Racing Hearts | F1 Romance|

Prologue - Five Years Before

Araceli:

"Alejandro Fernandez coming from the side! The third race of the new season, and he is using his P1 position to all its power. Ruben Boaz coming from the edge! Out of no where! And look, Alejandro's car gets side swiped by Ruben, sending him into the wall."

That sound replayed in my head. Over and over. I refused to cry though. Refused to let the sounds be true. Crying felt as though it was real, as if it truly happened.

Alejandro was twenty-six.

My mom refused to let me attend that race. She said I needed to focus on my homework. I was about to graduate secondary school, and had a few assignments left behind since I visited Alejandro in Azerbaijani for the first Prix of the season.

A part of me wished I spent the last two weeks traveling with him instead of in school, or locked in my room forced to catch up on my assignments.

"You ok, Chiquita?" Duchie asks me. I could only nod, pressing my lips together, because if I tried saying the words aloud I knew I'd break down. My throat felt lodged, and no matter how much water I drank it wouldn't go away, only added to the pain in my stomach.

Duchie was Alejandro's best friend, and mine. He was like another brother to me, always around my whole childhood. He was the one who helped me skip school when my middle school boyfriend broke up with me.

He has his arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. I could see the tear begging to escape his eye, but we both knew we couldn't cry until the cameras were off us.

"Five time world champion, Alejandro Fernandez dead on the scene of the crash at the Monaco Grand Prix. The twenty six year old, Spanish driver leaves behind his legacy and family."

The reports had a field day with his death. 'Young driver found dead in an FIA mistake.'

It was every journalists favorite story. A tragic death that could have been easily prevented. Only if they knew that Clarissa didn't show up for his own funeral.

Alejandro told me about how he was going to propose to her at the end of the season. But we both knew the only thing on his mind was the trophy at the end of the season—no matter how much he plead his love for Clarissa.

Clarissa couldn't even show her face today. When mama and I went to his house to get some of his stuff for the funeral, she packed everything and left. We are all grieving, but Clarissa shouldn't have left.

"Let's go, Chiqui," Duchie says, leading me to a table full of food and drinks. Small appetizers of Spanish food my mother made with my tias. Mama wanted a small engagement with intermediate family, but Alejandro's driving friends said they needed a celebrations for the media. So we are in the big mansion of the team principal, after the funeral reception.

I saw a few drivers. Duchie was nodding his head to them all, probably in the same boat as me with the talking. My speech felt limited, like my voice would betray me the second I attempted it's use.

Duchie lead me to where the team principal was. He was consoling my mother. The sight pricked my eyes in the worse way imaginable. And this time, I had to go to the bathroom to let it all out. I passed by Alejandro's enemy, one guy who hated him since Alejandro took the title from him two years ago. He gave me a sympathetic look, but I couldn't even look him in the eyes without crying from the memory of my brother calling me and complaining about the drama. Before I hated hearing the drama, but now it's all I wanted.

I went into the first room I could find that seemed like a bathroom, and washed my face under the cold water. I refused to wear makeup today—my usual go too look being left behind for the funeral—since I knew at one point I couldn't hold back the tears.

The water wasn't helping, and no cameras were inside, so I broke down. Sobs came rushing down my face as I begged for one last moment with my brother. Just one more hug. One more comforting moment. One more pep talk to prepare him before a race.

He told me I was his favorite person. That was the last thing he said before he hung up to finishing preparing for the race.

Mama begged him to stop after Carol Ligerberg, another driver who died the year previous. She said it wasn't worth it, but Alejandro was the hardest person to convince to do otherwise.

I laughed to myself between sobs, remembering the image of his sympathetic enemy. I could just imagine the look on my brothers face, if I told him his enemy felt remorse for his death. Then again, Alejandro would be more surprised at the idea of dying. He believed he was inevitable. Maybe his inevitability wore off that two seconds it took for the car to crash straight into him.

As I let the unhealthy amount of heaves and sobs escape my body, I heard a sound from the door. I quickly tried to compose myself, but the person just snickered. I couldn't look up at them through my blurred eyes, so I hid my face in my knees that were against my chest.

"You're good, just needed a smoke break, and love the look on Ollie's face when he smells the smoke in his bathrooms," he laughed as I heard him pull out what I presumed a pack of cigarettes form his person. Ollie, or Oliver, was the team principal and the person hosting the funeral.

"Escaping the media as well, I presume?" He questions as I hold back tears, begging for this man to leave. He sounded younger than the other drivers, probably an F2 kid. Or maybe one of the academy guys.

"Can you please leave," my voice breaks as I finally speak for the first time in what felt like hours.

I looked up at him through puffy eyes and messed up lashes. His expression softened as he looked at me, probably staring at the mess of a girl on the floor. He blew the last thing of smoke from his mouth, before putting out the cig on his hand—causing me to quirk a brow.

He sat down next to me on the floor. "I'm guessing you aren't PR trained like the rest of us?" He says curiously, but I just stare at him trying to understand what he wants.

Soft brown eyes, and light chestnut hair that seemed slightly golden in the bathroom lighting. His outfit was all black like the rest of the guys, but he seemed much younger than the other guys.

"Alejandro didn't PR train his sister," I scoffed, and his face immediately turned rigged.

"You're baby Fernandez?" He spoke almost shocked. How is this guy shocked? I should be the one shocked. A random guy is asking me random questions on a bathroom floor at my brothers funeral—all after burning out his cigarette on his hand.

"Please don't call me that," a boost of confidence hit me. I held myself high, no matter the tragedy I tried to hide it to show my power.

"Fine, but Alejandro never told me his baby sister was this beautiful," he spoke, an accent popping out through his words. English wasn't most of these guys first languages, but we all learned. I learned in my grade school in Barcelona.

"How did you know him?" I ask, trying not the cry at the mentioning of my late brothers name. It still felt so real and new to me.

"That's a question for another day, princesse," he whispered before walking out of the bathroom. Did this asshole flirt with me at my brothers funeral?

And he was right about one thing. The smell of cigarettes would make any sane person mad. Especially Ollie.

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