I CAN SEE YOU

four

"There she is." Pierre shouts when he notices me walking in, instantly embracing me. "I thought you were coming later because of the Netflix interview?" He lets go, looking down at me confused.

Rolling my eyes, I let out a huff. "Let's just say I didn't really enjoy it."

"What, talking about yourself to a room of people who aren't interested, I thought that was your favourite thing to do?" Max must've heard the conversation as he was walking past with Yuki, and decided to put his not needed comment in. Why has he always got to stick his obnoxiously large nose in to my business?

"Pierre." I take a deep breath and look back to him, with my walls falling down slightly. "I don't think I can do this."

He brings out a light smile which he always does to try and cheer me up, but I also don't miss the slight flicker of worry behind his eyes. "Sure you can Linny." He tries to use his nickname for me, giving me a light nudge. "It's only a photoshoot, we done them last year."

"Not that." I take a deep breath and quickly check the room to make sure that no one is listening in to what I'm about to say to him. But as I'm doing that, my eyes lock with Max's across the room, who despite speaking to Yuki and Franz, is staring straight at me. From where he's standing I struggle to read his facial expression or understand why he's looking at me, so instead I shuffle over a bit to break the eye contact by putting Pierre in front of me as neither of us would be likely to back down. "I'm sick of the comments from the media constantly telling me I'm not good enough over any bullshit excuse that they can find. That interview only wanted to talk about the other male drivers and not once did they want to talk about racing or my talent or my struggles. I've fought to get here so that I can show others that it's possible, but now I'm here I feel like I can't do that. I feel like I'm failing."

A look of sympathy grows in Pierre's eyes as he notices that tears are gathering in mine - and I hate it. I don't want sympathy, I don't want to cry, especially since he is in the room. I look up at the bright light above and blink rapidly to try and get them to go away, but it doesn't seem to be helping much.

Pierre places one hand on the back of my head and the other on my lower back, bringing me in, but I quickly put my two hands on his chest and lightly push back to create space. "Please don't. I don't want to break, but if you hug me I will. Plus I don't want to get makeup on your jumper, you're wearing white for Christ sake."

I feel his laugh before I hear it which thankfully cheers me up enough to help battle the tears.

"Always so concerned for others." He shakes his head before moving his hands to sit on my shoulder, giving them a light shake. "But really, you're the opposite of a failure. You're in a top team, after having an amazing rookie year, in which you battled the media and continue to win against. You've got this, you're a bad bitch." Both of us burst out laughing at that.

"Actually she's just a bitch." Max's nasally voice comes from the side of us, with a glare on his face as he looks down his nose at me.

Pierre is the first person to roll his eyes, taking his hands off of my shoulders and standing lightly in front of me in a protective stance. "You know what-"

"Leave it Pierre." It's now my turn to place my hand on his shoulder and lightly pull him back. "I can deal with him myself."

Stepping in front of Pierre I walk straight up to Max, so close that we're practically breathing the same air as he looks down and I look up. Stabbing my forefinger to his chest, just where his heart would be if he had one. "Listen up and listen good because I'm not repeating myself Verstappen. I am a bitch, even a blind person could see that. But this bitch has had enough of your foul attitude. Quit the snarky remarks and constantly trying to bring me down, you've been at it since you were 10 and after 14 years you're still a petty sore loser who can't let go of a grudge. So now it's time to get it through your thick skull. I beat you Max. I beat you at that race the first time that we met, and it was the first time that you had lost to a girl - which is not something to be embarrassed about, it's something to be impressed by. So stop treating me like I'm shit on the bottom of your show, because we both know that I'm not."

Max just looks back to me with a stoic expression, with not an ounce of emotion emitting from him as though he's suddenly turned in to a robot. Crossing his arms, he doesn't budge the eye contact. "Or what?"

"Sorry?" I unknowingly take a step back, shocked that after I've finally let out my years worth of pent up aggression in to actual words - that that's his reply.

A glimmer of humour passes through his eyes as a smirk flickers upon his lips before hiding away again, possibly making me hate the boy even more because of his utter disregard for my feelings. "You don't need to be sorry."

That's the final straw. I raise my right arm back and form a fist ready to launch it square in his face, but Pierre grabs it and forces it down, slowly shaking his head whilst motioning to the hundreds of photographers in the room who could simply snap a photo and end my career. At least one of us was thinking rationally.

"I mean, what happens if I don't quit it? I don't see you at doing any harm." Max continues, shrugging his shoulders whilst eyeing up my small frame from head to toe then to head again.

With a powerful and overconfident smirk on my face, I walk away from Pierre and right up to him, poising myself upon my tip toes whilst Max unconsciously brings his face down closer to mine, with not much space being left between us. The tension was oozing as I stare in to his icy blue eyes and he stares directly back in to mine, neither of us breaking away to back down from the fight. "I might not be the biggest in the room Verstappen, but just know that I'm the best. I may not fight you physically but you can bet that I'll have you playing mind games with yourself."

Neither of us move, both entrapped with staring in to the others souls with both of our breathing becoming heavier. I look with all the hatred I have, hating how after I've finally crumbled and said my piece, that he can still make me feel so little and irrelevant.

"Perfect!" We hear a shout from one of the photographers alongside the snap of a camera, bringing both of us out of our staring competition to look across as I come down from my tip toes and he straightens up, taking a step back.

The photographer makes her way closer towards up with her camera outstretched to show the designer. "It's perfect! The outfits compliment each other and stand out against the dark background, oh and the tension just leaves you staring. More, more! Keep posing you two."

"Look what you've done now." He glares down at letting out a huff as he places his hands on his hips.

"Need I remind you that this could've been avoided had you minded your own fucking business."

"I wouldn't keep bothering you if you had kept your promise."

"What promise?" I was even more confused now. I don't like to make promises, never mind making promises with him.

"The after party?" He tries to remind me. "We promised to congratulate each other from now on if the other won. I'm still waiting from yesterdays race?"

We were both now trapped in our definition of hell: him being close to me, and me having to congratulate him to keep him away.