curiosity won.

It wasn’t new to you. You hadn’t lied to Cassie, Formula 1 had been your thing since childhood. That was exactly why, when you decided to write your first story, it had to be about it. But you can’t understand everything from a distance… Apparently.

You walked over to a round table near the cream-colored sofas, surrounded by comfortable chairs, and took a seat. Someone had taken Tiffany to the designated pet area, and Cassie had gone off to handle her duties.

It was officially a solo mission.

The TV began showing the onboard cameras side by side. Lando Norris adjusted himself into the cockpit, while Oscar Piastri was already inside — helmet on, hands on the wheel, listening to something his engineer was saying before heading out.

Honestly, you had never paid much attention to him.

You’d always been a devoted Mercedes fan, and your desire to use Max Verstappen as inspiration was mostly about appearance and the way he carried himself. The McLaren boys had never caught your attention, not for anything. And, honestly, by the end of the session, you weren’t impressed at all.

Even if Oscar had managed a solid P3.

Even if he spoke over the radio with precise detail about every small adjustment needed, as if he were part of the car itself.

You had to stifle a yawn.

That interview was going to be a terrible waste of time.

The movement picked up again, but you didn’t move from your spot. You pulled a piece of gum from the pocket of your button-up and scrolled through your phone, random, meaningless reels flashing by just to keep you occupied.

Then you heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

“Oscar is waiting for you in the other room. I’ll take you there,” the orange-clad staff member said.

You offered a polite smile, despite everything, and stood up.

It was a disaster. A disaster.

Just like you’d predicted.

You had a generous forty minutes to get through that interview, and twenty had already passed.

Oscar sat across from you and, well, he was nothing like you’d expected.

He was worse.

When you walked into the room, you tried to be reasonable. You smiled, held out your hand to greet him and, okay, he had smiled back, but then he’d turned to the staff member — Caleb, apparently — and started talking, not returning your greeting at all, leaving you standing there with your hand awkwardly in the air until you had to pretend there was something wrong with the sleeve of your shirt.

Oscar was supposed to be sociable. That’s what Cassie said, what the staff said, what every video you’d seen on YouTube and Instagram had told you. Funny, engaged, communicative in his own way. You had expected the meeting to be a disaster for several reasons, but… this? This was borderline outrageous.

“So what’s it like to be a Formula 1 driver? Like, the real feeling,” you asked, trying to inject a bit of charisma into the room.

For a moment, he just looked at you. His dark eyes, analytical and a little cold, passed over you before settling on the blue pen in your hands. His arms were crossed, and even from where you sat, you could tell just how pale his skin was. It was… a little hypnotizing. Pale. Very pale.

He looked like he was about to answer.

Worse — he looked like he was about to throw up.

Thump. Oscar stood up abruptly, the force of it making you flinch.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than it should have been. Off. “I’ll be right back. Just a moment.”

You turned in your chair to follow him with your eyes, your eyebrow practically climbing into your hairline.

And then you were simply… alone.

Five minutes passed. Nine… ten… You fidgeted with your pen, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. Fifteen minutes…

Twenty.

End of the interview.

You let out a slow breath, pulled your bag off the back of the chair, and stood up. Okay. Maybe this was better. You’d tell Cassie it didn’t work out, push a little harder for Max Verstappen, and end up with the next BookTok hit — full of delicious, intense scenes, beautifully crafted and—

The door opened.

You turned back.

“Hi. Do you have a bit more time so we can do the interview?” Oscar asked, composed and impeccably polite.

You blinked.

Who was that?

A classic McLaren cap sat low on his head, the number 81 stitched across it, shadowing his hair and part of his face… The flush on his cheeks wasn’t a trick of the photos, as far as you could tell. And he was looking at you like he actually expected a real answer.

“Well, I… I have a few more minutes,” you said, a little thrown off, still standing in the same spot.

With a small smile that seemed oddly relieved, he nodded and stepped fully into the room.

“Okay,” he said softly, moving back to the same chair he’d been sitting in before.

Still a little suspicious, you turned slowly, placing your bag back on the chair as if it might betray you at any second. You tucked your hair behind your ear and finally sat down again.

“All right,” you said, taking your pen. Your gaze lifted to him and, despite how disconcerting the sight of him still was, you asked, “Are you… are you okay?”

Oscar seemed caught off guard by the question, straightening slightly.

“Hm? Ah, yeah. I am. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Low blood pressure. From the strain during practice and the heat.”

Oh. You hadn’t considered that. It made sense… he really had looked unwell, and you hadn’t done anything to help. Wow. Great job.

“And… are you sure you’re okay to continue? If you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule or… or not. Whatever you prefer,” you offered, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.

He shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s do this,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “And… I don’t know if I’ve already asked this, but… why are we doing this? I mean, I don’t mind. Cassandra explained a bit, but I didn’t fully get it. She was… very enthusiastic,” he added, a trace of a smile in his voice. “Are you writing a book?”

No—

Hadn’t Cassie explained it properly?

You had asked her to.

God.

Heat crept up your neck, settling at the tips of your ears.

“Y-Yes. I’m writing a book,” you said, with no intention of offering anything beyond that. Your gaze dropped to your notebook, already retreating. “Oscar, you’ve been a Formula 1 driver since 2023, correct?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Is it a biography? Would there— would there be any chance I could… see what you write? Approve it?”

For a second, you just stared at him.

Approve it?

Your fingers tightened slightly around the pen.

“No,” you said, a little too quickly.

A beat.

“I mean— it’s not a biography.”

He paused, watching you. Waiting.

You exhaled softly through your nose, eyes dropping back to your notebook.

“It’s a romance.”

That got a reaction. Quiet, but there.

Oscar’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.

You ignored it.

“When you’re in the car, what do you think about?”

“Hm…” He tilted his head a fraction. “It depends. Sometimes I’m counting laps. Thinking about what I’ll do after. I hum sometimes.” A small pause. “It can get a bit boring. Especially when I’m leading.”

You blinked.

“Boring.”

“Yeah.”

“While leading a Formula 1 race.”

He gave a small shrug, like that was the least controversial thing he’d said all day.

“That’s… wildly inconvenient for my narrative.”

That finally pulled something out of him. Not a full smile. But close.

“I can pretend it’s more dramatic, if that helps.”

You shook your head lightly, thinking for another moment before adding a note at the bottom of the page — fully aware of the way Oscar was looking at you.

“Do you think it’s like that for all drivers?” you asked.

He shrugged, lips pressing into a small, uncertain pout that read no idea.

You took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as you added one last line.

That was enough.

“Oscar, well, I appreciate your time,” you said, closing your notebook with a soft snap that sounded far more final than you intended.

Silence settled. You took a deep breath, stood up, and reached for your bag.

“You’re going to write it wrong.”

Your hand paused mid-air. Slowly, you looked back at him.

But looking back was an understatement. You took a step back — because suddenly, so fucking suddenly, Oscar was right beside you.

You glanced behind him. The chair was still there. Further back than it had any business being.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, startled, blinking more than you meant to.

“The part about it being boring,” he said, almost thoughtfully — with a little more depth than there was any reason for, so much so that you didn’t even process your own confusion and simply pushed it to the back of your mind. “It’s not that.”

“Then… what is it?” you asked, quietly.

His attention shifted just slightly, his eyes flicking toward the door. Seconds later, you heard it:

Oscar Piastri! Fifteen minutes until the start of Free Practice Two.

“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll tell Sophie to give you my contact. We can schedule another one.”

You wanted to question it. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to, that you already had more than enough for your book research. You were fully intending to dismiss him—

but Oscar had already reached the door handle and was turning it.

“See you at the next interview! Bye,” he said, a polite smile stretching across his lips before it was swallowed by whatever was happening outside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a second longer than necessary, your hand still hovering near your bag like your body hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened.

“…Right,” you murmured to no one. “See you.”