#emjayewrites

The private terminal at Paris Charles de Gaulle was quiet except for AK's pacing and animated phone conversation. Jules slouched further in his leather seat, watching his friend – all confident swagger even at 7 AM, his caesar fade fresh and goatee perfectly lined – sweet-talk his girl in English.

"Baby, just—no, I know security's a pain but— Yes, love, I know…"

Wilhelm caught Jules' eye, his light brown fro slightly squished from the beanie he'd just removed, and they shared a knowing look while Stef and Nas bickered over their usual FIFA argument. Typical morning – Nas pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes while insisting PSG was clear, Stef's curly fade catching the morning light as he defended Arsenal with his whole chest.

"Elles arrivent dans dix minutes," (They'll be here in ten minutes) AK announced after hanging up, running a hand over his fade. "La sécurité était supplémentaire, apparemment." (Security was being extra, apparently)

"Depuis quand parlez-vous London roadman?" Nas teased. (Since when do you speak London roadman)

"Depuis qu’il a commencé à simper," Stef added, dodging AK's half-hearted swing. (Since he started simping)

Jules stayed quiet, scrolling through Instagram without really seeing it. This season had been kicking his ass, Barcelona's form worse than he'd seen it, and all he'd wanted was a few days with his boys to decompress. No game analysis, no press, no expectations. Just vibes.

When AK had first floated the idea of bringing Van along, Jules had been firmly against it. He got it – long distance was rough, with her in London and AK running his luxury concierge business in Paris. The few times Jules had met her, she'd seemed cool enough, but this trip was supposed to be about escaping everything, including relationship drama, but AK had been persistent.

"Look, I barely see her these days. This trip is the only time that works with our schedules, and..." He'd paused, that look in his eye that always meant trouble. "She's bringing a friend. Might be good for you, get your mind off this season."

The last time AK played matchmaker still haunted him – that disaster in Mykonos last summer with the Instagram model who spent more time staging photos than having actual conversations. Or the "entrepreneur" before that who turned out to just be selling detox teas on social media. His friend meant well, but…he was garbage at picking girls for him.

It wasn't that Jules was picky – okay, maybe he was. But he had standards. He appreciated a natural beauty, curves that didn't come from a surgeon's table in Turkey. Like what was wrong with stretch marks and cellulite? More importantly, he wanted substance. Someone building something real, not just chasing clout or a footballer's lifestyle. His last few hookups had been a wash-rinse-repeat cycle of the same type: beautiful but boring, more interested in being seen with him than seeing him.

"You're too bougie," AK always said. "Too picky."

"I know what I like," was Jules' standard response.

And what he wanted wasn't another Instagram baddie with a BBL and empty conversations. He wanted—

"Oh shit, they're here."

Jules looked up, ready to be annoyed, and...

Oh. Oh.

Van glided in first in her brown faux fur coat and babushka hat, but her friend made Jules sit up straighter. She moved differently – this quiet grace about her as she followed behind. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, baby hairs laid so precisely it looked like art, and when she smiled at AK's introduction, the small gap between her front teeth and deep dimples hit something in Jules' chest.

Her style was effortless – the turtleneck was clearly expensive but not flashy, paired with brown ski leggings, boots, puffer, and gold jewelry. Everything about her seemed intentional but not trying too hard, from her perfect posture to the way her pants hugged her ass just right without being obvious about it.

"Alright," AK said, his whole face lighting up as Van kissed his cheek. "Let me introduce everyone properly. This goddess right here is my girl Vanessa—"

"Van," she corrected with a playful eye roll, her West London accent wrapping around the word.

"Van," AK amended, "and this is her best friend Y/N. Ladies, meet the guys – that's Wilhelm with the fro, Stef and Nas are the ones looking stressed about whatever FIFA argument they're having, and this quiet one right here is Jules."

"Hey!! We about to turn up in Lapland!" Van announced while Y/N just offered a small wave, those long lashes framing eyes that seemed to take everything in quietly.

Jules found himself standing, fixing his Jacquemus sweater without thinking about it. Not that he cared what she thought.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a flight attendant appeared, perfectly poised in her uniform. "We're ready for boarding."

"Let the ladies through first," AK said.

Van practically bounced up the stairs to the plane. "Oh my days, this is proper bougie!" Her voice carried back down. "Y/N, look at this!"

And then Jules heard it – Y/N's voice, soft and melodic with a lilting British accent that was somehow a bit posh and warm. "It's beautiful," she said simply, and something about the understated appreciation in her tone made his chest tight.

But watching her settle into a seat near the window, pulling out a book (who brings a book on a trip to Lapland?), Jules had to admit – maybe, just maybe, AK wasn't completely fucking up their vacation.

Even if he'd never tell him that.

"You good?" Wilhelm asked quietly in French, catching Jules staring.

"Juste fatigué," Jules replied, but they both knew it was cap.

"Liar," Wilhelm teased under his breath.

"Ta gueule," (Shut up) Jules muttered, but he couldn't help noticing how different Y/N was from Van, who was already talking about the clubs they had to hit. There was something understated about her, the way she moved, the slight smile when she caught him looking.

Fuck.

This was not how this trip was supposed to go. He was supposed to be decompressing, forgetting about his shit season, not noticing how a stranger's collarbones peeked out from her turtleneck or how she smelled like something expensive but subtle as she passed him in the aisle to use the bathroom.

"T'es dans la merde," (You're in trouble) Wilhelm muttered, and Jules couldn't even argue.

Three hours into their seven-hour flight to Rovaniemi, Jules found himself doing that thing he swore he wouldn't do – stealing glances at Y/N from his single seat across the aisle. He'd settled into that classic position – slouched with legs spread, one hand propped on his chin, thumb absently stroking his goatee – trying to look casual while very much not being casual at all.

Van's shriek of laughter cut through the cabin as AK whispered something in her ear in their back twin seats, followed by sounds Jules really didn't need to hear. But Y/N seemed unbothered, completely absorbed in her book – an actual paper book, not just scrolling on her phone like most girls he knew. He caught the title: "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo." That book that was all over TikTok, the one his sister wouldn't shut up about. And was that... a kitten bookmark?

Check box one, he thought. She reads actual books.

The flight attendant moved through the cabin, setting up champagne and an elaborate spread of charcuterie and pastries. Y/N got up gracefully, fixing herself a small plate with careful consideration, and returned to her seat. A small smile played on her lips as she read, and Jules found himself wondering what part of the story caused that reaction.

Stop being a creep, he chided himself. But he couldn't help noticing how her turtleneck hugged her curves, how her crossed legs seemed to go on forever. This could get messy – she was his best friend's girl's best friend after all. But then again, Van brought her for a reason...

Stop being a pussy and just talk to her.

Jules did another scan of the cabin. Nas and Stef were knocked out cold, their light snores creating a gentle backdrop. Wilhelm was lost in his Switch game, probably destroying someone online in Mario Kart. And AK and Van were... yeah, definitely preoccupied.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jules smoothly stood and slid into the empty seat beside Y/N. She looked up from her book, those long lashes framing curious eyes.

"What's up?" He aimed for cool but heard the slight nervousness in his voice.

"Just getting to the good part," she replied, her soft British accent making even those simple words sound melodic.

"Evelyn Hugo, huh?" He nodded toward the book. "Heard that one's good."

"You've read it?"

"Nah, but my sister's obsessed. Wouldn't stop talking about it in the family group chat."

Y/N's smile deepened, those dimples making an appearance. "It's worth the hype. I'm usually pretty varied with my reading though."

"Yeah? What else you into?"

"Bit of everything really. Some mysteries, biographies..." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "The occasional spicy book."

Jules' eyebrows shot up. "Spicy like...?"

"You ever heard of 'Ice Planet Barbarians'?"

He had – another TikTok famous book, one that had people in the comments wilding about blue aliens and their unrealistically large sex organs.

She's a little freak, huh? "That's, uh..." He cleared his throat. "That's quite a range you got there."

Her laugh was soft but genuine. "Life's too short to stick to one genre, don't you think?"

Something about the way she said it, like she applied that philosophy to more than just books, made Jules lean in slightly. "What else you got on your reading list?"

As Y/N started describing a mix of upcoming reads, Jules found himself actually interested – not just pretending to be interested like he usually did when girls talked. The way her eyes lit up when she discussed her favorites, how she spoke with her hands when explaining particularly complex plots.

"So you're telling me you haven't read any Sally Rooney?" Y/N asked, turning slightly in her seat to face him better.

"Is that the Normal People author?"

"Mm, that's the one." She adjusted her bookmark – definitely a kitten, orange and white – before setting the book aside. "The show was good but the books hit different."

Jules shifted too, his long legs taking up more space than strictly necessary. "I'm more of a music person myself."

"Let me guess..." Y/N studied him for a moment, and something about her direct gaze made him want to fidget. "You've got that look about you. Definitely into fashion, probably listen to Steve Lacy? Kendrick Lamar?"

"Damn, am I that obvious?"

Her smile came with those crater-deep dimples again. "Your sweater's Jacquemus and your shoes are those limited Lewis Hamilton x Dior sneakers. You're either into fashion or you've got a really good stylist."

Now it was Jules' turn to be impressed. Most girls he met only knew the obvious brands, the ones you could easily flex on Instagram. "You know your stuff."

"I work in fashion editorial," she said with a small shrug. "Kind of have to."

Another box checked.

"Editorial?" He leaned forward slightly. "Which magazine?"

"I'm at British Vogue." She tucked a stray baby hair back, the movement drawing his attention to her elegant fingers, no overtly long fake nails in sight. "Junior editor assistant, nothing major yet."

"Nothing major, she says," Jules teased. "Just casually working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world."

"What about you? Besides the obvious football career, what gets you excited?"

They fell into an easy conversation about music (they shared a love for Frank Ocean), art (she'd just been to the new Basquiat exhibit he'd been meaning to see), and travel. Y/N had actual opinions, thoughtful ones, not just agreeing with whatever he said like he was used to.

"The vintage shopping there is insane," he said, talking about his time in Japan. "Like this one spot in Harajuku, they had original Raf Simons pieces I'd never seen before. And the food..."

"I've always wanted to go," Y/N said, her eyes lighting up. "The fashion archives alone must be incredible. Plus, I heard they have these cafes where—"

"Where you can drink coffee and play with cats?" Jules finished. "Yeah, they're everywhere. Way better than those fake Instagram spots everyone posts about."

"See, that's what I want to experience. The real culture, not just tourist traps." She tucked another stray baby hair back. "What was your favorite part?"

"This tiny ramen spot in a back alley. No pictures allowed, no social media. Just incredible food and this old man who's been making the same recipe for like forty years."

"That sounds perfect."

"You'd love it," Jules said without thinking. Then, realizing how presumptuous that sounded, added, "I mean..."

But Y/N just smiled. "Maybe I would."

Something about her genuine interest, the way she didn't immediately pull out her phone to check Instagram locations, made Jules sit back and really look at her. "You're dope, you know that?"

The slight flush on her cheeks made something in his chest tighten. "Because I want to eat ramen in back alleys?"

"Because you actually care about the experience. Most people I meet just want the picture for the gram, which is cool but still...I thought you'd be like that."

"Because I'm Van's friend?" She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Because AK has terrible taste in setting me up."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Y/N's eyebrow arched delicately. "Oh? Is that what this is?"

Fuck. Me.

"I didn't mean—" Jules started, but her soft laugh cut him off.

"Relax. Van already told me about AK's matchmaking attempts." She glanced toward the back where AK and Van were finally sleeping. "The Mykonos story was particularly entertaining."

Jules groaned. "She told you about that?"

"Mm. Something about an Instagram model and a very expensive photoshoot gone wrong?"

"In my defense, I didn't know she'd brought a whole production crew."

Y/N's laugh was worth the embarrassment of reliving that memory. "Well, I can assure you I don't have a glam squad hidden in my carry-on."

"No? Not even a ring light for emergency selfies?"

"The only emergency items I packed are snacks and more books."

Jules felt himself smiling – a real smile, not his usual media-ready one. The kind that actually reached his eyes.

Something shifted in the air between them, the casual conversation taking on a different weight. Y/N held his gaze for a moment before looking away, but Jules caught the slight upturn of her lips.

"We should probably try to sleep," she said finally. "Long day still ahead."

"Right. Yeah." But he didn't move.

"Jules?"

"Mm?"

"That means you have to go back to your seat."

"Oh. Right." He stood, perhaps a bit reluctantly. "Thanks for... you know."

"For not being an Instagram model with a production crew?"

His laugh was soft. "Something like that."

As he settled back into his own seat, Jules couldn't help stealing one more glance. Y/N had already reopened her book, but he swore he saw her smile widen slightly.

Definitely in trouble.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent into Rovaniemi Airport."

Jules blinked awake from his nap, the seven-hour flight having passed quicker than expected. Maybe because of that conversation... He pushed the thought away, stretching in his seat as the plane started its descent through snow-heavy clouds.

The landing was smooth, and Jules watched as Y/N stood to thank both flight attendants by name – Marie and Sophie – even asking about Sophie's baby she'd mentioned during meal service. She did the same with the pilots, genuine appreciation in her voice.

Another box checked.

The whole "be nice to service staff" thing wasn't exactly groundbreaking, but there was something about the way she did it – not performing kindness for an audience, just being genuinely thoughtful – that hit different.

Lapland's winter air slapped different too, the kind of cold that made him grateful for his cashmere beanie as they descended the plane stairs. He wasn't trying to be creepy, walking behind Y/N, but when her foot caught that patch of ice and she started to slip... his hands found her waist automatically.

"You good?"

She steadied herself, this little embarrassed laugh escaping. "Yeah, just... can I get a rewind button? Because that was embarrassing as fuck."

Something about the way she said it, like she was annoyed at herself but trying to play it cool, made him chuckle. "Consider it deleted from the record."

Their luggage situation was borderline ridiculous – his three suitcases for a week's worth of fits, her matching his energy with her own collection of bags.

"Someone came prepared," he couldn't help teasing, watching her oversee the arrangement of her bags on the cart.

Her smile was playful, dimples making another appearance. "Don't judge me. A girl needs options for the Instagram dump."

"Nah, that's actually valid. Fit pics are essential."

"Oh yeah?" She raised an eyebrow. "You bring your whole camera crew or something?"

"Just my Nikon and a drone."

She nudged his shoulder, the contact brief but enough to make him hyper-aware of her presence. "But not a whole production crew?"

Ah, she got jokes... "Listen," he said, trying to keep his face serious. "You can't disrespect the Northern Lights with iPhone quality. That's just wrong."

"Mhmmmm." The way she nodded, all exaggerated understanding, shouldn't have been as cute as it was. "Very professional of you."

"Y/N!" Van's voice cut through whatever was building between them. "Stop flirting and come on, we need to get through customs!"

The customs line crawled by, but Jules found himself not minding, especially when Y/N would catch his eye and they'd share silent amusement at Van's increasing dramatics about the wait.

Their driver was posted up at arrivals with a sign for AK's company – "1 Pourcent Concierge" in sleek lettering because AK never missed a branding opportunity. The private coach was exactly what you'd expect from someone whose whole business was luxury experiences, complete with a mini bar that Van spotted immediately.

"Time to get this party started!" She was already reaching for bottles.

Wilhelm checked his phone, looking tired. "It's 2 in the afternoon."

"We're on vacation!" Van started lining up shots like they were at Tape London instead of just landing in the Arctic Circle. "Stop being a party pooper!"

Jules watched Y/N slip to the back of the bus, pulling out that same book from earlier. He must have been staring because Wilhelm's voice cut into his thoughts.

"Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu fais semblant de ne pas vouloir la rejoindre," Wilhelm said low enough that only Jules could hear. (I don't know why you're pretending you don't want to go join her)

Stef, never one to miss an opportunity to clown him, snorted. "Tu sais que Jules est timide." (You know Jules is shy.)

Jules flipped him off, but Stef just grinned wider.

"I'm chilling," Jules said, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

"Bullshit," Wilhelm and Stef chorused.

"I don't want to do too much," Jules tried to explain. "Nous venons de parler dans l’avion. Si j’y retourne maintenant..." (We just talked on the plane. If I go back there now)

"Quoi, elle pensera que tu es intéressé?" Stef's eye roll was Olympic-level. "Assez sûr que le navire a navigué, mon frère." (What, she'll think you're interested…Pretty sure that ship has sailed)

"Merde, si tu ne veux pas lui parler..." Nas dramatically ran his fingers through his hair, preening. "I will."

Before Jules could say anything, Nas was heading toward the back of the bus. At that exact moment, Van cranked up some Drake song and started twerking.

Jules pulled out his noise-canceling AirPods with what might have been the biggest eye roll of his life. He tried to focus on Frank Ocean instead of the way Y/N's laugh carried from the back of the bus – probably at something Nas said, which shouldn't have annoyed him but did.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, they were pulling up to their home for the week. The cabin was crazy in the best way – all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern wooden architecture that somehow managed to look both cozy and expensive as hell. The deck wrapped around the whole structure, perfect for Northern Lights viewing, not that he was already thinking about how that could play out.

"Ladies first," he said as they entered, immediately regretting it when Van's excited shriek pierced his eardrums.

"Come on, Y/N!" Van grabbed her friend's hand. "Let's check out the rooms before these boys mess them up!"

Y/N shot Jules an apologetic look as she was dragged upstairs, and he had to fight back a smile. Van's "Oh my god, this one has a FIREPLACE!" echoed down the stairs, followed by Y/N's softer laugh that was already becoming way too familiar.

"T'es foutu," Wilhelm said, clapping Jules on the shoulder as he passed. (You're screwed.)

_______________________________________________

The den of their cabin was peak luxury winter vibes – all exposed wooden beams showing off the snowy landscape, but Jules was barely registering any of it. They'd been killing time until dinner, everyone doing their own thing. Wilhelm was in his gaming zone, Nas and Stef were arguing about upcoming Premier League matches, and AK was texting someone about work because he never really stopped working.

And Y/N? She was upstairs napping, which shouldn't have annoyed him but kind of did. Not that he needed her around, but her presence would've been better than Van's constant complaints about her nails not being done right or whatever else she was going on about before she got ready for dinner.

Jules had nothing against Van. She made AK happy, even if sometimes he wondered how his boy dealt with… all that. But not his woman, not his problem.

The sound of heels on wooden stairs made everyone look up. Van strutted – literally strutted – down in what had to be the tiniest leather dress Jules had ever seen.

"Babe, it's negative twenty-three degrees," AK said, though his eyes said he wasn't exactly mad about the outfit.

Van gave him a look. "I know, that's why I got the fur coat."

"What fur coat—" Jules began, but the words died in his throat because that's when Y/N appeared.

Holy fuck.

She'd let her hair down from that bun, now styled in a middle part with curls. Her own outfit was giving winter goddess – some maroon designer dress he couldn't even focus on because his brain was short-circuiting, and yeah, she was carrying two fur coats.

"Thank god!" Stef broke the moment. "I'm starving!"

The bus ride to the igloo restaurant should've been awkward, but Jules found himself sliding into the seat next to Y/N before he could overthink it.

"Good nap?" he asked, aiming for casual.

"Mm, needed it." Her smile was soft, sleep-warm. "These time zones are killing me."

"Wait till tomorrow when we go snowmobiling. Wilhelm's already talking about racing."

"Oh yeah?" She turned slightly toward him. "You any good on a snowmobile?"

"Better than Nas. Man crashed three times last time we went."

"I heard that," Nas called from behind them. "And it was twice, respect the facts."

The igloo was something else – set in the middle of a forest clearing, stars scattered above them like diamonds. No Northern Lights yet, but the sky was doing its own kind of magic.

Their chef appeared – this older Finnish man with kind eyes – and started describing the courses. "Tonight we're working with what nature provides. Our first course is foraged mushrooms with…"

"For the main," he continued later, "we have local reindeer—"

"Not Rudolph!" Van's gasp was theatrical.

Jules caught Y/N biting back a smile as the chef patiently offered, "We also have freshly caught Arctic char—"

Van opened her mouth again but AK's "Babe, chill" shut it for her.

The waiters moved around them with practiced grace, pouring wine that Y/N examined with actual knowledge – doing that little swirl thing, checking the color against the candlelight.

Jules found himself watching her, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, until she caught him staring.

"I see you, wine connoisseur," he said, enjoying the slight flush on her cheeks.

"You know your wines?"

"Got a few favorites. This Bordeaux that'll change your life, and this Spanish one in my cellar that you should try out." He let the invitation hang there.

Y/N almost choked on her sip. "Are we flirting?"

Jules just shrugged, taking a deliberate sip of his own wine, but he couldn't quite hide his smile.

"So tomorrow," Wilhelm was saying, "we got the snowmobiles booked for eleven—"

"After breakfast at our villa," Stef added.

"Then ice fishing in the evening," Nas continued. "Unless you guys are scared of the cold."

"Please," Van scoffed. "I'm from London, we invented cold."

"That's… not how weather works, babes," Y/N said quietly, just for Jules to hear, and his laugh came out before he could stop it.

The first course arrived – something beautiful with mushrooms and herbs that looked like art. Jules watched Y/N take her first bite, the way her eyes closed slightly in appreciation.

The wine was taking its effect – or maybe it was just her. Jules found himself getting bolder with each course, his hand occasionally brushing Y/N's shoulder when he leaned in to talk, letting his touches linger a bit longer than strictly necessary. The igloo's candlelight did something magical to her skin, and he kept catching himself staring.

"You're staring again," she murmured during the fourth course, some elaborate fish dish he wasn't even tasting anymore.

"Can't help it." The wine made him honest. "You're nice to look at."

Her laugh was soft, private. "The wine's making you brave."

Van's loud giggle cut through their moment – she was properly drunk now, hanging off AK's arm and talking about something he didn’t care for. Y/N caught Jules' eye and they shared a silent laugh.

Their driver met them outside the igloo after they finished their meal, warning them about an incoming snowstorm. "Nothing serious, but better to be inside tonight."

Once they got back to the villa, Van took this as her cue, practically dragging AK upstairs the moment they got inside. "Help me with this dress, baby!"

"Sauna?" Wilhelm suggested to the guys.

Stef and Nas were already heading that way, but Jules' attention was caught by Y/N slipping off her heels, heading toward the stairs.

"Not tonight," he said, not even trying to be subtle anymore.

"Get it, bro," Wilhelm teased.

Jules shot him a look but was already following Y/N up the stairs.

She sensed him behind her, turning with this little smile. "You stalking me?"

"Psssh, what? No." He laughed nervously, suddenly aware he might be coming on too strong. Wine drunk Jules was always a menace. He needed to chill.

But then she hit him with this smile that was pure trouble. "Wanna hang in the jacuzzi?"

Fuck yes.

"Bet."

He practically ran to his room, yanking off his sweater and digging through his suitcase for his trunks. A quick shower, his robe, those Ugg slippers he'd never admit to loving, and he was back downstairs starting up the jacuzzi.

Wine. Need wine.

He grabbed a fresh bottle and glasses, setting them up on the ledge just as Y/N appeared at the doorway. And – oh.

Her robe slipped off to reveal this black bikini that was definitely designed to kill men on sight. The way she eased into the hot water, sighing at the temperature, had his hormones going insane.

"This is perfect," she said, tilting her head back.

Jules slipped in across from her, trying to keep his eyes respectful even though that bikini was making it difficult. The wine made it easy to talk, to laugh, to gradually move closer until their legs were almost touching under the water.

"You're different," he found himself saying.

"Different how?"

"Just… real. Not trying to be anything else."

Her eyes met his in the dim light. "Maybe you're just used to people playing games."

"Maybe." He was definitely closer now, close enough to see water droplets on her eyelashes. "Or maybe you're just special."

The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility. Then Y/N's hand found his under the water, and that was all the invitation he needed.

The first kiss was soft, testing. But then her fingers slid into his dreads, and he was gone. Her lips soft but demanding against his, and he pulled her closer as the kiss deepened.

They broke apart for air, but he couldn't stop, pressing kisses along her jaw, down her neck. Her quiet gasp when he found a sensitive spot had him tightening his grip on her waist.

"Jules," she breathed, and his name had never sounded better.

He captured her lips again, slower this time but no less intense. Everything else faded – the sound of the jacuzzi, even the wine forgotten on the ledge. There was just this, just her, just the way she fit perfectly against him.

When they finally pulled apart, staying close enough to share breath, Y/N laughed softly. "Definitely better than the sauna, huh?"

Jules grinned, stealing another quick kiss. "Definitely worth it."

"High praise."

"You have no idea."

Who would've thought the quiet girl who reads would be the one leaving everyone in her snow dust?

Jules watched Y/N zip ahead on her snowmobile, her all-white ski fit with that polka dot puffer making her look like some winter fashion editorial come to life. But it was the way she handled the machine – confident, fearless – that had him thinking about last night. About how those same hands that gripped the handlebars had been in his dreads, about how that mouth, which was now hidden behind the black helmet, had felt against his…

"Keep up!" she called back, and yeah, he was definitely in deep trouble.

They stopped at this clearing that looked like something out of a Christmas card – untouched snow stretching for miles, mountains in the background. While AK set up the drone for aerial shots, Van immediately started on what she claimed would be "the baddest snowman in Lapland."

Jules found himself drifting toward Y/N like she had her own gravitational pull. She was adjusting her helmet, cheeks flushed from the cold and the speed.

"Didn't expect you to be such a speed demon," he said, reaching out to fix a strand of hair that had escaped her helmet.

"There's a lot you don't know about me yet." That smile again, the one that made his stomach flip.

"Yet?" He stepped closer. "That mean I get to find out more?"

"Maybe." She looked up at him through those lashes. "If you play your cards right."

The others were occupied – Van directing AK on proper snowman architecture, Nas trying to get Wilhelm to race him again, Stef actually getting decent drone footage – when Jules decided to shoot his shot.

"Skip ice fishing with me?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "And do what instead?"

"Thought we could chill at the villa instead? Unless you're really excited about sitting on ice for hours…"

"Trying to get me alone?"

His laugh was low. "Is it working?"

Later, the group visited the small village of Levi, and Van pulled Y/N into some boutique, leaving Jules to deal with his boys' inevitable commentary. They found a coffee shop, and Jules knew from AK's face this conversation was coming.

"So," AK said, that smug look taking over his features. "Nous allons en parler?"

"Parler de quoi?" (Talk about what?)

"À propos de la façon dont je suis le meilleur ailier de tous les temps? À propos de la façon dont mes compétences en matière de jumelage sont d’élite?" (About how I'm the best wingman ever? About how my matchmaking skills are elite?)

Stef rolled his eyes. "L’élite? Après cette catastrophe de Mykonos?" (Elite? After that Mykonos disaster?)

"Ou cette fille à Ibiza," Wilhelm added.

"Ou l’entrepreneur en thé détox," Nas chimed in.

"Vos compétences de jumelage sont généralement nulles," Jules corrected, though he couldn't help smiling. "C’est clairement une consade." (Your matchmaking skills are usually trash. This is clearly a fluke)

"Et qu'en est-il quand tu l'as embrassée dans le jacuzzi?" (And what about when you kissed her in the jacuzzi?)

Jules nearly choked in his coffee. "Comment as-tu fait—" (You guys saw that?)

"S’il-vous-plaît," Wilhelm cut in. "Toute la cabine a des fenêtres, génie." (The whole cabin has windows, genius)

"Et Van t’a vu en route pour piller le réfrigérateur," AK added. (And Van saw you on her way to raid the fridge)

"Et Nas espionnait depuis le sauna," Stef said. (And Nas spying from the sauna)

"Surveillance!" Nas corrected. "Je menait à la surveillance." (I was surveilling)

"Vous êtes trop les gars," Jules muttered, but he was fighting a smile.(You guys are too much)

"Admettez-le," AK pressed. "J’ai bien fait cette fois-ci." (Admit it, I did well this time)

"Je n’admets rien." (Im not admitting anything)

"Ton visage admet tout," Wilhelm said. "Tu brilles comme un adolescent avec son premier béguin." (Your face admits everything. You shining like a teenager with their first crush)

Before Jules could defend himself, the girls returned loaded with bags, and damn if Y/N didn't look good with snowflakes in her hair.

_______________________________________________

Their guide showed up for the ice fishing expedition, and Van's parting shot to Y/N was pure Van: "Have fun getting your back blown out!"

"She's something else," Jules muttered as the others left.

"That's one way to put it." Y/N was already heading toward the kitchen. "So, what's the plan?"

The plan turned into Jules showing off his cooking skills – nothing fancy, just some pasta aglio e olio and garlic bread, but the way Y/N watched him cook made him feel like a master chef.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked, perched on the counter while he worked.

"My mum. Said no son of hers was going to survive on takeaway." He handed her a taste of the sauce. "Good?"

Her eyes closed slightly as she tasted it. "Mm, perfect."

They ended up in the den, fire crackling, talking about everything and nothing. About that club Van was insisting they hit for New Year's ("It's Lapland, how lit can it be?"), about Y/N's job at Vogue ("The Devil Wears Prada lied, it's actually worse"), about Jules' family in France and Benin.

"You're really not that bad," Y/N said suddenly.

"Where’s this coming from?"

"From what I expected. From what Van said."

"Van talks about me?"

Y/N's laugh was soft. "She tried to warn me you were shy. Said you'd probably just brood in corners looking pretty."

"And?" He shifted closer.

"And…" Her eyes dropped to his lips. "You're definitely pretty."

This kiss was different from last night – slower, more deliberate. Like they had all the time in the world to explore this thing between them. His hand found that spot on her neck that made her sigh, and her fingers was back in his dreads.

Yeah, maybe AK's matchmaking skills weren't completely trash after all.

Jules couldn't stop kissing Y/N if he tried, each kiss deeper than the last, more urgent. His hand found its way into her hair, curls falling loose from her updo.

Everything had shifted, like the whole universe was conspiring to make this moment happen. Y/N pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, "Do you want to come up?"

"Yeah." He tried to play it cool, but his mind was going absolutely crazy. HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT. Here he was, Jules Koundé, known for being calm and composed in front of 90,000 people at Camp Nou, completely losing it over six words from this girl.

Following Y/N upstairs felt like torture in the best way. She moved with this effortless grace that had him mesmerized, throwing these looks over her shoulder that was sin – half shy, half something else that made his stomach flip.

When her door finally clicked shut behind them, the air felt electric with possibility. Jules stood still, his dark eyes tracing the curve of Y/N's silhouette as she leaned back against the door. She reached up to pull the last pin from her updo, letting her curls tumble free. Jules swore he forgot how to breathe.

"You look nervous," Y/N said softly, her voice light, teasing, as she stepped closer, her bare feet barely making a sound against the floor.

"Do I?" Jules asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, but the way her hands brushed against his chest when she closed the space between them made it impossible to care.

"A little," she said, tipping her head back to meet his gaze. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer. "I like it, though. Makes me feel powerful."

Jules huffed out a laugh, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe." She tilted her head, her lips brushing against his.

That was all it took for him to close the distance, his mouth slanting over hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Y/N sighed into it, her arms winding around his neck as his hands explored the curve of her back, her hips, the warmth of her skin beneath the material of her clothing.

He backed her toward the bed, his fingers trailing down to the hem of her thermal top, pushing it up to reveal the soft skin of her stomach. When the back of her knees hit the mattress, Y/N pulled him down with her, their laughter mingling with their heavy breathing.

"You're in such a hurry," she teased when they broke apart for air.

"Can you blame me?" Jules smirked, his hands sliding over her hips, fingers hooking into the band of her leggings.

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with another kiss, deep and deliberate, his tongue brushing against hers. His hands worked her leggings down, the fabric clinging stubbornly until he finally peeled them away, leaving her in just a simple pair of black underwear and the thermal top pushed up to her ribs.

"You’re stunning," Jules murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, as his gaze roamed over her.

Y/N smiled, reaching for him. "Your turn."

Jules obliged, pulling off his sweater in one swift motion, the muscles in his chest and arms catching the light in a way that made her breath catch. He leaned back down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, earning a soft gasp as her hands roamed his back.

The thermal bunched higher as his kisses trailed down her neck and across her collarbone, his fingers skimming along the edge of her panties. Y/N arched into him, her nails grazing his skin lightly, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

When she reached for the button of his pants, Jules caught her wrist, his eyes dark and hooded. "Slow down," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "We’ve got all night."

Y/N grinned up at him, her cheeks flushed, her breathing unsteady. "Then you’d better make it worth it."

Jules took his time, his hands tracing over Y/N's curves with a slowness that had her squirming beneath him. His fingers slid her panties down her legs, his dark eyes drinking in every inch of her as more of her was revealed.

Her arousal glistened between her thighs and Jules felt his stomach tighten at the sight.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He pulled back just enough to sit up, his dreads falling forward, framing his face as he looked at her.

His gaze took in the soft rise and fall of her chest, her thermal pushed up to just beneath her breasts. "This has to go," he said, his voice teasing as his fingers tugged at the hem of the fabric. She lifted her arms, letting him pull it over her head, and then he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. The garment fell away, baring her to him entirely.

Jules let out a slow breath. Her breasts were full, her nipples pebbled, and he couldn't resist leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of one, his lips brushing her skin softly before moving lower.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his lips dragging a path across her stomach. His eyes dipped back down, lingering between her thighs. "And this—" He ran a finger along the slickness there, grinning when she shivered. "So pretty. I need to have a taste."

Y/N flushed, her breath hitching as she propped herself up on her elbows to meet his gaze. "I’ve never met a guy who actually liked giving head," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, though there was a teasing lilt in it.

Jules raised an eyebrow, his grin widening into something almost wicked. "You've been messing around with the wrong niggas, cherie," he said, shaking his head as if it were an absolute tragedy. He settled himself between her thighs, his hands gently coaxing them wider. "Don't worry. We're gonna change that."

His words sent a shiver through her, her anticipation building as his lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. "Jules," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

"Relax," he said, glancing up at her, his eyes filled with heat and something softer beneath it. "I've got you."

Not to brag because, honestly, it wasn't his style, but this was his thing. Eating pussy was state-of-the-art to him, an art form he'd mastered, a skill that had left more than a few women crashing out over it. He took pride in it, sure, but it wasn't just about being good at it. He enjoyed it. The taste, the sounds, the way a woman’s body responded when he knew exactly what to do — it was intoxicating.

And Y/N? She was a masterpiece. The way her body trembled, her soft gasps, and the way she shifted her hips as if seeking him out — she was an active participant, not someone who held back. It made every second feel electric, like a performance where they were both in perfect sync.

Another box checked. She was fucking perfect.

That thought hovered in his mind for a beat too long, a flash of something deeper creeping in, and he shoved it away. This wasn’t about feelings. Not right now. Right now, he had a job to do. So he got to work.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss just above her center, letting his breath ghost over her. His tongue followed, a slow swipe that had her hips jerking upward. "Relax, cherie," he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and tinged with amusement.

She whimpered softly, her thighs quivering against his hands as he pushed them farther apart. His tongue explored her folds with purpose, slow and teasing at first, mapping every inch of her like he had all the time in the world, but when her moans grew louder, more urgent, he picked up the pace, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused flicks of his tongue against her clit.

"Jules," she gasped, her hands diving into his dreads, holding on for dear life as he worked her over.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending a jolt through her body. Her hips bucked, and he grinned, tightening his grip on her thighs to hold her still. "You're so fucking responsive," he said, his voice muffled as he dove back in.

She moaned again, her body writhing against him, and Jules felt a rush of pride — and hunger. He wasn’t stopping until she was completely undone, every thought wiped clean except for him and what he was doing to her.

Her breathing hitched, turning into desperate little gasps, her thighs trembling around his head. "That’s it," he murmured, his lips brushing against her. "Let go for me."

And when she did — her back arching, a cry spilling from her lips, her body shaking with the force of it — Jules couldn’t help but smile. He’d always enjoyed this part, watching the aftermath, the way a woman's body melted into the mattress, chest heaving and cheeks flushed.

"See?" he said, his voice warm and teasing as he kissed his way back up her body. "Told you we were gonna change that." Jules brushed a kiss against Y/N’s lips, still tasting her arousal on his tongue, before pulling back. His voice was soft but charged as he asked, "Got a condom?"

Y/N nodded, her breath still uneven. "In my tote bag. Corner of the room."

He gave her another quick kiss, playful and lingering, before sliding off the bed. She watched him stride over to the tote, his movements unhurried, almost teasing, as if he knew exactly what kind of show he was putting on.

When he crouched down and opened the bag, his smirk widened. "What do we have here?" he mused, holding up a sleek vibrator with a raised brow.

"Oh, my God," Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Put that back, Jules."

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and dropped the vibrator back into the bag. "No judgment. Just saying we might have to use this some other time."

She peeked out from between her fingers. "You’re ridiculous."

"Mm, you like it," he shot back, pulling out the pack of Trojans. He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk turning downright sinful. "Found what I was looking for."

He walked back toward her, the condom packet in one hand and her gaze traveled down, taking in the way he casually shucked off his pants, then his boxer briefs, until he stood completely bare in front of her, his arousal standing proud and unashamed.

Y/N's eyes widened slightly and she had that usual smile on her face.

He tore open the packet with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers as he sheathed himself. The deliberate way he rolled the condom on, his movements smooth and precise, sent a fresh wave of heat through her.

Jules caught the way her thighs shifted on the bed, the way her teeth caught her bottom lip, and his grin softened into something deeper, more intimate. "You good, cherie?" he asked, his voice warm and genuine as he climbed back onto the bed.

Y/N nodded, her fingers reaching out to touch him, to pull him closer. "I’m good," she murmured.

Y/N was bringing out something else entirely in him. Something raw. Something freaky. And honestly? It was only right. If she was going to let her inner freak shine, Jules had no problem meeting her there. He had a feeling, though—there was something about the way she smiled, all soft and sweet, but with that glint in her eyes that promised trouble.

He stayed between her legs, his gaze dragging over her like she was a masterpiece he couldn’t stop studying, like he wasn’t in any rush. Jules had patience, especially when the reward was something like this.

"You’re bad, you know that?" he said, his voice low and teasing as his hands slid up her thighs.

Y/N smirked, her eyes half-lidded. "And you’re just figuring this out?"

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, I’ve been clocking it. Just didn’t realize how bad."

His hands gripped her thighs a little firmer, pulling her closer so he could line himself up. The slick heat of her against him was enough to make his head tip back for a second, eyes closing as he gathered himself. When he looked at her again, she was watching him with that little smile, her legs shifting to hook around his waist.

Yeah, she’s definitely a freak.

He liked that. A lot.

"Say the word, cherie," Jules murmured, his voice softer now, the teasing edge melting into something deeper.

Y/N didn’t hesitate, her hands sliding up his arms, her nails grazing his skin. "Do it."

That was all he needed. Slowly, he pushed into her, taking his time, letting her feel every inch. The way her body tensed, then melted beneath him, had his heart pounding in his chest.

"Shit, Y/N," he muttered, pausing once he was fully inside her, giving her a moment to adjust. "You’re... God, you’re perfect."

She exhaled shakily, her hands gripping his shoulders as she shifted beneath him. "You can move," she said, her voice breathy but certain.

Jules smiled, something almost wicked flashing in his eyes as he pulled back, then thrust forward again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

It wasn’t long before her moans filled the room, soft and then louder, her hands roaming over his back, her nails digging into his skin in a way that had him groaning. "Damn," he said, his tone full of admiration. "You like that, huh?"

She nodded, biting her lip to stifle another moan, but Jules wasn’t having that. "Don’t hold back," he said, his voice firm but still warm. "I want to hear you."

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against hers in a way that had the bed creaking under them. Y/N met him thrust for thrust, her body arching, her legs pulling him closer, deeper.

"Jules," she gasped, her voice trembling but filled with so much need it sent a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah, cherie?" he said, leaning down to kiss her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

"You’re gonna ruin me," she whispered, her voice full of awe and teasing all at once.

Jules chuckled, his forehead pressing against hers as his thrusts grew deeper, more intense. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "Let me show you how it’s supposed to be."

And oh, he did.

The intimacy of missionary was something he didn’t take lightly—he liked being able to look her in the eyes, to see the way her lips parted and her head tilted back as he rocked into her.

Her breath hitched with each thrust, her nails raking lightly down his back, leaving faint trails that hurt in the best way. Jules dropped his head, kissing along her jaw, her neck, then catching her lips in a kiss so heated it felt like it could burn the room down.

But as much as he loved this—her chest pressed against his, her thighs gripping his sides—his thoughts kept drifting. He couldn’t ignore the temptation of something he’d been eyeing for far too long.

Since they’d left Paris, Jules had been trying not to be a complete dog about it, but damn. Y/N’s ass was something else. Every time she walked ahead of him, he found his gaze following the sway of her hips, the way those leggings hugged her perfectly.

And now? Thank God.

"Turn over for me," Jules murmured.

Y/N blinked up at him, dazed but smiling, and she nodded, biting her lip as she shifted beneath him. Jules helped her, his hands guiding her onto her stomach, then pulling her hips up until she was on all fours.

And there it was.

His breath caught for a moment, his hands gripping her waist as he took in the view. "Damn, cherie," he whispered, his voice thick with appreciation. "This fucking ass."

She laughed, glancing back over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed. "You like it?"

"Yeah," Jules said, smirking as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. "And now I get to see it properly."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the small of her back, then one to each cheek, his goatee grazing her skin, making her shiver. He took his time, his hands roaming, gripping, appreciating every inch of her.

When he finally lined himself up and thrust back into her, the angle hit different—for both of them. Y/N gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets, her back arching as he set a steady rhythm, his hands on her hips keeping her steady.

"Fuck," Jules muttered, his voice rough, his movements deliberate but powerful. He watched the way her body moved with him, the way her ass bounced with each thrust. It was hypnotizing.

"You good?" Y/N asked, her voice breathless, teasing.

Jules chuckled, leaning forward just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder, his chest brushing against her back. "Better than good," he said, his voice low in her ear. "You feel like heaven, cherie."

Her laugh turned into a moan as he adjusted his angle, hitting deeper, harder. Jules was relentless but attentive, listening to every sound she made, every shift in her body, making sure she felt as much pleasure as he did.

And as much as Jules was enjoying the view—and he really was—it was the sounds she made, the way she responded to him, that had him losing his mind. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered "Jules" was fuel, driving him to keep going, to give her more.

"Perfect," he groaned, his voice almost reverent as he tightened his grip on her hips, thrusting harder. "You’re fucking perfect."

"Ooh fuck, Jules....yes."

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to that precipice with each thrust. She felt so good, better than he could imagine, and when her moans began to turn into screams...yeah...he prayed that no one heard them.

They finally came, her orgasming first and then him immediately after. Both of them still catching their breath, hearts beating a little faster than normal. Jules looked down at Y/N as his sweaty body slumped over hers.

"You're something else, Y/N," Jules said, his voice low but filled with admiration as he moved away to dispose of the condom.

She chuckled softly, rolling onto her side and facing him. "I could say the same about you."

The moment felt calm, peaceful almost, and for once, there was no rush. Jules stroked her hair gently as he lay next to her, the space between them filled with a comfortable silence.

Y/N reached up, brushing her lips softly against his, lingering for a moment before pulling back. "So... what happens now?" she asked, her eyes playful but still searching for some sort of direction.

"I guess we just chill then maybe another round," he replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jules woke up to sunlight streaming through Y/N's bedroom windows, the snow outside making everything look bright white and clean. Inside though? Inside was all warmth – her room somehow perfectly heated (unlike his ice box down the hall), and Y/N's bare skin pressed against his under her ridiculously soft sheets.

He couldn't help smirking a little, remembering last night. Everything had gone exactly as he'd hoped when he followed her upstairs, that confidence he usually saved for the pitch coming in clutch.

Now here he was, watching her sleep and feeling pretty good about himself. She looked different like this – all soft edges and messy curls, evidence of their night together in her slightly smudged makeup and the marks he'd left on her neck.

"Stop staring," she mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Not staring." He was definitely staring. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how you stole all the covers in the middle of the night."

She cracked one eye open. "Lies and slander. I'm a perfect sleeping companion."

"You literally kicked me."

"You were hogging the bed!"

"It's a king size bed!"

Her laugh was still morning-rough, and something about it made his stomach do that flip thing again. She stretched, the movement doing interesting things to the sheet's positioning, and – he was staring again.

"Like what you see?"

"You fishing for compliments this early?"

"Maybe." She propped herself up on one elbow, looking at him with those eyes that got him into this situation in the first place. "Is it working?"

Instead of answering, he pulled her down for a kiss. She tasted so good and when she made that little sound in the back of her throat...

A loud bang on the door made them jump apart.

"Y/N!" Van's voice carried through the wood. "Stop riding Jules and come get breakfast! We got husky sledding in an hour!"

Y/N groaned, burying her face in Jules' chest. "I'm going to murder her."

"I'll help hide the body."

"My hero."

They lay there for another moment, his hand playing with her hair, neither wanting to break the bubble they'd created. Outside, he could hear the others moving around – Van's loud laugh, AK telling someone to hurry up, the clatter of plates downstairs.

"We should probably..."

"Yeah."

But neither moved.

"Or we could just stay here," Y/N suggested, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest that were very distracting.

"Tempting." He caught her hand before it could wander lower. "But if we don't show up, Van will absolutely break down that door."

"Ugh, fine." She sat up, the sheet falling away, and – oh.

"You're making it really hard to be responsible right now."

Her smile was pure trouble. "I can see just how hard it is."

"You're terrible."

"You like it."

And yeah, maybe he did. Maybe he liked a lot of things about this girl who read actual books and drove snowmobiles like a pro and kissed like she meant it. Maybe he was in trouble in the best possible way.

But first: breakfast. And then huskies. And then... well, they had time to figure out the rest.

Jules pulled on his clothes from last night, unable to keep the satisfied smile off his face as Y/N disappeared into her en suite. The sound of her shower starting up had him thinking dangerous thoughts, but nah – they needed to actually make it to breakfast.

His own room felt weirdly cold and unfamiliar after the warmth of Y/N's bed. Quick shower, fresh clothes, trying and failing not to think about last night while he got ready. By the time he made it downstairs, Y/N was already at the breakfast table looking way too good in her red puffer, black ski pants hugging curves he now knew intimately. Those Moon Boots shouldn't have been cute but somehow were.

Their villa's chef had outdone himself – full spread of everything from eggs benedict to fresh pastries, fruit platters that looked like art. Y/N was already nursing a coffee, and the way she smiled at him over the rim of her cup had him remembering exactly how she'd smiled last night when—

"Earth to Jules," Stef called out, snapping him back to reality. "You want the last croissant or can I have it?"

Y/N slid the pastry toward Jules with a wink that definitely meant trouble. "Better fuel up. Long day ahead."

Van’s eyebrows raised in pique interest as she drank her mimosa.

The bus ride to the husky farm should've been chill, but Van immediately dragged Y/N to sit with her, that look in her eye that meant interrogation was coming. Jules caught Y/N's slightly panicked look and had to laugh – she was about to get the full Van experience.

"So," he heard Van start as he settled in his own seat. "Don't leave out any details..."

The husky farm was everything the brochures promised – dozens of excited dogs practically bouncing in their harnesses, their breath visible in the cold morning air. But Jules was only half listening to Erik, their guide, explain the basics of sledding. He kept getting distracted by Y/N's animated conversation with Van a few feet away.

"—and then he did WHAT?" Van's voice carried, way too loud.

Y/N's eyes met his across the snow, this little smile playing at her lips that had him remembering exactly what he'd done.

"Focus, lover boy," Wilhelm muttered, elbowing him. "Unless you want to crash into a tree."

Erik paired them up – two per sled – and obviously Jules ended up with Y/N. Obviously Van made some comment about "riding" that had AK trying not to laugh while pretending to scold her.

"You good?" Jules asked as Y/N settled into the front of their sled, his hands on her hips maybe lingering longer than necessary as he helped her in.

"Better than good." She looked back at him with that smile that was becoming dangerous for his mental health. "Though a bit sore."

Before he could respond to that loaded comment, the dogs took off, their excited barking filling the crisp air as they raced through the snow.

The dogs pulled them through this winter wonderland that didn't seem real – all pristine snow and frosted trees, sunlight making everything sparkle. But Jules was more focused on how Y/N kept leaning back against him, the way she fit perfectly between his arms as he held the reins.

"This is incredible!" she called back, turning her head just enough that he could see her profile, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement.

"The dogs or my steering skills?"

"Both." She settled more firmly against him. "Though I think I could drive better."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhmm. Wanna switch?"

They pulled to a stop at a clearing where Erik had planned a break. Y/N hopped out with that same grace she did everything, immediately going to thank their dogs by name because of course she'd memorized them already.

"Sven likes you," Erik noted as one of the huskies practically melted under Y/N's attention.

"The feeling's mutual," she cooed, scratching behind the dog's ears while Jules watched, something warm spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with his heavy coat.

"You're staring again," Van said, appearing beside him with two cups of hot chocolate from Erik's thermos.

"Mind your business."

"Impossible. This is literally the most entertainment I've had since that Mykonos disaster."

"Which you promised to never bring up again."

Van's laugh was loud enough to make the dogs look over. "Sweetie, that story is getting told at your wedding."

"Whose wedding?" Y/N asked, joining them with snow in her hair.

"No one's," Jules said quickly, but Van was already cackling.

"Just planning ahead," she said with a wink before dramatically calling out, "BABE! Come take pictures of me with the dogs for the gram!"

AK dutifully pulled out his camera while Y/N gave Jules a questioning look.

"Do I want to know?"

"Definitely not." He handed her the other hot chocolate. "Ready to show me these superior driving skills you were bragging about?"

And watching her handle the sled with the same confidence she'd shown on the snowmobile (the same confidence she'd shown last night), Jules thought about how sometimes the best things in life came from letting go of control.

The next few days were a mess of heated kisses, late-night jacuzzi sessions that definitely weren't just about enjoying the water, and fucking each other’s brains out. Y/N kept "accidentally" ending up in Jules' room instead of her own, and he definitely wasn't complaining. Even Van's knowing looks at breakfast couldn't dim the way Y/N's sleepy morning smile hit different when she was wearing his clothes.

Santa's Village had Van acting like a whole child, dragging them from attraction to attraction, but Jules couldn't even be annoyed because Y/N kept catching his eye and biting back laughs.

The go-karting was pure chaos – Y/N proving yet again she was secretly an adrenaline junkie, drifting through the snow like she'd been doing it her whole life. "Your girl's crazy," Stef had said, watching her lap Nas for the third time.

Your girl. Jules liked the sound of that more than he probably should.

Sledding turned into an all-out war, teams forming naturally until it was couples versus singles. "That's not fair," Nas had complained. "You two got that honeymoon phase energy!" But watching Y/N trash talk Wilhelm in her posh accent while absolutely destroying everyone on the slopes? Top tier entertainment.

Then New Year's Eve hit, and Van finally got her wish about that club. It was actually decent – something about drinking champagne in an ice bar while the Northern Lights danced overhead felt surreal. But Jules was more focused on how Y/N felt pressed against him as they danced, how she tasted like champagne and promises when they kissed at midnight.

They'd barely left his room the next day, making up for lost time until Van literally broke in with a spare key because "I NEED MY BEST FRIEND!"

Now here they were, back in Paris, the magic of Lapland already feeling like a dream. They landed in Paris just after sunset, the January air was soothing after Lapland's intense cold. The private terminal was quiet except for Van's dramatic goodbyes – she was basically hanging off Y/N like they hadn't just spent a whole week together.

"I'm gonna miss you so much!" Van wailed while AK tried not to laugh.

"Girl, I'll literally see you next weekend," Y/N said, but hugged her back just as tight.

The guys were more lowkey with their goodbyes – Nas and Stef dapping Y/N up with a "you're cool people" and "don't be a stranger," while Wilhelm gave her a quick hug and whispered something that made her laugh and Jules narrow his eyes suspiciously.

"You sure you don't want to stay at AK’s?" Van tried again, finally releasing Y/N. "We can get brunch tomorrow before heading back to London..."

"I've got that editorial meeting first thing," Y/N sighed, adjusting her carry-on. "Need to prep tonight."

That's when Jules stepped in, unable to let the week end just like that. "Stay at mine."

"I really should get back..."

"I’ll even go with you on the train to London tomorrow morning."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Why should I even stay?"

The look he gave her said everything he couldn't in public. Her quiet "fine" was trying to sound put out but didn't quite hit the mark.

In his car, one of his hands was on the wheel while the other found her thigh. The city lights caught the snow that had started falling – nothing like Lapland's heavy drifts, just light dustings that made everything look softer.

"Your playlist is actually decent," Y/N said, scrolling through his Spotify. "Though I'm judging the amount of Drake."

"Leave Drake alone."

"Make me."

His laugh was low. "Later."

They fell into comfortable silence as Steve Lacy came on, and Jules tried to sort through the thoughts that had been building all week. This wasn't supposed to happen – he barely had time to breathe between matches and training, let alone time for a relationship. But here he was, already thinking about when he could see her next.

"So," he finally said, aiming for casual. "This thing..."

"This thing?" Her smile was teasing.

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"You're not going to make this easy, huh?"

Her laugh was soft. "When have I ever made anything easy for you?"

True. From that first moment in the private terminal to right now, she'd challenged him at every turn. Maybe that's why this felt different.

"I want to see where this goes," he said finally. "Like, properly."

"Properly?" She was definitely enjoying watching him squirm. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means I want to figure out our schedules. See when you can come to Barcelona. When I can come to London." He glanced at her. "If you want."

The smile she gave him made his chest tight. "I want."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She squeezed his hand. "Let's see what happens."

Later, watching her sleep in his bed like she belonged there, Jules thought about how AK finally redeemed himself with suggesting his girl and her bestie join them on their boys trip.

Speaking of AK, Jules' phone buzzed with a text:

"So... best wingman ever or BEST wingman ever?"

For once, Jules didn't argue. He typed out a reply:

"You redeemed yourself…but barely."

Then he placed his phone back onto his bedside table and smiled at a peacefully sleeping Y/N.

The conference room at CAA Sports feels like a fucking courtroom, and Jiana Jackson is pretty sure she's about to get the death penalty. The leather chair beneath her is too stiff, the air conditioning set to arctic blast, and her agent Rob sits across from her looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. Rob Martinez—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, wearing a Tom Ford suit—has that look on his face. The one that means she's about to hear some shit she definitely doesn't want to hear.

Here we go, Jiana thinks, crossing her arms over her chest. The defensive posture is automatic, learned from years of protecting herself in situations where bad news came wrapped in concerned voices and disappointed expressions.

"Jiana," Rob starts, his voice carrying that careful tone she's learned to hate. It's the same voice her social workers used to use, the same one her mother's public defender had perfected. "We need to talk."

"We are talking," she replies, but her stomach is already twisting itself into knots. The wall-to-wall windows of the Beverly Hills office show a perfect view of LA sprawl, palm trees swaying in the October heat, and she finds herself wishing she was anywhere but here. "So talk."

Rob slides a tablet across the polished mahogany table, the glass surface reflecting the recessed lighting overhead. ESPN headlines fill the screen in that familiar red and black font: "Sparks Forward Jiana Jackson Ejected After Technical Foul," "Jackson's Locker Room Altercation Raises Questions," "WNBA's Bad Girl: Has Jiana Jackson Gone Too Far?"

She's seen them all already. Hell, she's lived them all. Each headline represents a moment when her anger got the better of her judgment, when the pain she carries around like a second skin finally broke through the surface. The problem is that the pain never goes away, but the headlines keep multiplying.

"Your reputation is becoming a problem," Rob says bluntly, and Jiana appreciates that he's not trying to sugarcoat it. After four years of working together, he knows she prefers brutal honesty to diplomatic bullshit. "The Sparks management is getting pressure from the league office. They appreciate your talent—you averaged 18.2 points and 8.4 rebounds this season—but talent doesn't mean shit if you're a liability."

Liability. The word sits heavy in the air between them. It's not the first time she's been called that, and it probably won't be the last. From the moment she walked into that first foster home at eight years old, people have been trying to figure out what to do with Jiana Jackson. Too angry for some families, too damaged for others, too much trouble for anyone who wasn't her grandmother.

"I'm not a liability," she snaps, though even she knows it sounds weak. Her voice carries the slight rasp she's had since childhood, a remnant of too many nights spent screaming into pillows to muffle the sound. "I play hard. Sometimes that means getting physical."

"Getting physical is one thing." Rob leans back in his chair, and she can see the exhaustion in his dark brown eyes. He's been fighting for her longer than most people, longer than she probably deserves. "Getting arrested for public intoxication three hours before a playoff game is another."

The memory hits like a physical blow. That night three weeks ago—sitting in a holding cell in downtown LA, still wearing her pregame outfit, watching her teammates on the news talking about how disappointed they were. The shame had been worse than the hangover, worse than the media circus that followed.

She'd been dealing with her half-brother Jamari calling again, asking for money she didn't have to spare. "Mom's in the hospital again," he'd said, like that was supposed to make her care. Like twenty years of neglect and abuse could be erased by a medical emergency. "She's asking for you, Ji. She wants to make things right."

But there was no making things right. Not after what that woman had put her through. Not after what she'd allowed to happen.

"It was a mistake," Jiana mutters, picking at the edge of her thumbnail—a nervous habit from childhood that she's never been able to break.

"It was the last straw," Rob corrects, his voice gentler now. "The Sparks are considering a trade. They don't want to—you're one of the most talented players they've ever had—but they will if you don't get your act together."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Los Angeles is the only home she's known since her grandmother died five years ago. Grandma Rose had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else, wearing a homemade shirt with Jiana's number painted in glittery letters.

The thought of starting over somewhere else, with new teammates who'd already heard all the stories about her, makes her throat tight.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, and she hates how small her voice sounds. It reminds her of being fourteen years old, standing in a police station trying to explain why she'd beaten the shit out of three older girls who'd cornered her after school. "They started it," she'd said then, the same way she says it now. But starting it and finishing it are two different things, and Jiana has always been better at the finishing part.

Rob leans forward, his expression softening in that way that makes her think of her grandmother. Sometimes she forgets that Rob isn't just her agent—he actually gives a damn about her wellbeing, which makes him either incredibly stupid or incredibly loyal. Maybe both.

"I want you to take the off-season seriously," he says, pulling out a thick folder from his briefcase. The leather case is buttery soft, probably Italian, and she wonders absently if successful agents learn about expensive accessories in agent school. "Not just training, but working on yourself. Your mindset. Your reputation."

"I train hard every off-season—"

"In LA, where the same temptations and triggers are waiting for you every day," he interrupts, and she knows he's right even though she doesn't want to admit it. "I'm talking about a change of scenery. Complete change."

The Real Madrid logo catches her eye immediately, bold white letters against a royal blue background that somehow manages to look both classic and intimidating. She's not much of a soccer fan, but even she knows what that logo represents—excellence, tradition, winning at the highest level.

"Real Madrid Baloncesto," Rob explains, opening the folder to reveal glossy photos and official-looking documents. "Their women's team. They've extended an invitation for you to train with them during the WNBA off-season. October through March."

Jiana stares at the folder like it might grow teeth and bite her. The photos show a state-of-the-art facility that makes the Sparks' training center look like a high school gym. Players in crisp white and blue uniforms running drills, lifting weights, looking like they actually enjoy being there.

"Spain?" The word comes out strangled. "You want me to go to Spain?"

"I want you to go somewhere you can focus on basketball without distractions," Rob says patiently. "Somewhere you can rebuild your image and work with some of the best coaches in Europe." He slides another photo across the table—the Madrid Baloncesto women's team celebrating a championship, confetti falling around them like snow. "They've produced players who've gone on to dominate in the WNBA. This could be huge for your development."

Development. Another one of those words that follows her around like a lost dog. She's been "developing" her whole life—developing coping mechanisms, developing trust issues, developing a reputation for being too much trouble to handle.

"Or it could be a complete waste of time in a country where I don't speak the language," she says, but she's already studying the photos more carefully. The players look happy, united. Nothing like the tension she'd felt in the Sparks locker room these past few months, where conversations stopped when she walked in and teammates looked at her like she was a bomb that might explode at any moment.

"You'll learn," Rob says simply. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Ji. And it's not just about basketball. Real Madrid has one of the best PR teams in the world. They know how to rehab a public image."

Rehab. Like she's broken and needs fixing. Maybe she is. Maybe that's exactly what she needs—to be thousands of miles away from everything that reminds her of who she used to be, who she's been told she is.

"What about my sponsorships?" The practical question grounds her, pulls her back from the edge of whatever emotional cliff she'd been approaching. Under Armour and MAC Cosmetics aren't huge deals—not like what the NBA guys get—but they pay her bills and then some. More importantly, they represent the first time in her life that someone wanted to pay her for something other than keeping her mouth shut. "They okay with me disappearing to Europe?"

"Already cleared it with both brands." Rob's smile is genuine, the first real one she's seen from him today. "Under Armour is actually excited about the international exposure. They're trying to expand their European market, especially in women's basketball. And MAC..." He grins wider. "They're planning a European campaign launch next year. Having their brand ambassador playing in Madrid could work out perfectly."

He's thought of everything, which means he's been planning this for longer than just today. Probably since her arrest made national news, maybe even before that. The realization should piss her off—the idea that people are making decisions about her life behind her back—but instead she feels something that might be relief. Someone is looking out for her, even when she's too stubborn to look out for herself.

"When would I leave?" she asks, though she's not sure she's actually agreeing to anything yet. Her grandmother always told her to ask questions first and make decisions second, one of the many pieces of advice she's been terrible at following.

"Two weeks. Gives you time to get your affairs in order, maybe visit Rose before you go."

The mention of her grandmother hits different than she expects. Rose Jackson is buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills, a far cry from the South Central neighborhood where she'd raised Jiana after the state took her away from her mother. Every month, Jiana drives there with fresh flowers—sunflowers, because those were Grandma Rose's favorites—and sits by the headstone trying to figure out what the hell she's doing with her life.

"I need to think about it," she says finally, but they both know what her answer will be. Where else is she going to go? Back to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, where the silence is so thick she can taste it? Back to the Sparks, where her teammates tolerate her presence but don't really want her there?

Rob nods, sliding a business card across the table with elegant script that reads "Carmen Ruiz, Player Relations, Real Madrid C.F." "Carmen will be your point of contact in Madrid. She speaks perfect English, knows the city inside and out, and she's dealt with American players before. Think of her as your cultural translator."

"And if I hate it?"

"Then you come home and we figure out plan B." Rob's voice is steady, confident. "But I don't think you'll hate it. I think you'll find exactly what you've been looking for."

What I've been looking for. Jiana almost laughs at that. She's been looking for peace of mind, for a place where her past doesn't follow her around like a shadow, for the feeling of belonging somewhere that she lost when her grandmother died. But those aren't things you can find by changing geography. Those are things you have to build from the inside out, and Jiana's inside has been under construction for so long she's forgotten what the finished product is supposed to look like.

But maybe that's exactly why she needs to go. Maybe being somewhere completely new, where nobody knows her story or her reputation, is exactly the kind of fresh start she's been afraid to want.

"Forty-eight hours," she says, standing up and gathering the folder. "Give me forty-eight hours to decide."

Rob stands too, straightening his tie in a gesture that probably costs him a thousand dollars. "Fair enough. But Jiana?" He waits until she meets his eyes, and for a moment his expression reminds her so much of her grandmother that her chest gets tight. "This isn't just about basketball. This is about giving yourself permission to start over. Clean slate, new environment, new opportunities to be whoever you want to be."

New opportunities. The phrase follows her out of the building and into the parking garage where her Jeep Wrangler sits baking in the October LA heat. The car is one of her few indulgences—matte black with custom rims and tinted windows that let her disappear when she needs to. She sits in the driver's seat for a long moment, air conditioning blasting, staring at the folder Rob insisted she take with her.

Real Madrid. The most successful football club in the world, and apparently their basketball program isn't too shabby either. The photos show facilities that would make NBA teams jealous, players who look like they actually enjoy being there, coaches who seem invested in development rather than just managing personalities and putting out fires.

Her phone buzzes with a text from her teammate Nneka, asking if she wants to grab dinner. For a second, she considers it. Nneka is one of the few people on the team who still talks to her like a human being instead of a walking PR disaster, who remembers that underneath all the attitude and anger is someone who just wants to belong somewhere.

But then she thinks about sitting in some trendy LA restaurant, trying to pretend everything is fine while people at other tables recognize her and whisper about her latest fuck-up. The idea makes her stomach turn and her skin feel too tight, the way it always does when she feels trapped.

Instead, she drives home to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, taking the long way along the coast because the sight of the ocean sometimes helps quiet the noise in her head. The Pacific stretches endlessly to the horizon, indifferent to her problems and her reputation and her inability to stay out of her own way.

The apartment is nice—ocean views, modern kitchen, walk-in closet full of designer clothes she rarely wears because most places she goes, people are looking for reasons to judge her anyway. But it feels empty in a way that has nothing to do with furniture or decoration and everything to do with the fact that she's been living there for four years without making it feel like home.

She spreads Rob's photos across her coffee table, pushes her laptop aside, and FaceTimes the one person whose opinion actually matters to her.

"Hey, baby girl," comes the familiar voice of Coach Thompson, her high school coach who'd been more of a father figure than anyone else in her life. His weathered face fills the screen, dark skin lined with years of standing on sidelines and dealing with teenage attitudes, but his eyes are the same warm brown that had made her feel safe when she was seventeen and angry at the world. "How'd the meeting go?"

"About as well as expected," Jiana says, settling back into her couch and pulling a throw pillow into her lap. "Rob wants to ship me off to Spain."

Coach Thompson's eyebrows raise toward his receding hairline. He's in his sixties now, retired from coaching but still involved with youth programs in South Central, still the same man who'd seen something in a angry, defensive teenager that nobody else wanted to deal with. "Spain? That's a new one. What's in Spain?"

She explains the Real Madrid opportunity, watching his expression shift from skeptical to thoughtful as she talks. He's one of the only people who knows her whole story—the childhood trauma, the trust issues, the way she uses anger as armor to keep people at a distance. He'd been there through the worst of it, never judging, never trying to fix her, just consistently showing up until she'd finally learned to trust that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Sounds like Rob is looking out for you," he says when she finishes. "Question is, are you ready to let him?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" But she knows what it means, even as she asks the question.

"Jiana, I've known you since you were fourteen years old, sitting in my office after getting suspended for fighting." His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he'd used when she was a teenager convinced that the whole world was against her. "You've got more talent in your pinky finger than most players have in their whole body. But talent isn't what's holding you back, and we both know it."

She knows where this is going, but she asks anyway because sometimes she needs to hear it said out loud. "What is?"

"Fear," he says simply, and the word hits like a physical blow because it's true. "Fear of trusting people. Fear of letting your guard down. Fear of being vulnerable enough to actually grow."

The words sting because they cut straight to the bone, past all her defenses and excuses to the truth she's been running from for years. Ever since what happened with her mother's dealer when she was fourteen—the thing she's never talked about with anyone, not even Coach Thompson, not even the therapists her grandmother had insisted she see. Ever since the juvenile detention center, where she'd learned that the world was divided into predators and prey and she'd rather be the predator. Ever since watching her grandmother slowly waste away from cancer while Jiana was powerless to help, learning that loving someone just meant having more to lose.

"So you think I should go?" she asks, her voice smaller than she intended.

Coach Thompson is quiet for a moment, studying her through the screen with those eyes that have always seen too much. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "I think you should ask yourself what Rose would want you to do."

The mention of her grandmother makes her chest tight in a way that still catches her off guard, even five years later. Rose Jackson had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter, the only person who'd ever looked at Jiana and seen potential instead of problems. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else in her homemade shirts and costume jewelry, believing in Jiana even when Jiana didn't believe in herself.

And she'd died just as Jiana's professional career was beginning, leaving her alone with nothing but basketball and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign.

"She'd want me to stop being scared," Jiana admits quietly, the words barely audible even to herself.

"There you go," Coach Thompson's smile is warm, proud. "That woman raised you to be brave, not bitter. Maybe it's time to honor that."

After they hang up, Jiana sits in the quiet of her apartment, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows that she'd thought were so impressive when she'd first moved in. The Real Madrid folder sits open beside her, full of possibilities and unknowns that should terrify her but somehow don't.

Spain. A country she's never visited, a language she doesn't speak, a team full of strangers who probably know her reputation but not her story. It should be the kind of situation that sends her running in the opposite direction, the way she's been running from anything that requires trust or vulnerability for years.

Instead, for the first time in months, she feels something that might be hope.

_____________________________________________

The terminal is massive, all gleaming steel and glass, filled with the sounds of multiple languages and the constant movement of travelers heading to destinations she's only seen in movies. Everything feels foreign—the signs, the accents, even the way people dress and carry themselves. For a moment, the panic she's been keeping at bay threatens to overwhelm her.

What the hell am I doing here?

Carmen meets her at the arrivals gate. She’s a woman in her forties with short dark hair styled in a way that suggests she pays attention to fashion, kind eyes that remind Jiana a little of her grandmother, and the kind of professional warmth that seems genuine rather than forced. She speaks perfect English with just a hint of an accent, and she doesn't seem fazed by Jiana's obvious culture shock or the way she's gripping her carry-on bag like a lifeline.

"Welcome to Madrid," Carmen says, taking one of Jiana's bags despite her protests. Her handshake is firm, confident, and she's wearing a Real Madrid polo that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable. "How was your flight?"

"Long," Jiana admits, following her through the airport and trying not to gawk at everything like the tourist she definitely is. "And turbulent as hell over the Atlantic. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes somewhere over Ireland."

Carmen laughs, a genuine sound that helps ease some of the tension in Jiana's shoulders. "Your first time in Europe?"

"First time anywhere outside the US, actually." It feels embarrassing to admit, but it's true. Most of her teammates have traveled extensively—summer leagues in different countries, vacations in exotic locations that they post about on Instagram with captions about finding themselves. Jiana has always spent her off-seasons training in LA or visiting her grandmother's grave, too afraid to venture beyond the familiar.

"Then you're in for a treat," Carmen says as they approach a sleek black Mercedes that screams "expensive but understated." "Madrid is a beautiful city. Rich history, incredible food, some of the most passionate sports fans in the world."

The drive into the city is like something out of a European travel documentary. Ancient buildings with intricate facades stand next to sleek modern architecture, tree-lined boulevards stretch as far as she can see, and everywhere there are people—walking, talking, living their lives in a way that seems more relaxed than the constant hustle of LA. The city feels old in a way that America never does, like it has stories to tell and all the time in the world to tell them.

"Your apartment is in Malasaña," Carmen explains as they navigate through traffic that somehow seems more civilized than LA despite the narrow streets. "Great neighborhood, lots of young people, very safe. Close to the training facility and to the city center if you want to explore."

"And the team?" Jiana asks, watching Madrid unfold outside the window like a painting come to life. "What should I expect?"

Carmen glances at her in the rearview mirror, and Jiana can see her choosing her words carefully. "They're excited to have you. Your reputation precedes you, but in a good way. They know you're talented, and they respect what you've accomplished in the WNBA."

"Even with all the..." Jiana waves her hand vaguely, and Carmen's understanding smile tells her that she doesn't need to finish the sentence.

"Everyone has a story, Jiana. What matters is what you do going forward."

The apartment is better than she expected—a two-bedroom space on the third floor of a building that looks like it was built sometime in the last century but has been renovated with modern touches. High ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light, modern furniture that manages to feel both stylish and comfortable. There's a balcony overlooking a tree-lined street where she can see people walking dogs, carrying grocery bags, living their ordinary lives in a way that seems almost magical after the isolation of LA.

"You'll get a phone with a Spanish number, and there's Wi-Fi already set up," Carmen explains, showing her around with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "The kitchen is fully stocked with basics, and there's a grocery store two blocks away. El Corte Inglés is the big department store if you need anything else—clothes, electronics, whatever."

"When do I meet the team?"

"Tomorrow. Practice starts at ten, but come in at nine to get your physical done and meet the coaching staff." Carmen hands her a folder similar to the one Rob had given her weeks ago, but this one is in Spanish and English. "Everything you need is in there—training schedule, team contact information, emergency numbers. My cell phone is highlighted—call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything."

After Carmen leaves, Jiana stands in the middle of her new temporary home, feeling more alone than she has in years but also, strangely, more hopeful. The silence is different here—not the constant hum of LA traffic and sirens, but something quieter, more peaceful. Through the open balcony doors, she can hear the distant sound of conversation in Spanish, the clip-clop of heels on cobblestones, someone practicing guitar in another apartment.

She unpacks methodically, the ritual as much about claiming the space as it is about organization. Her clothes go in the spacious closet—Under Armour training gear, a few nice dresses for whatever social events might come up, the vintage Lakers jersey that had been her grandmother's. Her basketball shoes go by the door, a habit from childhood that she's never been able to break. Her few pieces of jewelry—the diamond studs Rob had given her when she signed her first endorsement deal, the simple gold chain that had been her grandmother's, the small cross pendant she'd worn since she was baptized at eight years old—go on the dresser beside a photo of her and Grandma Rose at her high school graduation.

By the time she's finished, the sun is setting, painting the apartment in warm orange light that makes everything look like a postcard. She should be hungry—it's been hours since she ate anything substantial—but her stomach is still on California time, confused and slightly rebellious.

Instead, she sits on the balcony with a bottle of water, watching people walk by on the street below and trying to process the reality of where she is. Tomorrow she'll meet her new teammates, women who probably know her statistics but not her story. Tomorrow she'll start the process of rebuilding her career and maybe, if she's lucky, herself. Tomorrow the real work begins.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Jiana Jackson allows herself to feel something that might be optimism. Maybe Rob was right. Maybe this is exactly what she needs—a place where she can be whoever she wants to be, instead of whoever she's been told she is.

___________________________________________

The training facility is everything the photos promised and more, a testament to the kind of resources that come with being part of the most successful sports organization in the world. State-of-the-art equipment that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie, multiple courts with perfect hardwood and professional-grade lighting, weight rooms that put most NBA facilities to shame. Jiana arrives early—partly because she's still adjusting to the time change and partly because she wants to get a feel for the place before meeting everyone.

The physical exam is routine but thorough—height, weight, body fat percentage, flexibility tests, blood work, the kind of comprehensive evaluation that makes her feel like a racehorse being assessed for breeding potential. At 6'2" and in the best shape of her life, she knows she's impressive on paper. It's everything else she's worried about.

"Your Spanish is..." The team doctor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, pauses diplomatically as she reviews Jiana's medical history.

"Nonexistent," Jiana supplies, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. "I'm working on it."

"Don't worry. Most of the team speaks English, and they're very patient with Americans who are learning. You'll pick it up faster than you think."

The coaching staff is a mix of Spanish and international backgrounds, led by head coach Elena Vargas, a former professional player who speaks four languages fluently and has a reputation for developing young talent. She's probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggests she's seen it all and isn't easily impressed.

"We're not here to change who you are," Coach Vargas explains during their one-on-one meeting in her office, which is decorated with trophies and team photos spanning decades. "We're here to help you become the best version of yourself. On and off the court."

It's exactly what Jiana needs to hear, even if she's not sure she believes it yet. Too many coaches have tried to mold her into something she's not, to smooth out the rough edges that make her effective on the court but difficult to manage off it.

Meeting the team is the part she's been dreading most since the plane touched down. Fifteen women from different countries and backgrounds, all of whom probably know her reputation for being difficult, for being the kind of player who comes with warning labels and asterisks. She expects judgment, whispers, the kind of cold reception she'd gotten from some of her teammates in LA after her arrest made national news.

Instead, she gets enthusiastic introductions and what seems like genuine enthusiasm for her presence. María Sánchez, the team captain, is a point guard in her late twenties with the kind of court vision that makes everyone around her better. She speaks perfect English with a slight British accent—the result, she explains, of playing professionally in London for three years—and immediately takes Jiana under her wing with the easy confidence of someone used to being a leader.

Lucia Romano, a shooting guard from Italy, shares stories about her own adjustment period when she first arrived in Madrid three years ago, not speaking Spanish and feeling overwhelmed by the cultural differences. Even the younger players, the ones who seem like they should be intimidated by having a WNBA All-Star join their team, are eager to practice with her and ask questions about playing in America.

"They're good people," Coach Vargas tells her after the first practice, as they watch the team cool down and chat in small groups. "Give them a chance."

Practice itself is brutal in the best possible way, a reminder of why she fell in love with basketball in the first place. The pace is faster than she's used to, the style more fluid and creative than the structured systems she's played in since college. There's less emphasis on set plays and more on reading and reacting, on building chemistry through repetition and trust rather than rigid adherence to schemes.

Jiana finds herself working harder than she has in months, pushing her body to keep up with teammates who've been playing together for years, who communicate in a mixture of Spanish, English, and basketball universal language. By the end of the two-hour session, she's exhausted, exhilarated, and cautiously optimistic about what the next few months might hold.

"You did good today," María tells her as they stretch in the cool-down area, sweat still cooling on their skin despite the October chill. "Tomorrow will be even better."

"Thanks," Jiana says, and she means it more than she expected to. "This is... different than I expected."

"Different how?"

Jiana considers the question, trying to put her finger on what feels so foreign about this environment. "Less toxic, I guess. More like a team and less like a group of individuals competing against each other for playing time and recognition."

María nods knowingly, the kind of understanding that comes from years of experience in different basketball cultures. "That's the Madrid way. We succeed together or we fail together. No room for egos or drama."

No room for drama. Jiana can work with that, even if drama seems to follow her around like a lost dog regardless of her intentions.

After practice, she grabs lunch at a small café near the facility, a tiny place with mismatched chairs and walls covered in local artwork. She practices her Spanish on the patient waitress who corrects her pronunciation with gentle humor and seems genuinely delighted by her attempts to order in broken Spanish. The food is incredible—fresh bread that tastes like it was baked that morning, olive oil that seems to have been blessed by gods, jamón that melts on her tongue like butter.

Later that night, in her apartment, she thinks about how long these five months will be and whether or not she made the right choice coming here.

Across the city, Aurélien is having the best water break of his life, and his teammates are starting to worry.

"Bruv, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jude jogs over, grinning. "You're smiling like you won the lottery."

Aurélien can't stop scrolling through his phone, refreshing Instagram for the third time in two minutes. He's been following WNBA news religiously for years—initially because someone said American women could actually ball, but staying because the level of play genuinely impressed him.

But this? This is something else entirely.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, not looking up from his phone. His accent wraps around the English words in that way it always does when he's distracted, consonants just a little too precise. "Everything's perfect, actually."

Camavinga bounds over, always ready to investigate any potential drama. At twenty-three, he's got more energy than a hyperactive puppy and the curiosity to match. "Let me see," he demands, trying to grab Aurélien's phone. "What's got you acting like this?"

"Like what?" Aurélien pulls his phone away, but he's still grinning, and he knows his face is giving him away. He licks his lips—a nervous habit he's had since childhood—and tilts his head in that way he does when he's thinking about something that makes him happy.

"Like you're in love," Vinícius Jr. says with a laugh, joining their little circle. "Who is she? Spanish girl? French? Please tell me it's not another Instagram model."

"Better," Aurélien says, and he can hear the excitement in his own voice. "So much better."

He holds up his phone, showing them the post that's got him acting like a teenager with his first crush. It's from thescoreWNBA, one of the basketball accounts he follows religiously:

liked by wnba, hoops4life, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 1.3M others

BREAKING: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson will spend the WNBA off-season training with Real Madrid Baloncesto's women's team. The 24-year-old All-Star arrives in Madrid this week for a five-month stint. 🏀⚪

ballfan23: Spain about to see what real basketball looks like 👑

wnbastanley: MADRID BETTER TREAT OUR GIRL RIGHT

eurohoopsaddict: She's gonna dominate over there. Different level.

madridista_forever: Welcome to the best city in the world!

basketballjunkie99: Plot twist: she never comes back to the WNBA 😂

hoops4life: 5 months in Madrid? Lucky girl

"Oh shit," Jude says, recognizing the look on Aurélien's face. "You know her?"

"Know her? Bro, she's incredible. Like, legitimately one of the best in the world."

He'd discovered Jiana while she was at USC, initially drawn to the highlights of her dunking. But it was her overall game that kept him watching—the way she could take over when needed, her defensive intensity, leadership qualities that showed even when teammates seemed to annoy her.

"You have a crush on a basketball player?" Camavinga asks, amused. "That's so random."

"It's not random. She's one of the best to ever do it."

"Show us," Vini says, genuinely curious.

Aurélien pulls up YouTube, finding a highlight reel from her rookie season. They huddle around his phone, watching her dominate with size, skill, and intensity that's undeniable.

"Damn," Jude whistles. "She can actually play."

"She's beautiful too," Vini adds appreciatively. "Those tattoos are nice."

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly. "She's not just beautiful. She's talented, smart..." He trails off, realizing how he sounds.

"You're whipped for someone you've never met," Camavinga laughs. "This is amazing."

"I'm not whipped. I just appreciate good basketball."

"Uh-huh," Jude grins. "And her being gorgeous has nothing to do with it?"

The whistle blows before Aurélien can respond, but as they resume practice, his mind races with possibilities. Jiana Jackson, here in Madrid, training next door.

He's going to have to figure out how to meet her without looking like a complete fanboy.

"Focus, Tchouaméni!" the coach barks as he misplaces an easy pass. "Where's your head?"

About a hundred meters away, he thinks but doesn't say.

That evening, Aurélien sits in his La Moraleja villa while Uncle Bertrand cooks, filling the house with Cameroonian spices. Ocho, his Belgian Malinois, plants himself beside his chair, brown eyes hopeful for dropped food.

"You're distracted," Bertrand observes, setting down ndolé that Aurélien barely tastes.

"Just thinking about training."

"Training, hmm?" Bertrand's tone suggests he doesn't buy it, but he doesn't push. He's been around long enough to know when to give Aurélien space to work through whatever is occupying his mind.

Aurélien absently scratches Ocho's ears while scrolling through his phone again. The Real Madrid Baloncesto women's team has posted a welcome message for their new American player, and the comments are full of excitement from Spanish basketball fans. He finds himself studying every photo of Jiana he can find, trying to get a sense of who she is beyond the highlight reels.

Her Instagram is practically bare, which he respects even as it frustrates him. Her public persona suggests someone who values privacy, who doesn't seek attention for its own sake. The interviews he can find show someone articulate and thoughtful, though there's always an edge to her responses that suggests she doesn't suffer fools gladly.

"She's pretty," Bertrand says casually, and Aurélien nearly drops his phone.

"What?"

"The basketball player you've been staring at for the past hour." Bertrand's smile is knowing. "Very pretty. Good player too, from what I can see."

"I wasn't—" Aurélien starts, then gives up.

"I know many things, nephew. Including when you're interested in a woman." Bertrand sits down across from him with his own plate. "What's her story?"

Aurélien finds himself explaining what he knows about Jiana Jackson—her college career at USC, her WNBA accomplishments, the fact that she's supposed to be training with the Real Madrid women's team for the next five months. He doesn't mention the part about having watched her highlights obsessively for the past few years, or the way his heart rate picks up every time he sees a photo of her.

"Sounds like fate," Bertrand says simply when he finishes.

"Fate?"

"Your favorite player, coming to your city, training at your facility." Bertrand shrugs like it's obvious. "What else would you call it?"

Aurélien wants to argue, but the logic is hard to dispute. What are the odds that the one American basketball player he's been borderline obsessed with would end up in Madrid, of all places?

"I should probably leave her alone," he says, though even as he says it, he knows he won't. "She's here to work, not deal with football players trying to hit on her."

"Probably," Bertrand agrees. "But there's a difference between hitting on someone and being friendly. You're part of the Real Madrid family too. It would be rude not to welcome her properly."

The rationalization is thin, but Aurélien clings to it anyway. He's just being welcoming. Showing proper hospitality to a fellow Real Madrid athlete. Nothing inappropriate about that.

His phone buzzes with a text from Jude: So when are you going to accidentally run into your basketball crush?

Aurélien doesn't respond, but he's already making mental notes about training schedules and facility layouts. Just in case an opportunity presents itself.

______________________________________________

The next afternoon, Jiana navigates her first full team practice. The language barrier is more challenging than expected—not because teammates aren't accommodating, but because basketball has its own vocabulary that doesn't always translate.

"More aggressive!" Coach Vargas calls in Spanish, then English. "Use your size! You're bigger than everyone—act like it!"

It's advice she's heard her whole career, but there's something different about how Coach Vargas says it. Not like she needs to apologize for physical advantages, but like she should be proud of them.

Practice is intense but enjoyable, focused on fundamentals and chemistry rather than rigid systems that had drained her love for the game in LA. Teammates are patient with her Spanish, generous with their English.

"You're picking up the system quickly," María says during a water break. "Most players take weeks to adjust."

"Different but good different. More creative than what I'm used to."

Through the windows, she can see movement in the men's complex next door. Real Madrid footballers going through routines with impressive athleticism and precision.

"They're good to look at, aren't they?" Lucia grins, following her gaze. "Some of the most beautiful men in the world, all in one place in Spain."

"I'm here to play basketball," Jiana says automatically.

"Of course," María agrees, smiling. "Just saying, if you change your mind, there are worse places to appreciate attractive men."

After practice, Jiana heads to recovery—ice baths and stretching, her body adapting to European training intensity. She's finishing her cool-down when she hears voices in the corridor, speaking French and Spanish. Male voices, probably the men's football team.

For a moment, she's tempted to look, but that way lies distraction. She gathers her things and heads for the exit.

She's walking toward the parking garage when she hears rapid footsteps behind her. Her defensive instincts kick in—years of unwanted attention—but the voice that calls out is friendly.

"Excuse me!"

She turns, immediately on guard. A man in Real Madrid training gear approaches, and her first thought is oh shit because he's exactly the kind of distraction she came here to avoid. He's tall—probably six-two as well—with dark skin and a fresh high taper fade that frames his face perfectly. His features are striking in that casually sexy way that should probably be illegal: full lips, an African nose that speaks to his heritage, and the kind of effortless confidence that comes from being successful and knowing it.

"You're Jiana Jackson, right?" His accent wraps around her name, making it sound more interesting than usual.

"Yeah," she says carefully, taking a step back. Her defenses are fully up now because this man is trouble with a capital T, and she can tell just by looking at him. "And you are?"

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," he says, extending his hand. The name comes out in a way that sounds foreign to her ears.

"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He smiles, and she notices how it transforms his whole face. "Oh-ray-lee-EN Choo-ah-MEN-ee," he says slowly, pronouncing it properly. "Or just Aurél if that's easier. I know French names are weird."

His handshake is firm but brief, professional athlete to professional athlete. No lingering contact or attempts to stand too close, which she appreciates even as part of her notices how his training shirt clings to his chest.

"Right," she says, because her brain seems to have temporarily malfunctioned. "Aurél."

"I play for the men's football team. Just wanted to welcome you to Madrid," he continues, and she can see genuine enthusiasm in his dark eyes. "I'm actually a huge fan of your game. Been following the W for a few years now."

This catches her off guard. Most people—especially men—who claim to follow women's basketball can barely name three players. "You really watch women's basketball?"

"All the time," he grins, and the expression transforms his entire face in a way that makes her stomach flutter annoyingly. "Started during the bubble, got hooked. The level of play is crazy—pure basketball, you know?"

He's not performing or trying to impress her, she realizes. He's genuinely excited to talk about the sport, the same way she gets when someone wants to discuss technical aspects instead of drama and storylines.

"What's your favorite team?" she asks, testing his knowledge.

"Don't really have one. I just love good basketball." He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that somehow makes him look younger. "But I've been keeping up with the Sparks since you got drafted. That series against Vegas last year? Man, you were cooking."

The specificity surprises her. He's talking about games from months ago with the kind of detail that suggests he actually watches, not just highlights on SportsCenter.

"Well," she says, adjusting her gym bag and trying to ignore how his eyes seem to track the movement, "thanks for the welcome. I should head home—still adjusting to the time change."

"Of course," he says immediately, stepping back to give her space. She notices he's careful not to crowd her, which shows more awareness than most men his age possess. "Just wanted to say hi. If you need anything—food recommendations, help with Spanish, whatever—feel free to ask. We're all Real Madrid family here, right?"

The offer seems genuine, and his smile is the kind that makes people want to trust him. Which is exactly why Jiana's defenses slam back into place. Men who seem too good to be true usually are, especially when they look like they just stepped off a magazine cover.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, noncommittal but polite. "See you around."

"See you around, Jiana Jackson," he says, and the way he uses her full name makes it sound like something special.

As she walks away, she can feel him watching her go, but when she glances back, he's already heading in the opposite direction, seemingly unaffected by their interaction.

Interesting, she thinks despite herself. Very interesting indeed.

But also dangerous. Because the last thing she needs is to get distracted by a pretty face with an accent, no matter how good he looks or how genuine his interest in basketball seems.

She came to Madrid to figure her life out, not to complicate it further. And Aurélien Tchouaméni—with his perfect fade and easy smile and way of saying her name like it means something—feels like exactly the kind of complication she should be running from.

The problem is, for the first time in a long time, she's not sure she wants to run.

The Real Madrid men's team has the day off before their match against Celta Vigo, which means Aurélien is supposed to be resting, maybe doing some light recovery work, definitely not sitting courtside at a basketball arena getting increasingly distracted by a woman who probably doesn't even care that he exists.

But here he is anyway, flanked by Jude and Cama in the premium courtside seats at WiZink Center, trying to look casual while internally freaking out about seeing Jiana Jackson play live for the first time.

"Mate, you've been checking your phone every two seconds," Jude observes, his Birmingham accent cutting through the arena noise. "What's got you buzzing?"

Aurélien slips his phone into his pocket, that unconscious lip-licking thing he does when he's thinking. "Just excited for the game."

A young boy, maybe ten years old, approaches with his father, clutching a Real Madrid jersey. The security guard starts to wave them away, but Aurélien catches the kid's eye and nods toward the guard.

"It's alright," he tells security in Spanish, then to the boy. "What's your name?"

"Pablo," the kid says shyly, his English careful and practiced. "Can I... picture with you?"

"Course you can," Aurélien grins, standing up and moving closer to the barrier. Jude and Cama follow suit, all three of them posing with the starstruck kid while his father takes photos on his phone.

"You like basketball too?" Cama asks the boy in Spanish.

Pablo nods enthusiastically, launching into rapid Spanish about how he plays for his school team and wants to be tall like the American players someday.

"Keep working hard," Jude tells him, ruffling his hair. "Maybe one day we'll see you playing here, yeah?"

After they take a few more photos and sign the kid's jersey, the family heads back to their seats, beaming. Aurélien settles back into his chair, that warm feeling he always gets from fan interactions spreading through his chest.

"That was sweet," Cama says. "Remember when we were that age?"

"Speak for yourself," Jude grins. "I'm still that age mentally."

"We can tell," Aurélien shoots back, but he's smiling.

The arena starts filling with that pre-game energy that's universal across all sports—the kind of electric anticipation that makes his skin prickle with recognition. The Spanish crowd is different from football crowds, more family-oriented, but the passion is just as real.

The paparazzi are having a field day with three Real Madrid stars at a women's basketball game. Aurélien can see the flashes going off, but he's gotten used to that kind of attention over the years.

"Proper circus, this," Jude mutters, noticing the cameras. "Should've known they'd make a meal of it."

"Free publicity for the women's team though," Cama shrugs. "That's good, right?"

Before Aurélien can respond, the arena lights dim and music starts pumping through the speakers. The Madrid Baloncesto women's team is coming out for warm-ups, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe properly.

Because Jiana Jackson dressed for game night is something else entirely.

She's wearing an oversized bomber jacket in army green with patches and embroidered details that scream expensive streetwear. Underneath is a fitted black crop top that shows off the subtle glint of a belly piercing, and her legs are wrapped in leather pants that look like they were painted on. Her hair is styled in sleek waves, and she's carrying herself with the kind of confidence that suggests she knows exactly how good she looks.

"Bloody hell," Jude whistles low. "She's gorgeous, mate. Properly fit."

"Look at those legs," Cama adds appreciatively. "How tall did you say she was?"

"Six-two," Aurélien says automatically, his voice slightly hoarse. He licks his lips unconsciously, watching as she moves with that easy athlete's grace he recognizes from his own teammates.

"Six-two," Jude repeats, grinning. "That's almost as tall as you, bruv. Must be nice not having to break your back talking to someone for once."

Aurélien makes a noncommittal sound, but privately he's thinking that Jude isn't wrong. There's something appealing about the idea of being with someone who can look him in the eye, who takes up space with the same kind of unapologetic confidence that comes with being a professional athlete.

"She moves like us," Eduardo observes, his tone more serious now. "Like, you can tell she's elite just by how she walks. That body language....ouf."

It's surprisingly insightful, and Aurélien finds himself nodding. There is something familiar about the way she carries herself—the same kind of controlled confidence he recognizes in elite athletes, the constant subtle awareness of her environment that marks the truly gifted ones.

"Court vision," he says quietly, watching as she starts her warm-up routine. "That's what they call it in basketball."

"You actually know about this sport now?" Jude asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "Fair play to you, that."

The warm-up routine is mesmerizing to watch. Jiana moves through drills with fluid precision, every movement purposeful and controlled. She's stripped down to just the crop top and leather pants now, the bomber jacket folded neatly on the bench, and Aurélien can see the intricate tattoo work covering her arms in more detail.

"Fuck me, she's talented," Cama murmurs as she sinks three consecutive three-pointers from different spots. "Like, really good."

"She averaged eighteen and eight last season," Aurélien says, then immediately regrets it when both his teammates turn to stare at him.

"Eighteen and eight what?" Jude asks.

"Points and rebounds per game," Aurélien explains, giving up any pretense that this is casual interest. "Those are quality numbers."

"You've been doing homework," Cama grins. "That's actually mad. When did you become a basketball expert?"

Before Aurélien can answer, something catches his attention. Jiana has moved closer to their section of the court, working on shooting drills, and for just a moment their eyes meet across the distance.

It's probably nothing—athletes look at the crowd all the time, especially the expensive seats where sponsors and celebrities sit. But for just a second, he swears she pauses, like she's trying to place where she's seen him before.

"Mate," Jude says quietly. "She's clocking you."

"She's just looking around," Aurélien argues, but his heart rate has definitely increased.

"Nah, she's looking at you," Cama chimes in. "And now she's saying something to her teammate."

Sure enough, Jiana has turned to María Sánchez and they appear to be having a brief conversation while glancing toward the courtside seats. It could be about anything, but the way María grins and says something that makes Jiana shake her head suggests it might be about him.

"This is torture," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Should've stayed home."

"Are you mental?" Jude laughs. "This is quality entertainment. You're absolutely gone for her."

"I'm not gone for anyone," Aurélien protests weakly. "I just think she's class."

"And fit," Cama adds helpfully.

"And tall," Jude continues.

"And I like that shit," Aurélien says before he can stop himself, then immediately wants to disappear into his seat.

The moment of silence that follows feels like an eternity.

"Did you just—" Jude starts.

"No," Aurélien says quickly. "I didn't say anything."

"You definitely said you like that she's tall," Cama says, barely containing his laughter. "Which is probably the most honest thing you've said all night."

Before Aurélien can respond, the warm-ups end and both teams head back to their locker rooms for final preparations. The break gives him a chance to collect himself, though his teammates seem determined not to let him off the hook.

"So," Jude says, settling back in his courtside seat, "what's the plan here? You gonna try chat her up after the game?"

"There's no plan," Aurélien insists, that lip-licking thing happening again. "We're here to watch basketball, remember?"

"Right," Cama nods. "Basketball. That sport you just now care about."

"I've always been interested in different sports," Aurélien says weakly.

"Name another WNBA player," Jude challenges.

"Besides Jiana?" Aurélien stalls, trying to remember names from his recent research. "Uh... A'ja Wilson?"

"Fair enough," Cama concedes. "That's actually a proper player."

"I told you I've been learning," Aurélien mutters, but he's grateful he managed to pull a name out.

Before the conversation can continue, the teams return to the court for player introductions. The arena goes dark except for spotlight that follows each player, and the crowd's energy shifts from casual excitement to genuine enthusiasm.

"Y desde Los Ángeles, California, la delantera, número veintitrés, ¡Jiana Jackson!"

The spotlight finds her at the tunnel entrance, and Aurélien's breath catches. She's changed into her Madrid Baloncesto uniform—clean white with royal blue accents that somehow make her look even more imposing. The crop top and leather pants have been replaced by the team jersey and matching shorts. Her hair is now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing that game face he's seen in highlights but never in person.

She jogs to center court with easy confidence, acknowledging the crowd's applause with a small wave that manages to be both gracious and completely unbothered.

"Proper class, that," Jude murmurs appreciatively. "She carries herself like she belongs, doesn't she?"

Aurélien nods, not trusting himself to speak. Because "class" doesn't begin to cover what he's seeing. Jiana Jackson in person, in her element, commands attention without demanding it.

The thing that gets him most is how focused she is. She's not looking at their section anymore, not seeking out recognition from the crowd. She's locked in, professional, treating this like the serious competition it is.

"You know what I rate about her?" Cama says quietly.

"What?"

"She's not bothered that we're here," Cama observes. "Like, she probably knows who we are—everyone in Madrid knows who we are—but she's not playing to us or trying to impress anyone. She's just here to ball."

It's exactly what Aurélien has been thinking. Too many people treat meeting him like an opportunity—a photo, a connection, a story to tell. But Jiana Jackson is treating this like what it is: her job, her passion, her chance to prove herself.

"That's what makes her different," he says quietly. "She's not here for anyone but herself and her team."

"And that's what makes you fancy her even more," Jude adds perceptively. "Because she's not trying to impress you, which makes you want to impress her."

Aurélien starts to deny it, then realizes there's no point. "Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what it is."

The game starts with Madrid winning the tip-off, and immediately Aurélien understands why Jiana Jackson is considered elite. She moves like water and strikes like lightning, seeming to anticipate plays before they develop. Her first basket comes three minutes in—a smooth jumper from the free-throw line that doesn't even touch the rim.

"Crisp," Cama murmurs appreciatively. "Look at that technique."

It really is textbook. Perfect shooting form that probably took years to develop, executed with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from thousands of hours in the gym. But what impresses Aurélien more is her court vision, the way she sets up teammates and creates opportunities even when she could easily score herself.

"She's not selfish," he observes, watching as she threads a pass through traffic to set up an easy score for María. "Could've taken that shot herself."

"Smart player," Jude agrees. "Knows when to be aggressive and when to facilitate."

"Like a good midfielder," Cama adds, and Aurélien nods because the comparison actually makes sense. The way Jiana controls tempo and creates opportunities reminds him of how the best midfielders orchestrate games.

By halftime, Madrid is up by fifteen and Jiana has seventeen points, seven rebounds, and five assists. The numbers are impressive, but what's more impressive is how effortless she makes it look. Never forcing anything, never getting frustrated, just consistently making the right play.

"She's gonna be class in Europe," Aurélien says during the break, watching her interact with coaches. "The style here suits her perfectly."

"You mean the team-first mentality?" Jude asks.

"Exactly. American basketball can be very individual-focused, but European basketball is more about system and chemistry. She's already adapting her game."

It's true. Even from their courtside seats, he can see how Jiana is adjusting her usual style to mesh with her new teammates. Less isolation plays, more ball movement, constantly communicating. It's the mark of a truly elite player.

"You actually understand this sport," Cama says with genuine respect. "I'm learning stuff just listening to you."

"It's not that different from football, really," Aurélien explains, his hands moving as he talks. "Reading spaces, creating opportunities, knowing when to be patient and when to attack. The fundamentals are the same."

The second half is even better. Jiana seems to grow more comfortable with each possession, her chemistry with teammates becoming more apparent. She hits a three-pointer that has the crowd on their feet, then immediately celebrates with her team like their success matters more than individual stats.

"Look at her face," Jude says during a timeout. "She's proper enjoying herself out there."

He's right. Despite the professional intensity, there's something joyful about how Jiana plays. She's not grimly grinding through another obligation—she's doing something she genuinely loves.

"That's what passion looks like," Aurélien says quietly, unconsciously tilting his head as he watches her. "When you love something so much that even at the highest level, it still brings you joy."

"You sound like you're talking from experience," Cama observes.

Aurélien thinks about that. Does he still feel that way about football? The joy, the pure love that makes everything worth it? Lately it's been more about pressure and expectations. But watching Jiana reminds him of what it felt like when he was younger, when football was just the thing he loved most rather than the thing he was paid to excel at.

"Maybe I need to remember that feeling," he admits.

The game ends with Madrid winning by twenty-one, Jiana finishing with twenty-four points, ten rebounds, and eight assists. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she shakes hands with opponents, and she acknowledges the applause with that same gracious wave.

"So," Jude says as they prepare to leave, "you gonna go chat to her then?"

Aurélien looks down at the court, where Jiana is being interviewed by reporters while teammates celebrate around her. Even from a distance, he can see how carefully she answers questions—thoughtful, professional, giving credit to others rather than focusing on her individual performance.

"No," he says finally. "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Cama asks, genuinely curious.

"Because tonight was about her," Aurélien explains, licking his lips as he thinks. "About proving herself to a new team, new city, new league. She doesn't need some footballer interrupting that moment."

Jude and Cama exchange a look that suggests they think he's being overly considerate.

"But you're still interested," Cama says. It's not a question.

Aurélien watches as Jiana finishes her interview and heads toward the locker room, surrounded by teammates who clearly already respect her. She belongs here, in this moment, where her talent speaks louder than any reputation.

"Yeah," he admits. "I'm still interested."

"Then what's the plan?" Jude asks.

Aurélien considers this as they make their way out, nodding to photographers who capture their exit but managing to avoid direct questions about why three Real Madrid footballers spent their night off at women's basketball.

"Be patient," he says finally. "Let her settle in, focus on basketball, get comfortable in Madrid, then maybe I'll see what's up."

"That's very mature of you," Cama says, sounding slightly surprised.

"Or very stupid," Jude adds with a grin. "Depends how you look at it, bruv."

Maybe it is stupid. Maybe he should have gone down to the court, introduced himself properly, and asked her out like a normal person. But something tells him Jiana Jackson isn't the kind of woman who responds well to typical approaches, and that anything worth having with her is going to require more patience than he's used to bringing.

As they walk out into the cool Madrid night, Aurélien pulls out his phone and finds himself scrolling through photos and videos from tonight's game already appearing on social media. There's a particularly good shot of Jiana's game-winning three-pointer, her face a study in focused concentration.

"Research?" Cama asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Appreciation," Aurélien corrects, pocketing his phone. "Just appreciation."

But as he drives home through Madrid's quiet streets, he's already thinking about when he might see her again, and how he can make sure that when he does, it's because she wants to see him too.

For the first time in years, Aurélien Tchouaméni is genuinely interested in getting to know someone who isn't immediately impressed by who he is. And that might be exactly what he's been looking for without knowing it.

CHAPTER 14.1: Silverstone Baby

Monaco's summer heat made Rorie's growing bump feel even more pronounced as they entered Dr. Dubois's office. At sixteen weeks, her petite frame couldn't hide the pregnancy much longer - oversized shirts and blouses had become her wardrobe staple.

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind since The Sun's public apology and retraction. Social media had exploded with support after the karting charity race in Austria. "This is what journalism should focus on!" one viral tweet read, accompanied by photos of the junior racers in their miniature suits. "Lewis Hamilton's son has his racing lines DOWN" another proclaimed, with side-by-side comparisons of father and son's driving styles.

The racing community had rallied around them, the paddock's usual politics temporarily forgotten in the face of watching their children race. Even the typically cynical F1 journalists had nothing but praise for the event, particularly after learning the cancelled practice session had been Stefano Domenicali's idea.

"Getting winded already?" Lewis asked softly as Rorie paused in the lobby of Dr. Dubois's office, Dr. Chen's trusted colleague in Monaco.

"Your child's pressing on everything," Rorie replied, adjusting her flowing top. "Between this and keeping up with our son..."

Lyric, ever curious, explored the waiting room with enthusiasm. "Mama sick again?"

"No, baby. Just tired." She settled into a chair, grateful for the air conditioning. "The Sun's apology bought us some time, but people will start noticing soon. That video of me at the karting race had some comments already."

Lewis nodded, pulling Lyric onto his lap. "Post-Silverstone party will be perfect timing. Everyone together for your birthday and Lyric's..."

"And Baby LH squared's debut," Rorie finished, rubbing her bump. "At least Dr. Chen's referral worked out - I wasn't looking forward to flying back to Los Angeles every few weeks."

Dr. Dubois welcomed them warmly. "Ah, the Hamiltons! Angela's told me so much about you. And who's this young man?"

"I'm Lyric!" he announced proudly. "I race now!"

"Oh yes, I saw the videos," Dr. Dubois smiled. "Second place - very impressive! Would you like to help me today? We're going to look at pictures of your baby brother or sister. Sarah and Angela mentioned you're about sixteen weeks now?"

"Yes," Rorie confirmed as she settled onto the exam table. "Angela said you've worked together for years?"

"Since our residency," Dr. Dubois smiled, preparing the ultrasound. "She called me personally about your case. Now, let's see this little one."

The ultrasound screen flickered to life, and Dr. Dubois began the examination. Lyric pressed closer to Lewis, fascinated by the images.

"There we are..." She pointed to the screen. "Look, Lyric - the baby's sucking its thumb!"

"Baby tiny," Lyric observed, his nose almost touching the monitor.

"Not so tiny anymore," Dr. Dubois smiled. "About the size of an avocado now. Let's see if we can determine the sex..." She pressed the wand against Rorie's belly, but the baby seemed determined to maintain its privacy. "Stubborn little one. Let me try something Angela taught me..." Her hands gently pressed around Rorie's bump, encouraging the baby to shift position. "Ah, there we go! Congratulations - you're having a girl!"

Lewis's face split into a triumphant grin. "I knew it!" He bent to kiss Rorie's belly, then her lips. "Told you, love."

"Finally a girl dad, eh?" Dr. Dubois chuckled.

Lewis couldn't contain his happiness. "Lyric, you're going to have a sister!"

Lyric considered this news carefully. "Like L’waura?"

"Yes, like Laura," Rorie laughed, thinking of how the two had become even more inseparable since the karting race. "Would you like that?"

"Name her L’waura?" Lyric asked hopefully.

"We'll add it to the list," Lewis promised, catching Rorie's amused look. They both knew Laura would remain just Lyric's friend rather than his sister's name.

Dr. Dubois printed several ultrasound photos, including one of their daughter still sucking her thumb. "She's perfect," she assured them. "Strong heartbeat, good size - though Mama might feel a bit cramped soon with such a tiny frame."

"Already do," Rorie admitted, accepting Lewis's help to sit up. "Worth it though."

As they left the office, Lyric holding tight to the ultrasound picture of his sister, Rorie leaned into Lewis's side. "A girl," she whispered.

"A girl," he repeated, voice full of wonder. "Think she'll let us sleep more than this one did?"

"Hamilton genes?" Rorie laughed. "Not a chance."

"I believe you owe me dinner. I won our bet," Lewis grinned.

"You're insufferable when you're right," Rorie groaned good-naturedly.

"Ice cream?" Lyric piped up hopefully.

Lewis scooped him up. "Of course - we're celebrating your sister after all."

The Silverstone fanzone vibrated with energy as Lewis stepped onto the stage. The British crowd's roar was deafening as he climbed the steps alongside George Russell, both Mercedes drivers grinning at their home fans. Flags waved in the sea of people - Union Jacks mixed with Mercedes silver and Lewis's purple personal flag.

"Lewis, George - what an incredible turnout!" The interviewer shouted over the crowd. "Your home race always brings out the fans, but this feels special today."

"It really does," George agreed, waving to a group from King's Lynn. "Nothing like racing at home."

"Lewis, we see quite the family gathering here for you?"

"Yeah, got everyone here today," Lewis beamed. "My mum, dad, stepmum Linda, my sisters Nicola and Sam, my brother Nicolas, all the nieces and nephews. And of course, my wife and Lyric."

The crowd erupted at the mention of his son's name, many holding up signs referencing his karting race performance.

"Like Father, Like Son!" read one sign.

"Lyric Hamilton 2040 WDC!" proclaimed another.

"Speaking of Lyric," the interviewer jumped in, "that was quite the showing in Austria. Any thoughts on Mercedes 2040 - Hamilton and Wolff junior lineup?"

Lewis chuckled at the interviewer's suggestion about Lyric's future F1 career, shaking his head. "He's not even two yet!" His smile was warm but firm. "If he wants to race when he's older, I'll support him completely. But no pressure - he needs to find his own path, his own passions. The karting race was for charity and fun. Let him be a kid first."

The crowd's appreciation for his answer was evident in their cheers. George nodded in agreement. "Though I have to say," he added with a grin, "his racing lines were pretty impressive for a toddler."

"Takes after his dad," the interviewer laughed. "Speaking of racing today, both of you qualified strongly. Lewis, P2 - your best qualifying this season. How are you feeling about the race?"

"I feel good. I'm ready."

The pre-race preparation felt different today. Maybe it was having his entire family present, or maybe it was something more - a feeling in the air.

The formation lap. Grid position. Five red lights.

Lights out.

Lewis got a perfect start, challenging Max into Turn 1. The Red Bull defended, but Lewis stayed close, waiting. The Mercedes had shown strong race pace all weekend.

Lap after lap, he maintained the pressure. The pit stops came and went, the gap remaining constant. Then, on lap 48, a chance - Max went slightly wide at Copse.

Lewis pounced, taking the inside line. This time, unlike 2021, there was no contact. Clean, precise, perfect. The crowd roared as he took the lead.

"Great move, Lewis," Bono's voice crackled over the radio. "Twelve laps to go, let's bring this home."

Those final laps felt eternal. Each corner, each straight stretched impossibly long. But the checkered flag finally flew, and Lewis Hamilton crossed the line first at Silverstone once again.

"YES!" His victory radio message was pure emotion. "Thank you everyone! We're back!"

The cooldown lap was a blur of waving to the crowds, his heart pounding with joy. In parc fermé, his father reached him first, wrapping him in a tight embrace. His mother was next, tears streaming down her face.

Then Rorie, beautiful and radiant. He hugged her carefully, wanting nothing more than to acknowledge their daughter too, but knowing they had to wait just a little longer. Lyric bounced in his uncle Nicolas's arms, cheering "Dada win! Dada win!"

The podium celebration was electric, the British crowd singing "God Save the King" at full volume. Lewis pointed to the sky, then to his family below. Nine hundred and forty-five days made this moment even sweeter.

Later, on the fanzone stage again, trophy in hand and surrounded by his family, Lewis felt complete. The Mercedes crew joined them, Toto pulling him into a bear hug.

"Worth the wait," Toto said simply.

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely," Lewis replied, catching Rorie's eye. He made his way to his wife once more, pulling her into a passionate kiss that caused everyone to hoot and holler, even Roscoe had something to say and let out a few howls.

When they finally broke apart, both cheesing so hard like Cheshire cats, Lewis leaned close to her ear to say: "I’m going to tear your ass up later, Mrs. Hamilton. Might fuck ‘round and have twins."

And with that, he gave her his usual panty-melting smirk and a wink for added effect while Rorie just shook her head in mock annoyance.

Leave it to her husband for always thinking about sex. Even after winning his first Grand Prix after 945 days.

"Down, boy."

"Never."

______________________________________________

The London summer evening painted their garden in warm golden light as Rorie surveyed the preparations she'd been directing since dawn. Fairy lights twinkled between oak trees, their subtle glow ready for when dusk would settle. White linen-covered tables dotted the lawn, decorated with fresh peonies and hydrangeas - her favorites mixed with the bright colors Lyric had insisted on.

"The bounce house goes there," she directed, pointing to a clear space near the children's area. "Lyric will riot if he doesn't have somewhere to burn energy with Jack and the others."

Lewis appeared behind her, hands settling on her shoulders. "You should rest. You've been at this since five AM."

"Can't rest. Your mother's coming, and you know she notices everything."

"Pretty sure she already suspects," Lewis chuckled. "You've been wearing my shirts for weeks."

The first guests arrived precisely at four - the Magnussens, always punctual, with their children immediately making a beeline for the bounce house. Louise hugged Rorie carefully, a knowing look in her eyes. "You're glowing," she whispered.

Susie and Jack Wolff weren't far behind, Jack proudly clutching his recent karting trophy. "Look what I won!" he announced to anyone within earshot.

"Good job, Jack!" Rorie praised, though her eyes were on Susie, who was studying Rorie with growing suspicion.

Miles and Spinz had commandeered the music setup, their friendly bickering carrying across the garden.

"Mate, you cannot play that at a kid's party," Miles protested.

"It's a clean version!"

"It's still about–"

"Boys," KiKi interrupted, hugging Rorie. "Let's keep it family-friendly. Need any help, Ror?"

"Just keep me from losing my mind," Rorie laughed.

Timothy wandered the garden, camera in hand, capturing candid moments: Anthony telling racing stories to an enraptured audience, Carmen and Marian deep in grandmother mode and comparing notes about their existing grandchildren, and Lyric leading a pack of children to chase Roscoe, who seemed delighted by the attention.

"He's such a little menace," Hailey observed from her seat, one hand resting on her own visible pregnancy.

Justin nodded, watching the children play. "He's going to run the playground."

Rorie's sister Aaliyah arrived with an armful of presents, her eyes narrowing at how Rorie's oxford shirt draped. "Something's different about you…"

"Help me with the cupcakes?" Rorie deflected, leading her sister toward the kitchen.

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the garden, Lewis stood and tapped his glass with a spoon. The chatter gradually quieted.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate Rorie and Lyric's birthdays," he began, his voice warm with emotion. "The past few years have blessed us beyond measure. But…" he paused, eyes finding Rorie's, "we have one more surprise."

Rorie stood beside him, fingers working at her oxford shirt buttons. As the fabric fell open around her sixteen-week bump, Marian's screech pierced the evening air.

"Thank you Jesus!" She rushed to embrace her daughter, tears flowing freely. "My baby's having another baby!"

The garden erupted in celebration. Carmen and Anthony enveloped Lewis in a tight hug while Linda wiped tears from her eyes. Nicolas kept repeating, "I knew it! I knew something was different!"

When the initial excitement began to settle, Rorie cleared her throat. On cue, waiters appeared with cupcakes decorated with either "2" or "31".

"On three," she announced, eyes sparkling, "everyone take a bite."

"One…" Lewis began, arm around her waist. "Two…" Rorie continued, hand on her bump. "Three!" Lyric shouted, chocolate already smeared on his chin.

Pink filling revealed itself as everyone bit down.

"It's a girl!" the Hamilton family announced together.

Miles dissolved into tears, surprising no one. "You lot are too good at this, bruv. First the karting race, now this…"

"Our kids are going to be best friends," Hailey laughed, embracing Rorie.

"Another girl for the gang," Louise grinned. "Laura will be thrilled."

Under the fairy lights, surrounded by family and friends, their precious secret was finally, joyfully out. Lyric tugged on Lewis's shirt, pointing to his mother's bump. "Sister in there," he announced proudly. "I help teach racing."

Lewis scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Yes, you will, big man. Yes, you will."

The Hungarian paddock settled under overcast skies, a stark contrast to the warmth that had flooded Lewis's social media since their announcement. Rorie's photos, captured by Huy in New York, had taken over Instagram - stunning shots of her in a flowing black designer dress, the Manhattan skyline creating a dramatic backdrop. Her elegant silhouette highlighted the gentle curve of her bump, the high-fashion aesthetic pure Rorie. Huy's caption had been beautifully cryptic: "Baby LH-squared coming soon… 💙💗"

The fashion blogs that would normally be dissecting his new Dior ambassadorship and upcoming African-inspired ski resort collection were instead filled with screenshots of the announcement. "Lewis Hamilton: Seven-Time World Champion, Fashion Designer, and Soon-to-be Double Dad!" read one headline.

Social media was ablaze with speculation: "The way she's styled that bump! 😍" "Team boy! Lyric needs a brother!" "Nah, it's definitely a girl - look at how she's carrying" "First the Silverstone win, now this - what a summer for the Hamiltons!" "Anyone else notice the blue tights she’s wearing? 👀 #TeamBoy!"

"Any hints about what it is?" The questions and congratulations came from every direction as Lewis made his way through the paddock. Team principals, mechanics, catering staff - everyone had theories. His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since Rorie's post went live, the Dior announcement almost completely overshadowed by impending parenthood.

"Another little champion!" Fred Vasseur called out and enveloped him in a quick hug. "Do you guys know what the baby is?"

"I can’t tell you, Fred. Sorry," laughed Lewis as Fred pouted like a child.

"I won’t tell anyone. Not even my wife."

"Sorry, no can do. Rorie’ll kill me." And with that, he pantomimed his lips shut and continued on his way as Fred muttered a few grumbled curses in French.

The Mercedes garage buzzed with extra energy. Toto had already ordered two tiny race suits - one pink, one blue, and conspiratorially push the pink one closer to him. "We'll save the other for next time," he'd joked with a wink.

Charles Leclerc then stopped by the Mercedes garage. "Another racing Hamilton," he grinned. "Boy or girl?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Lewis replied smoothly, though keeping their secret made him want to burst.

"The Dior collection's looking amazing," Naomi Campbell had texted him a bit later. "But more importantly - any hints about baby? You know I need to start shopping! 👶🏽"

As qualifying approached, the congratulations and questions continued. Even the Sky Sports crew led with baby speculation before asking about track conditions.

The overcast sky threatened rain as Lewis prepared for qualifying, but his mood remained bright. Between Silverstone's victory, the pregnancy announcement, and yes, the Dior partnership, everything felt aligned.

His PR team had already fielded calls from every major outlet, all wanting exclusive details about the pregnancy. They'd stuck to their plan - minimal information, maximum privacy. After everything with The Sun, they were taking no chances.

"Focus time," Bono reminded him as he climbed into the car.

But even as he centered himself for qualifying, Lewis couldn't help but smile. Fashion collections could wait. Championships would come and go. Right now, his growing family was the only headline that mattered - even if everyone else was still guessing what color to buy.

The clouds grew heavier as qualifying approached. Weather radar suggested rain might hold off until Q2, but nothing was certain. Just like all the gender predictions flooding social media.

"Ready?" Bono asked, appearing with his race notes.

Lewis nodded, feeling centered despite the buzz around him. The Mercedes felt good under him during practice. Maybe today would bring another celebration to add to their summer of joy. Either way, as he prepared to head out for Q1, Lewis felt complete. His career was soaring, his fashion dreams were becoming reality, and most importantly, his family was growing.

The season still had plenty of racing ahead, the Dior collection would launch in due time, but right now, sitting in his car and listening to the familiar pre-qualifying radio checks, Lewis was simply a man looking forward to the future - all while keeping the sweetest secret tucked safely away.

"Track is clear," Bono's voice came through the radio. "Let's make this one count."

Lewis pulled out of the garage, ready to give the crowd something else to talk about besides baby predictions. Though he had to admit - watching the world try to guess what they already knew made every lap just a little bit sweeter.

_______________________________________________

Aaron lounged in one of the deck chairs on his brother's sprawling South Carolina property, watching Azariah tend to the grill. The smell of barbecue filled the warm evening air, punctuated by the distant sounds of Azariah's kids playing in the yard.

"You were wrong for that," Azariah said suddenly, not looking up from the grill. "What you said to Rorie in Barcelona."

Aaron scoffed, taking a swig of his beer. "Man, why you still on that?"

"Because you were out of line." Azariah's voice was firm but calm, the same tone he'd used to keep Aaron in check since they were kids. "And you know it."

"Whatever," Aaron muttered.

Azariah finally turned to face his younger brother. "You're mad at Dad. I get it. We all are. But Rorie? She didn't ask for any of this."

"She got the good life though, didn't she?" Aaron's voice was bitter. "Living it up with her Formula 1 champion husband while we—"

"While we what?" Azariah cut in. "Got private school education? Trust funds? Come on, man. You sound stupid right now."

Aaron fell silent, his jaw working as he stared out at the perfectly manicured lawn.

"You know what I see when I look at Rorie?" Azariah continued, flipping a burger. "I see a woman who grew up without her father. The only difference is she had no idea who he was."

"She knew," Aaron argued weakly.

"A name," Azariah corrected. "She had a name. That's it. No Christmas presents, no graduation appearances, no father-daughter dances. Nothing."

Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"So check yourself," Azariah concluded. "Your beef is with Dad. Don't put that on her."

As the sun set over the property, Aaron sat with his brother's words simmering in his mind. Azariah's wife, Michelle, came out with a plate of cornbread, their two daughters trailing behind her.

"Uncle Aaron!" the girls called out, but Aaron barely heard them, lost in his thoughts.

"Earth to Aaron," Azariah said, waving a spatula. "Food's ready."

Aaron didn’t move, his mind drifting to Rorie. News of her second pregnancy had hit him harder than he wanted to admit. He thought of Azariah's recent comment about how his daughters were excited to meet their cousin Lyric and the new baby. Azariah had even brought it up earlier that day, casually suggesting that Aaron should smooth things over.

Aaron had dismissed it at the time, but now the words weighed on him.

"I need to talk to Dad," Aaron said suddenly, standing up.

Azariah paused, studying his younger brother. "About?"

"About all of it. About her." Aaron’s voice was tight with emotion. "About why he gets to play happy family now when he—" He broke off, shaking his head.

"Aaron—" Azariah started, concern etched in his face.

"Nah, man. I hear you about Rorie, alright? Maybe you’re right. But Dad? He doesn’t get to just..." Aaron’s fists clenched at his sides. "He doesn’t get to pretend like everything’s cool now."

Azariah nodded slowly, sensing the deep pain behind his brother’s anger. "Just don’t do anything stupid."

Aaron was already heading toward his car, his dinner forgotten. The anger that had been misdirected at Rorie had found its proper target, and Martin Edwards was about to hear exactly what his youngest son thought about his attempts at playing father of the year.

CHAPTER 13.2: Baby LH-Squared On Board

Barcelona in June was a love letter to sun-drenched afternoons and evenings that stretched lazily into warm, starlit nights. The Spanish Grand Prix was always a highlight on the calendar for its energy, its sprawling Catalonian charm, and the way the city seemed to hum with possibilities. This year, it carried even greater significance for Lewis and Rorie. With Lyric happily spending time with Nina in Monaco, the couple had a rare moment to themselves.

Rorie sat on the sofa of their suite, her ginger tea cradled in both hands. The vibrant city stretched out beneath their balcony, the soft sounds of street performers playing Catalan melodies drifting in. At fourteen weeks, her belly was beginning to show, a small, undeniable curve that filled Lewis with pride.

He was crouched before her, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, leaning in close as if speaking directly to their growing child. "Good afternoon, little one," he murmured, his voice a tender melody of its own. He pressed a kiss to the soft fabric of her sundress, right where her stomach curved outward. "Your dad’s got a big race tomorrow, so you and your mum will be cheering me on, yeah?"

Rorie chuckled softly, running her fingers through his neatly braided hair. "I think your biggest fan is already ready to cheer you on, babe." She sipped her tea, savoring the warmth it brought to her still-sensitive stomach. "This tea is doing wonders, by the way. Not a total cure, but better than before. I’m not spending half the day in the bathroom anymore, so we’ll take it."

Lewis glanced up at her, a mixture of relief and concern crossing his face. He hated seeing her suffer through the extreme morning sickness that had plagued the early weeks of her pregnancy. The medication had helped, but there were still moments when the nausea crept in, stubborn and unrelenting. "You’re so beautiful," he said, his hand drifting to rest lightly over her stomach. "Both of you are. And you’ve been a warrior through all of this."

"Don’t make me cry," she warned, her voice teasing but her eyes soft. "Hormones are still raging. I’ll ruin my makeup."

He laughed, leaning in to kiss her gently before resting his cheek against her belly. "Okay, I’ll behave." But he stayed there for a moment longer, humming softly—some old Motown tune his mother used to sing to him as a boy. The vibrations of his voice traveled through her, grounding her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

Rorie smiled, her hand drifting down to rest over his. "Martin called this morning," she said, breaking the quiet. "The meeting last month must’ve gone better than I thought because now he wants me to meet my half-siblings."

Lewis sat back slightly, his expression immediately shifting to one of cautious curiosity. "How do you feel about that?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the mug. "I don’t know. I mean, Athena seems fine—better than fine. She was fine when we met in Bahrain, but the others…" She trailed off, a shadow of uncertainty crossing her face.

Lewis reached for her free hand, lacing their fingers together. "Whatever you decide, I’ll be right there with you. But I won’t lie—I’m nervous about how this might pan out. People don’t always handle situations like this with grace."

Rorie nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, I’ve noticed." She took a deep breath. "But I want to try. If only to see what kind of people they are."

Her mind drifted back to that day in Monaco, just hours after discovering her pregnancy...

The restaurant terrace offered a perfect view of the Mediterranean, though Rorie kept her sunglasses firmly in place. Her lemonade sat mostly untouched as Martin spoke, his words washing over her like waves against the harbor wall.

"I made mistakes," he was saying, gesturing with hands that reminded her too much of her own. "The interview with Piers—that was wrong. I shouldn't have done that."

Rorie remained silent, one hand resting protectively over her still-flat stomach.

"And telling your mother to..." Martin paused, and had the grace to look ashamed. "Well, I was scared. That's not an excuse, but—"

"No," Rorie finally spoke, her voice steady. "It's not an excuse."

"I want to be part of your life," he pressed on. "Meet my grandson. Be a proper grandfather."

She took a careful sip of lemonade, buying time. The baby in her belly made her think differently about everything now. About family, about forgiveness, about protecting what matters.

"You don't get automatic access," she said finally. "To me or to Lyric. That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?"

"You start with my mother," Rorie set her glass down firmly. "A proper, in-person apology. No cameras, no press, no excuses. Just you, owning what you did."

Martin's face tightened. "Rorie—"

"That's the first step. After that, we take it day by day." She stood, adjusting her flowing top carefully. "I'm not the angry teenage girl you imagined in that interview anymore. I'm a mother. Think about what kind of grandfather you want to be. Then act accordingly."

She left him on that sun-drenched terrace, her heart lighter than when she'd arrived. Some choices weren't just about us anymore—they were about the future we wanted to build for our children.

______________________________________________

Later that evening, they found themselves in a private dining room at a high-end restaurant, waiting for Rorie's half-siblings to arrive. Athena arrived first, dressed professionally - her media credential from Motorsport Weekly still hanging around her neck.

"I just finished some interviews in the paddock," she explained warmly, hugging Rorie. "The perks of interning with F1 media - getting to see my sister more often."

Before Rorie could respond, the door opened again. Azariah entered first, his six-foot-three frame commanding immediate attention. His dark skin gleamed under the restaurant lights, and despite his imposing height, his eyes held a gentle warmth. He wore his hair in neat locs that fell past his shoulders, his button-down shirt and pressed slacks suggesting the polished professionalism of someone used to boardrooms.

Aaron followed, shorter than his brother but built like a boxer. His dark brown complexion was offset by a fresh fade, geometric patterns carved precisely into the sides. Despite the designer clothes he wore, his entire demeanor radiated hostility - from the set of his broad shoulders to the way his jaw clenched. Where Azariah's presence felt welcoming, Aaron's felt like a storm about to break.

Aaron spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "So this is the famous Rorie. Dad's little secret."

Lewis's jaw tightened immediately. "Watch yourself."

"Or what?" Aaron shot back, rising slightly from his chair.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Lewis's voice was dangerously low.

"You heard me, nigga. What, you think because you race cars you're better than–"

"Aaron!" Azariah's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "That's enough. Apologize. Now."

"Man, fuck that–"

"Get your brother," Lewis said to Azariah, his fists clenched. "Before I forget this is supposed to be a family meeting and fuck him up."

Azariah turned to Aaron, his expression stern. "Apologize. You're out of line and you know it."

After a tense moment, Aaron muttered an apology, though his eyes still burned with resentment. Athena quickly tried to salvage the situation, talking about her internship and then their son.

"So, how’s Lyric? We’d love to hang out with him."

Lewis’s response was immediate and firm. "That’s not happening right now."

Athena glanced at Rorie, as if hoping she might overrule him, but Rorie simply shook her head. "You heard what his father said."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur, with Athena even inviting them to a dinner party their father was hosting, but Rorie gave a vague response, clearly unsure about attending. Eventually, Rorie gave Lewis the look — the one that said it was time to go.

Outside, walking through Barcelona's bustling streets, Lewis was still seething. "The audacity of that little–"

"Ice cream," Rorie interrupted, squeezing his hand. "We need ice cream."

They found a small vegan ice cream parlor tucked away on a side street. As they sat near the window, Rorie with her strawberry basil and Lewis with his salted caramel, the tension began to fade.

"I'm sorry about Aaron," Rorie said softly. "Though I appreciate you keeping your cool."

Lewis shook his head. "Azariah seems solid at least. And Athena... she's genuinely trying."

"Yeah," Rorie agreed, taking another bite of ice cream. "But let's be clear - Lyric isn't meeting any of them anytime soon."

"Agreed," Lewis said firmly. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing more of Athena in the paddock. Girl knows her racing."

Rorie smiled, reaching for his hand across the table. Despite the drama, they had each other. And right now, with the Barcelona sun setting outside and the taste of ice cream on their lips, that was more than enough.

Race day in Barcelona arrived wrapped in brilliant sunshine and electric energy. The paddock thrummed with life - carefully choreographed chaos of team personnel, media crews, and fans pressed against barriers.

"Lewis! Lewis! Please sign this!"

"Over here!"

"Just one photo!"

"Lewis, my daughter loves you!"

The chorus of voices rose and fell as they moved through the paddock, accompanied by the flutter of flags and the constant click of camera shutters. Rorie had grown used to this part of Lewis's world - the way people's eyes lit up at the sight of him, the surge of bodies toward barriers, phones thrust hopefully into the air.

But she noticed the change in Lewis immediately. Usually, he'd navigate these moments with practiced ease, a warm smile here, a quick wave there, walking slightly faster past the most enthusiastic fans while still maintaining his signature grace. He'd perfected the art of being both present and moving, of acknowledging the love without getting swept away by it.

Today though, his body language spoke volumes - one hand firmly at her back, creating a bubble of space around them as they moved through the paddock. His jaw was set differently, eyes constantly scanning, body angled to shield her from the press of the crowd. When a particularly enthusiastic fan leaned too far over the barrier, Lewis's hand tightened imperceptibly at her waist, smoothly guiding her to the opposite side.

"A bit much?" she murmured, glancing up at him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"Just being careful," he replied, steering them around a particularly enthusiastic group waving Mercedes flags and chanting his name. A security guard moved closer, reading Lewis's body language, but Lewis shook his head slightly - they didn't need the extra barrier. Not yet. Still, he kept his pace measured, deliberate, maintaining that protective bubble around them.

His protectiveness should have annoyed her - she'd always valued her independence, after all - but after their journey with Lyric, she understood. The years of trying, the heartbreak, the final success... every precaution felt justified, even if it meant adapting their usual routines. She caught the way his eyes flickered to her still-flat stomach, the careful way he positioned himself between her and the more boisterous fans, and felt a rush of love for this man who could command the attention of thousands but was most focused on safeguarding their precious secret.

A group of young fans called out in Spanish, waving a banner with Lewis's face. He acknowledged them with a warm smile and wave, but kept moving, his hand never leaving her back.

They ran into Susie near the Mercedes hospitality suite, her sharp eyes taking in Lewis's unusually upbeat demeanor. "Someone's in a good mood," she noted, looking between them with growing suspicion.

"Just feeling good about the race," Lewis replied smoothly, but Rorie caught the slight tell in his voice - the same one he got when trying to keep Lyric's Christmas presents a secret.

"Mmhmm," Susie hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Well, don't forget we're meeting later for the F1 Academy race."

"Wouldn't miss it," Lewis assured her.

As soon as Susie walked away, Lewis made an exaggerated grimace. "She's going to figure it out."

"Of course she will," Rorie whispered, squeezing his hand. "But family first."

They fell into planning mode, discussing timeline options. "In London," Lewis suggested. "When everyone's together."

C.J. found her shortly after Lewis had to scurry off for pre-race preparations, pulling Rorie aside to discuss an upcoming meeting with Polydor Records. "They're really interested," he explained, but Rorie's attention was already wavering.

"I don't know, C.J. The whole label thing…" She pressed a hand to her mouth suddenly, the familiar wave of nausea rising. C.J. reacted instantly, supporting her as she made her way to the nearest restroom.

"I got you," he murmured, holding her hair back. "I'll get some ginger tea."

While waiting for C.J.'s return, Rorie found herself ambushed by a welcome face - Louise Magnussen, her two little ones in tow.

"Rorie!" Louise exclaimed, pulling her into a warm embrace. "I was hoping to catch you. About the charity karting race - is Lyric going to participate? The kids are so excited about it."

"We haven't decided yet," Rorie answered honestly. "But I'll talk to Lewis about it today, promise."

C.J. returned with the tea just as Louise's maternal instincts kicked in. "Are you feeling alright? You look a bit peaked."

"Just a stomach bug," Rorie lied smoothly, accepting the warm cup from C.J.

After Louise left, C.J. shook his head. "People are gonna go crazy when you tell them."

"Fucking bonkers," Rorie agreed with a groan.

Her phone buzzed - a message from Julian updating her on the case. Reading about Deja's increasingly erratic behavior sent a fresh wave of tension through her temples. "I need carbs," she decided abruptly. "Something absolutely terrible for me."

"Garage snacks won't cut it?" C.J. asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Rorie said firmly. "I need proper junk food. The kind Lewis pretends doesn't exist in the paddock." She paused, considering. "You know that little bakery we passed on the way in? The one with the chocolate-filled croissants?"

C.J. raised an eyebrow. "The ones dusted with enough powdered sugar to look like a crime scene?"

"Those exact ones. And maybe those potato wedges from the food truck by Turn 3. The ones with the garlic sauce." Her stomach growled appreciatively at the thought. "God, Lyric's going to have a sibling with a serious carb addiction."

"Better than your pickle and peanut butter phase," C.J. muttered, but he was already reaching for his phone to text one of the assistants. "You want the croissants heated?"

"Is that even a question?" Rorie deleted Julian's message, refusing to let it occupy any more space in her head. "And maybe some of those cinnamon churros too?"

"Now you're just being greedy," C.J. teased, but his thumbs were already typing out the addition to the order.

Rorie closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the ginger tea seep through her. In twenty minutes, she'd be stuffing her face with the most wonderfully inappropriate pre-race meal possible. Sometimes the best way to handle stress was with sugar, carbs, and a complete disregard for nutritional value.

___________________________________________________________

The Mercedes garage hummed with pre-race energy as Lewis began his meticulous preparation routine. Each movement was practiced, almost meditative - first the fireproof underwear, then the racing suit, pulling it up with practiced efficiency. The familiar weight of the HANS device settled on his shoulders as he secured it in place.

The balaclava came next, Lewis smoothing it carefully over his braids before reaching for his helmet and holding it in his hands. As he went through the final checks of his equipment, Toto approached with Bono, both ready for their usual pre-race briefing.

That's when they heard it - the unmistakable sound of enthusiastic munching coming from where Rorie sat by the screens, headset perfectly in place, looking utterly content as she dipped a churro into spicy mustard.

Several pit crew members did double-takes, their expressions ranging from fascination to horror as they watched her follow the churro with a bite of chocolate croissant dipped in cream cheese.

"Uh, Rorie…" one of the mechanics ventured, "you feeling alright there?"

She responded with a pout that only deepened when another crew member added, "That's some interesting culinary creativity you've got going on."

"Come off it," Lewis interrupted, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Leave my wife be."

After the others dispersed, Bono pulled Lewis aside. "Is she okay now? Wasn't she sick? What's up with the churros and mustard?"

Lewis couldn't suppress his dopey, toothless smile. "She's just being Rorie."

Bono crossed his arms, unconvinced. "Not with eating what she's eating but I'll leave it alone. For now."

As the final preparations continued, Lewis made his way to Rorie, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "I see your appetite is back. Morning sickness gone?" he whispered against her ear.

She turned to whisper back, "Baby LH squared wants carbs."

"Ah? Really?" He chuckled, nodding. "Alright, happy that you're eating, love. No matter…how…weird the concoctions, I guess." His eyes lingered on her unusual food combinations before he kissed her again.

Settling into his car, Lewis felt an extra surge of motivation. Starting from P3, Baby LH squared watching - even if from the size of a lime - he had everything to race for today.

The race itself unfolded like a symphony. From P3, Lewis maintained his position through the first corner, watching, waiting. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya as he found his rhythm, the car responding perfectly to every input. Lap after lap, he battled with the McLaren ahead, the gap shrinking and expanding like a living thing.

The pit stops were flawless, the strategy solid, but the front two had just enough pace to stay ahead. Lewis pushed the Mercedes to its limits, extracting every fraction of performance, ultimately crossing the finish line in P3 - a strong podium finish that felt like a victory given their recent struggles.

"Great drive, mate," Bono's voice crackled over the radio. "P3, solid points. The car's coming along nicely."

"Thank you, guys," Lewis responded, his voice carrying an extra note of contentment that had nothing to do with the podium. "Let's keep pushing. Good things coming."

The podium celebration was electric as always, champagne spraying under the Spanish sun. From his spot on the third step, Lewis's signature pointing gesture toward the sky seemed to carry extra meaning today.

Will Buxton caught him just after the podium celebrations, microphone ready. "Lewis, there's something different about you today - even with P3, you seem particularly focused, almost glowing. What's changed?"

Lewis's eyes found Rorie in the crowd, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just feeling good, Will. Everything's falling into place, you know?"

"Cryptic as ever," Will noted with raised eyebrows. "But there's definitely something in the air around you today."

They left the paddock together as the sun began to set, Lewis's race suit now tied around his waist, trophy in one hand, Rorie's hand in the other. The evening air was still warm, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers.

"Hotel?" he asked softly.

"Hotel," she agreed, leaning into him as they walked. "But maybe we can stop for more churros first?"

Lewis laughed, pulling her closer. "Whatever Baby LH squared wants."

The book in Dada's hands had a little brown boy on the cover, smiling next to a baby. At first, Lyric wasn't interested - stories about babies were boring. But as Dada read, talking about all the special things big brothers get to do, Lyric found himself leaning closer.

"Remember how you were upset about the baby?" Dada asked gently, pulling Lyric onto his lap. His bedroom in their Monaco penthouse was cozy, lit by the warm glow of his race car nightlight.

Lyric nodded, remembering his tantrum. He hadn't meant to be bad, but the idea of sharing Mama and Dada was scary.

"Well, being a big brother means you get to do more big boy things," Dada explained. "Like maybe…racing with Laura?"

Lyric's eyes widened. Jack always talked about racing, and Jack was the coolest. "Like Jack?"

"Exactly like Jack," Dada smiled. "Would you like that?"

Lyric nodded enthusiastically. As Dada tucked him in that night, thoughts of racing cars mixed with ideas of being a big brother. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

________________________________________________________

The Austrian airport was huge and exciting. Lyric held tight to Mama and Dada's hands as they navigated through the crowded terminal. The people with cameras were always there - "Papa-razzi," Mama called them - but Lyric knew to stay close whenever they appeared.

"Up, Dada?" he asked when the crowd grew thicker.

"Of course, big man." Dada lifted him easily, and Lyric watched the world from his favorite perch. A fan called out, "Lewis! Can we get a photo?" but Dada just smiled and kept walking.

"Maybe later," he said kindly. "Family time now."

At security, Dada made it extra special. He let him hold the important blue book - his passport, Dada called it. The nice man at the desk even gave him a stamp!

"Look, Mama!" he exclaimed, showing her the mark in his passport.

"Very official," Mama agreed, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the track was full of mountains - so different from Monaco's sea views. Lyric could barely contain his excitement about the karting race. His car at home that Pop Pop got him was fun, but this would be real racing!

Laura was waiting at the track, and they watched the grown-ups set up the karts while sitting on a stack of tires.

"Why we racing?" Lyric asked Laura, settling beside her.

"Dunno," she shrugged. "But Jack says it's cool."

"Dada read me a book," Lyric told her, proud to share his news. "'Bout being a big brother! I get to do big boy stuff now."

Laura wrinkled her nose. "Sissies can be a'nnoyin'. My sissy cry a lot. And takes my toys."

"But we get to race!" Lyric reminded her, bouncing slightly. "Like Jack! And like Dada!"

When his father called him to the driver's room, Lyric's heart did a little dance of excitement. The racing suit laid out looked just like Dada's - black with teal accents, sized perfectly for him.

"This is yours," Dada said softly, helping him into it. "Your very first race suit."

"Like yours," Lyric whispered, touching the material reverently.

"Just like mine." Dada's voice caught, and Lyric noticed his eyes were wet.

"Why cry, Dada?"

"Just happy to see you race, son," Dada pulled him into a hug. Lyric kissed his cheek, understanding this was a special moment even if he didn't know why. "Remember what I've told you?

"Have fun!" Lyric recited. "And be safe!"

"That's right." Dada helped him with the zipper. "And what else?"

"We race fair!" Lyric added. "No pushing!"

Mama appeared in the doorway, phone ready for pictures. "Look at my handsome racers," she said, and Lyric posed proudly next to Dada.

Before heading to the karts, they walked through the paddock where Lyric collected high-fives like treasures.

"Ready to show us how it's done?" Uncle Val asked, crouching down for a proper high-five.

Pierre ruffled his braids. "Future champion right here!"

Charles knelt beside him. "Remember to have fun," he advised with a wink.

The kart felt perfect when he climbed in, Laura on one side, Jack and the others nearby. Through the barriers, he could see Dada standing with the other racing dads, and behind them, so many people cheering. The racing talk people held their microphones, speaking quickly about "the next generation" and "racing legacies." Lyric didn't understand all the words, but he understood this was important.

A person stood in front of them with a flag. Lyric took a deep breath, just like he'd seen Dada do countless times. He thought about his car at home, about watching Dada race. His small hands gripped the wheel.

The countdown began.

Lights out.

And Lyric Hamilton began his first real race.

______________________________________________

From behind the barrier, Lewis watched his son's tiny Mercedes race suit - adorned with patches from Williams and McLaren, a nod to his own racing journey - as Lyric settled into the kart, which was a somewhat better model of the one he had at home. Since the kids ranged in various ages, they all agreed to do a kart race with a subdued motor, something even kids as young as his son could handle easily.

Before they got started, the commentators' voices carried across the circuit.

"And in an unprecedented move, Formula 1 has given us something special today," David Croft's voice rang out. "Free Practice 3 cancelled for what might be the most heartwarming event of the season - the F1 Kids' Charity Karting Race."

"Quite remarkable how they kept this under wraps, Crofty," Martin Brundle added. "Looking at these young racers - Lyric Hamilton, Laura Magnussen, Jack Wolff, Penelope Kvyat, Sergio Perez Jr. - all in miniature versions of their fathers' team suits. Though young Hamilton's got those special patches…"

"A tribute to where it all began for Lewis," Croft noted. "McLaren represented alongside Mercedes."

The atmosphere was electric, different from a regular race day. No championship points at stake, no team orders, just pure racing joy as the next generation took to the track. Lewis felt Toto's hand on his shoulder.

"Ready to be a racing dad?" Toto asked, grinning.

"Don't think I'll ever be ready," Lewis admitted, watching Lyric adjust his position just like they'd practiced at home. "I'm so close to shittin' my pants."

The lights sequence began. Five red lights illuminated, then extinguished. The karts lurched forward, Penelope taking an early lead with Lyric close behind. Jack slotted into third, showing his karting experience.

"And they're off!" Croft exclaimed. "Penelope leads into Turn 1, Lyric Hamilton showing his father's racing instincts in second…"

Lewis held his breath watching Lyric navigate the first corner. His son's lines were surprisingly clean for a toddler, the hours spent on his toy car at home showing through.

The three-lap race unfolded like a miniature grand prix. Penelope maintained her lead, but Lyric kept pace, occasionally getting close enough to challenge. Jack protected third place with skill that made Toto beam with pride.

"Look at young Hamilton's racing line through Turn 3," Brundle commented. "Someone's been studying their father's races."

The crowd cheered every overtake attempt, every slight wheel-to-wheel moment. Max and Lewis exchanged glances as the children battled for first, both fighting the urge to shout advice.

On the final lap, Lyric made one last attempt to catch Penelope, getting alongside through the penultimate corner, but Penelope held her nerve. She crossed the line first, with Lyric less than a kart length behind. Jack secured third place, completing the podium.

"What a finish!" Croft called out. "Penelope Kvyat takes the win, Lyric Hamilton a brilliant second, and Jack Wolff rounds out our junior podium!"

The paddock erupted in cheers as the kids pulled their karts to a stop. Lewis vaulted the barrier, reaching Lyric just as his son was climbing out. He scooped him up, helmet and all.

"Dada I raced!"

"You were amazing, big man," Lewis said, voice thick with emotion. Around them, other drivers were congratulating their children, the usual paddock rivalries forgotten in this moment of pure joy.

They had a proper podium ceremony, complete with small trophies and sparkling apple juice instead of champagne. Penelope, Lyric, and Jack stood proud, their fathers behind them, while photographers captured the moment.

"And to think," Brundle's voice carried over the celebration, "we were meant to have Free Practice 3 today. I'd say this was a much better use of track time."

Looking at his son's beaming face as he held his second-place trophy, Lewis couldn't have agreed more.

The podium celebrations were barely over when Jenson Button approached, microphone in hand but speaking off-record first. "Brilliant driving, kids!" His eyes landed on Lyric. "That defensive move into Turn 4? Proper racing stuff."

Will Buxton followed, crouching to the children's level. "Future champions, all of you. Those were some impressive lines out there."

Then Nico Rosberg stepped forward, and the paddock's atmosphere shifted subtly. He focused on Lyric, who was still clutching his trophy. "Excellent race, Lyric. You've got your father's instincts."

Lewis kept his expression neutral, professional.

"His hand-eye coordination is really good," Nico continued, glancing at Lewis. "The way he held that racing line…"

"Been practicing since he could walk," Lewis replied, surprising himself with the lack of tension in his voice. "Though Penelope gave him a proper challenge today."

"Good racing all around though," Nico agreed, extending his hand. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks, Nico." Lewis took it, a brief but genuine handshake. For their children's sake, they could manage this much. Nico moved on to congratulate Penelope as Rorie approached, tears streaming down her face.

"My baby!" She wrapped Lyric in a tight hug, covering his face with kisses. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Mama, you see? I race like Dada!"

"Just like Dada," she agreed, wiping her eyes.

Lewis clapped his hands together, grinning broadly. "Who wants ice cream?"

"Me!" Lyric bounced in his mother's arms. "Chocolate?"

"Champion's choice," Lewis laughed, leading his family toward the ice cream stall. Behind them, the paddock continued to buzz with excitement, the day's unexpected event already being hailed as one of the season's greatest highlights.

Today had been about something far more precious than he could ever imagine - the pure joy of racing, passed from one generation to the next.

The conference room in The Sun's London office felt suffocating as Alexander watched Julian review the settlement papers. Ten million pounds to be donated to fertility support organizations. A full retraction. A public apology.

The price to pay for invading the Hamiltons' privacy.

David, his boss, sat rigid beside The Sun's solicitors, his usual confident demeanor notably absent. The legal team had advised settling - the evidence was damning, the public sentiment overwhelmingly against them.

Julian made one final notation. "This seems in order," he said, his tone clinical. "The Hamiltons appreciate your cooperation in resolving this matter quickly."

The solicitors exchanged glances before signing. David's signature came last, a slight tremor in his hand.

"The funds will be transferred within 24 hours," The Sun's lead solicitor confirmed. "The retraction and apology will run tomorrow."

Julian gathered his papers with precise movements. "Good day, gentlemen." His exit left a vacuum in the room.

David dismissed the legal team with a sharp nod. As the door closed behind them, Alexander's throat went dry. He'd known this was coming.

"Alexander." David's voice was flat. "Your employment with The Sun is terminated, effective immediately. HR will process your–"

The door opened. David's boss, Richard, entered without knocking. Alexander watched David's face pale.

"Richard, I was just handling–"

"You're both fired," Richard cut in. "The board is cleaning house. This scandal has cost us more than money." He placed two envelopes on the table. "HR has your paperwork. Clear your desks by three."

The door closed again. Alexander stared at the envelope bearing his name, realizing how completely his pursuit of a story had destroyed his career.

David stood first, shoulders slumped. "Well," he said to no one in particular. "That's that."

Alexander remained seated as David left, the weight of his choices pressing him into the chair. Outside the window, London continued its busy Friday, indifferent to the careers that had just ended in this sterile conference room.

_______________________________________________

Alexander's phone buzzed as he began emptying his desk. Deja's name flashed on the screen.

"Well?" Her voice was tense. "What happened?"

"They settled." He placed a framed photo in a cardboard box. "Ten million to fertility organizations. Full retraction. Public apology."

"What? They can't do that! We had–"

"I'm fired, Deja." He cut her off, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "David too. It was above us."

A pause. Then, softer, scared: "Alexander, my lawyer called. They're… they're trying to have me arrested. Luisa's testifying against me on extortion and harassment charges."

He ran a hand through his hair, staring at his half-empty desk. This had spiraled far beyond a story about a celebrity couple. "Deja, I can't… I can't help you anymore."

"But–"

"Don't call this number again." He ended the call, immediately blocking her number.

The last items went into the box. Alexander looked around his office one final time, then walked out, leaving his keycard on the empty desk.

Bergen greeted them with a flurry of snow, the city's harbor twinkling with Christmas lights. Lila, bundled up in one of Jude's oversized hoodies under her coat, pressed her face against the car window like an excited child.

"It's so pretty," she breathed, watching the snow-covered houses pass as their driver continued down the road.

Jude smiled, watching her reaction. For someone who grew up with the glitz of Formula 1 and fashion weeks, Lila still had this endearing way of finding wonder in simple things.

The Bellingham's rented house sat overlooking the fjord, a modern three-story structure with floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the stunning winter landscape. Traditional Norwegian Christmas decorations adorned every surface and strings of white lights twinkled everywhere.

Inside was cheerful chaos. The massive Fraser fir dominated the living room, while Jobe and Mark engaged in their annual tree-placement debate.

"It needs to be centered in front of the window," Mark insisted, one hand on the trunk.

"Dad, no one's going to see it from the fjord," Jobe argued. "If we put it in the corner, there's more room for presents."

"Your son's thinking about his gift pile already," Mark called to Denise, who was orchestrating Christmas preparations from the open-plan kitchen.

"Both of you stop fussing and just put it where I marked the spot," Denise directed, not looking up from her baking. The scent of her famous rum cake already filled the air, mixing with pine needles and cinnamon.

At the sound of the front door opening, Denise's face lit up. She abandoned her baking, rushing to greet them with flour-dusted hands.

"My babies!" she exclaimed, pulling Lila into a warm hug, not caring about the flour transferring to Lila's coat. "How was your flight? Are you hungry? You look tired - Jude, did you let her sleep on the plane?"

Before either could answer, she was already moving on. "Jude, take her bags up - and yes, I put you in separate rooms so don't even try it." Her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "Oh, and guess who's here? Justine! Can you believe it? Jobe finally worked up the courage to invite her."

She said this last part in what she probably thought was a whisper, but it carried clearly across the room. Jobe's protests of "Mum!" only made her beam wider.

"Now come in properly, you're letting all the warm air out. I've got hot chocolate ready, and there are fresh cookies cooling - unless your father's found them already."

Mark's guilty expression suggested he had indeed found the cookies, but Denise was too happy having all her children (and their significant others) under one roof to mind.

Lila's eyes widened. "Justine's here? Like, here here?"

"Upstairs getting changed," Denise nodded, clearly thrilled. "I've already started calling her daughter."

"Jesus, Mum!" Jobe groaned from across the room.

Just then, Justine appeared on the stairs, looking slightly nervous but happy. Lila hadn't seen her since that Liverpool match months ago, but the way Jobe's face lit up at the sight of her said everything.

"Li!" Justine smiled, coming over for a hug. "Thank god you're here. I need another sane person in this house."

"Oi!" Jude protested while Lila laughed.

"Don't worry," Lila stage-whispered to Justine. "The Bellingham boys are a lot, but you get used to it."

"I heard that," Jobe called out, but he was grinning as he made his way to Justine's side.

As they decorated the tree, Lila couldn't help but notice how Justine hesitated before placing each ornament, glancing at Denise as if seeking approval. It reminded her of her own early days with the Bellinghams, that desire to fit perfectly into their world.

"The star goes wherever you want, love," Denise assured Justine, seeming to sense her uncertainty. "We're not formal about these things."

Jobe appeared behind Justine, wrapping his arms around her waist in a move so reminiscent of his brother that Lila had to hide her smile. The Bellingham boys and their physical affection - always touching, always close.

"Here," Jobe murmured, lifting Justine slightly so she could reach a higher branch. "Perfect spot."

"You two are sickeningly cute," Lila told Jobe and Justine. "Almost as bad as your brother."

"Please," Jobe scoffed, but his hand stayed at Justine's waist. "We're way cuter."

"Don't start that competition," Mark warned, hanging lights. "I already know my sons can't keep their hands to themselves."

"Dad!" both brothers protested while Justine blushed and Lila laughed.

As the evening continued, Lila watched Justine gradually relax, especially when Jobe kept finding excuses to stay close - adjusting her Santa hat, bringing her hot chocolate, stealing quick kisses when he thought no one was looking.

"They remind me of us," Jude whispered in Lila's ear, pulling her onto his lap in the big armchair.

"Mm, young love," Lila teased, earning a playful pinch.

"Young love? You're like a few months older than them," he murmured against her neck.

"Still."

"Oh, Lila Bila. What am I gonna do with you?"

"Love me obviously," she said, turning her head to plant a kiss on his lips.

______________________________________________

Dinner was a lively affair, the table laden with both traditional English Christmas dishes and Norwegian specialties Denise had insisted on trying. Everyone wore paper crowns from the crackers, even Mark who usually protested such things.

Under the table, Lila texted Zuri:

Lila: "OMG. Jobe brought Justine to Bergen!! Like full-on family Christmas!!" Zuri: "NO WAY. Baby Bellingham's growing up 😭" Lila: "Girl, you should see them. So cute it hurts" Zuri: "Denise must be over the moon" Lila: "Already calling her daughter 😂 Poor girl looks terrified"

Watching Justine navigate the family dynamics was like looking in a mirror from months ago. The way she carefully laughed at Mark's dad jokes, how she kept glancing at Jobe for reassurance, the slight nervousness when Denise asked about her studies.

After dinner, they gathered for movies, everyone in pajamas. Jude pulled Lila close on the couch, his chin resting on her head. Jobe and Justine settled on the floor, surrounded by pillows, his hand absently playing with her hair.

The Polar Express played first. During The Grinch, Lila found herself watching the others more than the screen. Denise kept "sneaking" cookies to everyone, while Mark dozed in his armchair, occasionally waking up to quote his favorite parts.

When bedtime came ("Separate rooms, I mean it!"), Lila retreated to change into her silk pajamas. She sent her Christmas messages:

To Lewis: "Merry Christmas big bro! You deserve this break after your farewell tour. So proud of you heading to Ferrari! Give Amara a big hug from me (though I'm sure you're with her anyway 😉)" To her parents, Nicolas, and her sisters & Mama Carmen: "Miss you! See you for New Year's! ❤️"

The knock on her door surprised her - instead of Jude trying to sneak in more kisses, she found Justine.

"Hey," Justine whispered. "Can we talk?"

Lila ushered her in, patting the bed beside her. "What's up?"

Their conversation flowed easily, both girls cross-legged on Lila's bed. Justine confessed her worries about balancing university with Jobe's football schedule, about the media attention, about living up to the Bellingham name.

"I just... how do you do it?" Justine asked. "Dating a Bellingham boy while having your own life? I'm worried about next term at uni, and Jobe's schedule with Sunderland…"

Lila understood completely. "Honestly? Communication is everything. Jude and I make it work because we talk about everything. The good, the bad, the times we miss each other so much it hurts."

"And the fans? The comments?"

"Keep your Instagram private," Lila advised firmly. "Fuck the naysayers. Focus on you and Jobe. The rest is just noise. And remember - you're not dating the footballer, you're dating the boy who still collects Star Wars Legos and can't cook toast without burning it."

Justine laughed softly. "He's so good to me. Like, ridiculously good. Sometimes I worry it's too good to be true."

"Those Bellingham boys," Lila smiled. "They don't do anything halfway. Trust me, I get it. But that's who they are - all in, heart on sleeve, love without hesitation."

After Justine left, Lila snuggled into bed, feeling content. Her phone lit up with messages - Lewis sending a photo of him and Amara in front of their Christmas tree and Zuri updating her about the Megève adventures. And before she knew it, she drifted off to sleep.

In the middle of the night, Lila woke to the sound of wind whistling outside her window. Snow swirled in the darkness, creating shadows that danced across her ceiling. The storm had picked up, making the old house creak and settle.

Then she heard it - the distinct sound of floorboards in the hallway, followed by a particular pattern of knocks she'd know anywhere.

Three quick taps, pause, one more.

Lila tiptoed to the door, careful to avoid the squeaky spots she'd noticed earlier. Opening it revealed Jude wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a soft t-shirt.

"Can't sleep," he whispered, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "Just want to cuddle."

She stepped aside to let him in, both of them trying not to laugh as the floor creaked despite their best efforts. The storm outside provided perfect cover for their midnight rendezvous, the wind masking their whispered conversation as they settled into bed, Jude's arms wrapping around her waist.

"Your mum's going to kill us," Lila murmured, but she was already melting into his warmth.

"Worth it," he replied, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Jude’s body beside her chased away the chill from the storm outside. Lila had almost drifted back to sleep when his hands started to roam, fingertips brushing lightly along her waist over the silk fabric of her pajama top. She froze, her breath catching as he leaned in closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

"Jude," she whispered, her voice a mix of warning and affection. "Your parents are sleeping in the same house."

"They’re on the floor below," he murmured, lips now at her neck, pressing soft, deliberate kisses against her skin. "They’re older, they can’t hear."

"That doesn’t make it—" Her words were cut off by the way his teeth lightly scraped against the sensitive spot just beneath her jawline. She shivered, her resolve slipping.

"You can be quiet, right, Li?" he teased, his voice low and raspy. She wanted to argue, to tell him no, but then his hands slid under her top, his palms warm and sure as they caressed her breasts.

"Jude," she tried again, but it came out as more of a breathy plea than the admonishment she intended.

"Hmm?" He kissed his way back up to her lips, capturing them in a kiss so soft yet so utterly consuming that she lost herself in it. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, then tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

He took his time undressing her, the silk of her pajamas slipping away under his gentle yet determined hands. She gasped as the cool air kissed her exposed skin, only to be replaced by the heat of his touch and the soft press of his lips around her nipples. She tried to remind herself of the risk, the fact that his family was downstairs, but every coherent thought melted under his attention.

Jude leaned back briefly, his gaze sweeping over her, full of adoration. "You’re perfect," he murmured, making her cheeks flush even in the dim light of the storm-filtered room. She reached for him, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, and he obliged, pulling it off in one smooth motion. The rest of his clothes followed until he was settled between her legs, his body fitting against hers as if they were made for each other.

He paused, reaching for the bedside drawer, and he couldn’t help the amused smile that tugged at his lips. "Prepared, are we?"

"Always," she replied with a grin, watching as he tore open the condom and slipped it on.

"Hoping I’d sneak in?"

"Who says I was?" she shot back, her voice light but teasing.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against hers, his smile softening into something infinitely tender. "Liar," he whispered before kissing her deeply, leaving no room for argument.

When he entered her, it was slow and deliberate, his movements filled with care as though he wanted to savor every second. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer as their bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt like home. Each kiss, each touch, spoke volumes of the love between them, a quiet exchange of promises neither had to say aloud.

He whispered her name against her skin, his voice rough with emotion, and she responded in kind, her fingers tracing patterns across his back. The world outside faded away, leaving only the storm, their shared breaths, and the warmth of their connection.

When they finally came undone together, Lila couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped her lips. Jude pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing still uneven as he smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Li," he whispered, his voice soft and filled with affection.

She smiled back. "Merry Christmas, Jude."

Denise’s favorite Christmas playlist was a thing of legend, and this year was no different. The opening notes of “Last Christmas” by WHAM! blasted through the house, the volume high enough to shake the walls.

Lila stirred, the sound pulling her from the warm cocoon of sleep. She blinked groggily, realizing the weight of Jude’s arm was still draped over her waist. The storm had subsided overnight, leaving behind a blanket of snow and a house filled with holiday cheer—and impending chaos.

"Jude," she whispered urgently, shaking his shoulder. "Jude, wake up! Your mum’s going to catch us!"

"Mmm," Jude groaned, burying his face into her neck. "It’s Christmas, Li. Relax."

"She’s knocking on doors," Lila hissed, her voice rising as she heard Denise’s cheerful voice in the hallway.

"Merry Christmas! Get up, get your presents!" Denise called, her knock sharp and rhythmic as she moved from room to room.

Jude finally opened his eyes, his groggy gaze meeting Lila’s worried one. "Okay, okay," he muttered, sitting up and stretching lazily. "We’ve got time."

"We do not have time!" Lila said, already scrambling to find her silk pajama top. She tugged it over her head just as Jude slid out of bed with a frustratingly calm demeanor.

He pulled on his flannel pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, taking his time smoothing out the fabric. "See? Easy."

"Your mum is going to kill me," Lila said, tying her pajama pants as Jude opened the door a crack and peeked out.

"The coast is clear," he whispered with a grin, holding out his hand for her. She hesitated before slipping her hand into his, and together they tiptoed down the hall like a pair of guilty teenagers.

Downstairs, the living room was already buzzing with Christmas energy. Mark stood by the tree, fully dressed as Santa, complete with a fake beard and a red velvet suit. Denise, ever the festive one, was wearing reindeer antlers, a white cashmere sweater dress, and fluffy red slippers.

Justine appeared at the top of the stairs, looking a little overwhelmed but still smiling. "Good morning, Mr. Mark," she greeted, trying to stifle a laugh.

Mark, however, was fully committed to his role. "Who’s this Mark person? You don’t recognize Santa?" he boomed in a deep, theatrical voice.

Jobe groaned as he flopped onto the couch. "Why are you here, Santa? Don’t you have to be back at the North Pole?"

Mark clutched his chest in mock offense. "I’m very close to the North Pole, actually. Plus, I had to see my woman." He turned to Denise, pulling her onto his lap.

Denise giggled like a schoolgirl, clearly enjoying the attention. "Have I been a good girl this year, Santa?" she asked coyly.

"Okay, that’s enough!" Jude declared, his cheeks turning red as he began rummaging under the tree. "Let’s get to the presents before this gets any weirder."

As Mark and Denise continued their playful banter, the girls exchanged a knowing look. Justine mouthed, "This family is crazy!" and Lila couldn’t help but laugh.

Jude started handing out presents, his efficiency rivaling that of an actual elf. Justine unwrapped a small box from Jobe, her eyes widening as she revealed a delicate pair of diamond stud earrings. "Oh my gosh, Jobe," she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. "They’re beautiful."

Jobe grinned sheepishly. "Merry Christmas."

Lila’s heart raced as Jude handed her a small, velvet box. She opened it slowly, her breath catching when she saw the ring inside. It sparkled like an engagement ring, its delicate band and subtle diamond catching the light.

"Something for right now," Jude murmured, his voice soft as he took her hand. "Before the real thing."

Denise let out a gasp, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh, Jude! That’s so sweet!" She wiped at her eyes, clearly overcome with emotion.

Lila slipped the ring onto her finger, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and happiness. "It’s perfect," she said, leaning in to kiss Jude on the cheek.

After the presents were opened and the wrapping paper cleared, they gathered around the table for breakfast. Plates piled high with scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and freshly baked cinnamon rolls filled the air with the smell of comfort and celebration.

Mark, still wearing his Santa hat, insisted on leading a toast. "To family, to love, and to making this Christmas unforgettable."

The morning unfolded with laughter, teasing, and stories shared around the table. Despite the chaos and close calls, Lila couldn’t help but feel grateful. It wasn’t just the presents or the festivities—it was the warmth of being surrounded by people who loved each other unabashedly.

After breakfast, they bundled up for sledding. Lila disappeared under layers - thermal underwear, ski pants, and an oversized black Moncler puffer that made her look even tinier than usual. As she waddled towards the door, Jude couldn't contain his grin.

"You look like the cutest little penguin I've ever seen," he teased, earning himself a playful swat.

"Not all of us are built like trees," she retorted, but her eyes sparkled with amusement behind her designer ski goggles.

The hill behind the house was perfect for sledding. Jobe immediately claimed the fastest sled, prompting Jude to scoff.

"Please, you need all the help you can get," Jude taunted. "What's your technique gonna be? Naruto running down the hill?"

"Better than looking like a giraffe on ice," Jobe shot back. "You’re gonna lose, old man."

"Old man?" Jude's eyebrows shot up. "Alright then, prove it. First one to that tree wins."

"What tree? The one you can reach standing still?"

Their first few runs were close, each brother claiming victory while the girls kept actual score. Jude's longer legs gave him an advantage on the trudge back up, but Jobe's lighter frame meant faster runs down.

"That's three-two, my favor," Jobe gloated after another run.

"In what universe?" Jude demanded. "You're counting that wonky run where you nearly took out that bush?"

"A win's a win, bruv."

"Watch this then," Jude positioned his sled. "This is how a Real Madrid star does it."

His run was perfect until Jobe "accidentally" sent a spray of snow into his face at the bottom.

"Oh, you're done for," Jude growled playfully, tackling his brother into a snowbank.

They wrestled in the snow like kids, their expensive coats doing nothing to protect them from the wet cold. Justine and Lila stood to the side, sharing knowing looks.

From the porch, where Denise and Mark sat by the outdoor fire pit nursing hot toddies, came the warning they all knew was coming:

"Jude Victor and Jobe Samuel!" Denise's voice carried clear across the snow. "If you don't cut that foolishness out right now..."

The brothers separated instantly, recognizing that tone all too well. Their mother didn't need to finish the threat - they were already brushing snow off their coats, looking appropriately chastened.

"Every time," Mark chuckled, wrapping an arm around his wife.

"Works every time," Denise corrected with a satisfied smile.

Lila caught Justine's eye and they both burst out laughing. The mighty Bellingham boys, brought to heel by their mother's voice. Some things never changed.

"One more run?" Jobe suggested innocently.

"Clean one this time," Jude agreed. "No cheating."

"Me? Cheat? I would never-"

"Jobe."

"Fine, fine. May the best man win."

"Don't worry," Jude smirked. "I will."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

As they watched their boyfriends take on another run down the hill, Lila realized how perfectly Justine fit into their chaos, just like she had. The Bellinghams had a way of making family out of love, of turning girlfriends into daughters, of making space in their hearts for more. Christmas with them was exactly that - chaotic, warm, and absolutely perfect.

lilahamilton and 6 others

liked by iamzuriawanto, sen_inthecity, amara_nadine, lewishamilton and 1.3m others

lilahamilton: best christmas ever 🎅🏾 🎄

view all 4.6K comments….

judebellingham: love you li 😘

⤷lilahamilton: love you more 🫶🏾

iamzuriawanto: lilhamilton & judebellingham you guys are sooo cute!!

⤷jadevanderwall: iamzuriawanto I know right!!

⤷lilahamilton: iamzuriawanto I think you and aurelientchm are cuter 😊

judilaforever: merry christmas 🎄

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

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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."

lyrichamilton posted on his instagram!

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

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