Racing Hearts | F1 Romance|

Chapter 5 - Araceli

Ollie told me I didn't need to do much reporting on race day.

The Sunday morning was cold, and I hadn't expected to need to pack multiple layers. I shivered in the race jacket with the team's logo and black trousers. Thankfully, my thermal jacket and pants were keeping me warmer in the one-celsius weather. Ollie kindly offered me to watch the race in exceptional seats with my mother.

I got her situated a few hours in advance, before heading back to the garages where I can do the interviews.

My usual reports went on, finishing the announcements and conversations with a few other reporters and commentators. The pre-race reports lasted about an hour before the camera's main focus went on the players who were already preparing for their warmup lap.

I went to grab a few drinks from the VIP area, Ollie allowing me anything I'd like. When everyone thought I wasn't listening, I heard a few of the commentators talking.

"She's just a pretty face, that's why Oliver keeps her around," one of the guys said. My heart clenched in my chest, and I nearly spit up the drink hearing his words. It was one of the older gentlemen who didn't seem overly fond when I placed an opinion on the penalty that one of Eclipse's drivers revived yesterday. The guy was an old German, whose patience lasted for about ten seconds before interrupting anyone—especially me.

"So young too. Twenty-two I heard," the British Mongo reporter said. Mongo was the company who did the commentating, and the British man—think his name was George---seemed to be the grumpiest one.

"I heard she worked in the States, while still in college. Maybe she deserves this position," the only female reporter said. I actually liked her, even though I met her about two hours ago. She seemed the most genuine of the three, probably understanding the struggle of being taken seriously in this field.

The German scoffed. "You always side with the girls, Poppy."

I didn't even know her name. But Poppy fit her. Bubbly when necessary, but off camera she was a beast. I loved her confidence, envied it almost. She held herself high among the men in her field. I planned to do my research on her, and maybe have her take me under her wing since she was necessarily more experienced than I was.

Poppy was about thirty, but her flawless skin and beauty made me question if she was my age. She wore a dark green dress that matched perfectly with her dark skin. I felt she should have been a model rather than a reporter, but when she spoke you knew she was exactly where she belonged.

"Well maybe because no one cuts her some slack. You guys are just stating statics, rather than noticing that she is a captivating journalist---something you haven't been in years." I felt my eyes prick at the idea of someone defending me.

Some people think that my life was handed to me with a gold spoon, but it wasn't. I worked hard to try and fit in when I knew that no matter what I did I would never be like the people I went to school with, or worked with. At the end of the day, everyone still thinks I got this job because of Alejandro, and not the fact that I've been wanting to be a journalist since I was little.

"Oh be quiet Poppy," the British man sneered, and I heard the two men walking away. I was watching the whole exchange, and when Poppy's eyes navigated toward mine, I immediately looked back at my drink which was barely touched.

She smiled, before walking over to me in her stiletto-clad feet. "You are not good at being sneaky," she laughed when she made her way toward me, sitting on the stool next to me without even asking.

"It's not in my job description," I tell her.

I tried to divert my attention to my phone and drink. My mother kept asking when I'd meet her at the seats. "I meant everything I said back there," Poppy interjected, forcing me to look at her. "There hasn't been a reporter like you in. . . well let's say the last one's grandkids could probably be reporters."