BRASIL, DEC 2023
As much fun as it was, missing the start of the race because we were making fun of Maverick wasn't going to hold over so well when we looked back on this day. Teasing him could be done (and would be done) on any other day., Watching the start of a race where Brendon could win his first championship title happened less frequently. "We should probably get going if we want to catch Brendon before he has to line up."
Roman looked like he wanted to barf. "We get to see him before?"
"Yeah, silly goose." I taped Fake Bash under the chin. "He needs to see his good luck charms."
"How does my hair look?" he asked. Even without looking at her, I felt the judgmental presence of Everleigh's eyeroll.
"Like a million bucks."
"Come on, Leigh." Seira waved her over, boozy broads-in-arms. All they needed were a couple of Billy Loomises to paint the perfect picture. (Not that they weren't the perfect picture all on their own.) (I could stare at them both all day.) "Windsor has an open bar for their VIP.:"
Maverick looked betrayed. "Why didn't you say that earlier—"
"Let's go," she continued, not even bothering to look in his direction.
All of the women linked arms as we strolled through the paddock in search of Windsor's building and their illustrious open bar which had already been put to good use well before the clock struck noon. As always, Windsor's base was pristine and flashy while still welcoming, and I enjoyed the cool breeze of air conditioning that hit me as soon as we walked inside.
"Welcome to Windsor, besties."
The newest guest took in their surroundings with an apparent appreciation for the aesthetic. "This is gorgeous," Everleigh said.
"Especially the open bar." Seira didn't waste any time. "Leigh, what can I get you?"
"Not a ka-chow!"
"Sounds like moonshine," Everleigh followed up defiantly.
"Coming right up." Seira ran off to order the drink.
If there was one thing my boyfriend was better at than most, it was his impeccable timing. Whether it was scoring the fastest lap on almost every race or arriving at the main Windsor lobby right when his group of friends walked in, his skills held no exception and he knew how to utilize them better than the rest. (Myself included.)
"Do we have any tissues around here?"
"Why?" Rami asked.
I would never get over seeing Brendon Ellis in a racing suit.
He walked down the stairs, entered the main room, and effectively blew everyone out of the water. I honestly couldn't be sure who was more impressed by the sight in front of us—myself or Roman. But it didn't really matter because we were both starstruck either way and just as I did each time I saw him, I fell in love more and more, unsure of how it was possible to love someone this much. His hair was slicked back so neatly that I wanted to run my fingers through it, messing it up in a way I knew it already would once he started the race. And though he was riddled with nerves about how today was going to go, he still held that spark in his eye, the one that showed the world how determined he was to become the champion he was always meant to become.
"No reason," I said.
Everleigh calculated the rate of embarrassment regarding Roman's one-track mind. Once his favorite driver Brendon Sebastian Ellis had entered the room, no one else mattered, Fake Bash was barely hanging on as it was.
"Stevie, I need reassurance right now that you love me despite the fact I'm sort of related to him."
I wasn't sure what judgment she thought I was going to give her considering Roman and I were two peas in a pod right now. Or, well, status pending since Roman hadn't clocked his favorite driver quite yet. But it was only a matter of time. "He seems fine—oh. Never mind."
I could only hope everyone found someone that looked at them the way Roman looked at Brendon.
As soon as Brendon started walking in our direction after finally spotting us, Roman damn near snapped his neck and dropped Fake Bash, though Rami came to the rescue, as he always did, and caught him mid-air. And, proving to be the angel he was, he even fixed Roman's hair before his long-lost husband arrived, sweeping his bangs back away from his eyes.
On second thought, maybe we weren't two peas in a pod. Maybe Roman had squeezed me out so his real partner could arrive and I was left rolling under the table to be forgotten and collect dust.
"I give you permission to break up with me for bringing him here."
"I could—" I swallowed, "never."
Hurricane Brendon swept in. "Hey, guys."
"H—" I started.
"Hi." Roman interrupted.
The true mark of their budding friendship—romance—was how ecstatic Brendon was to hear that Roman was coming to see the race. He had promised him VIP tickets as a wedding present, after all. (The real wedding to Florence.) (The one Brendon had actually considered crashing to joking object to but couldn't be sure if the joke would go over well. Also because he was busy.) He smiled down at him as if they had spent a lifetime laughing together.
"Feels like it's been forever, huh?"
Roman nodded stiffly. "Um. Yeah. Uh." He laughed a little loudly for someone who was sweating bullets, and I was sure it had nothing to do with the Brasilian heat. "A while."
"I'm getting him a drink—" Everleigh groaned.
Maverick stared at her. "You think adding liquor to this is gonna help—" He physically restrained her from heading to the open bar.
"How are you?" Roman blurted out.
Brendon rubbed the back of his neck, using his other hand to play with the bracelet on my wrist. "Kind of nervous. Glad you guys could make—" Something caught his eye, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what. (Maverick was too busy holding his girlfriend captive.) "IS that a teddy bear?"
"It's my daughter's," Roman said guiltily.
"No," Everleigh corrected, "it's not."
"Sometimes."
"I—that looks like my beanie..."
If he didn't want me stealing his things to gift to other people, he shouldn't have let me inside his room. "Oops."
"I'll ship it back to you," Everleigh offered.
Roman stared daggers at her. "Bit—"
"Tell us about the sports stuff, Bash," Maverick said rather helpfully.
Honestly, Roman was doing better than I thought he would. I didn't know why they were so worried.
Brendon glanced at him quizzically. "Did you lose at trivia or something–"
"Not yet," I said.
"Not ever," Everleigh corrected.
"Soon, if Maverick answers coveralls."
"What the hell else do you call them?"
"Overalls or race suits," Brendon and Roman both said at the same time, although the latter was much more aggressive about it. Brendon almost jumped back.
"Well." Maverick crossed his arms. "Now I know that answer."
Seira chose that moment to reenter the scene, albeit with drinks in her hands now. She handed one off to Everleigh. "Here, babes."
"Thank you, lovely." It wasn't a shot to anyone but Everleigh, and she downed that drink like it was her last day on Earth. "Delicious. Amazing. Wonderful."
"Can we cut her off now?"
Seira ignored Maverick. Again. "Should I get another one or do you want to switch it up?"
"This is perfect. Thank you."
I held up a finger. "I'll take one too, please."
"Roman?" Seira asked a little hesitantly. After clocking him for one second, she already looked unsure about handing him alcohol when we couldn't be sure if he could even handle himself sober.
"He's good," Maverick answered for him. "Please don't."
She sighed before leaving, flashing Everleigh and me a salute.
Brendon looked down at his phone. "Do we want a quick tour before I have to leave?"
"We'd love one," Roman answered quickly. "Thank you."
He still looked equal parts nervous and panicked, so I walked up to him and hooked my arm around his. "You can ease up on Fake Bash now."
"Oh." He loosened his grip but only marginally. It was a good thing Fake Bash didn't need to breathe. He would have died a long time ago. "Sorry."
I tapped his arm. "Proud of you."
Brendon's eyes widened. "What did you just call that—"
Suddenly, it all clicked in his eyes. There was a reason I specifically stole his gear instead of sneaking into the Windsor hospitality room for merch. (The Windsor PR team loved me.) (They would have given me stuff for free, even if I did have to admit they were for my unofficial sister wife.
"He calls it Fake Bash," Everleigh clarified, "but the goblin can only sort of pronounce it."
"It sounds more like fuck buzz," Maverick added.
Roman shut them down like he was dealing with his two petulant children. "She's doing her best."
Probably against his better judgment, Brendon eyed the bear a second longer than he needed to or likely wanted to. "Right. This way."
It could be said that Brendon was as equally good a tour guide as he was an F1 driver. He showed the group around the Windsor base, pointing out various offices and the employees who occupied them. Since I had been to a handful of races by that point, I knew where most of everything was, so I was more or less there as emotional support for Roman, which he clearly needed. My Roman looked like a kid in a candy store.
"Oh," Roman remarked once we were inside Brendon's room, "I use that deodorant too—"
"Nobody cares," Everleigh chided through her teeth.
Brendon, the perfect husband, was the more entertained of the two. "Isn't it the best?"
"That reminds me," I said. "I stole your backup at home." There was no point driving down to the store in the middle of the night when I realized I was running out of my own. If he didn't want me stealing his things, he wouldn't have asked me to move in with him.
"Stevie—" Rami started.
"Guys deodorant is so much better. Don't give me that look. You steal my deep conditioner all the time—"
"Men have never suffered lavender blech or vanilla orgasm antiperspirant." Antiperspirant. The Brit.
Maverick looked mildly concerned. "Excuse me?"
"Deep conditioning is important," Roman added.
"Also, death to the pink tax," Seira said. "Right, ladies?"
I held up my fist.
Rami crossed his arms and shifted away from me. "Stop buying conditioner that smells good and maybe I'll stop."
"Fuck the pink tax," Everleigh agreed.
"Pink tax can get royally fucked." While everyone was busy wishing death to the patriarchy and arguing about deep conditioner rights, I stealthily slid a pair of Brendon's sunglasses onto Fake Bash's face. I was sure no one noticed.
Ever the best girl dad, Roman looked between us women. "How do we fight the pink tax—"
Short of starting an uprising, I didn't have the answer myself, regrettably. "Good question—"
"I'll send everyone a list of brands to use." If anyone would come in clutch, it was Seira.
At that moment, Brendon's phone began ringing. He pulled it out and spared it a quick glance before looking up at me. The clock was ticking and time was running out until the race started, a race with far too much riding on it.
"Okay, I think I have to go," he said. "Are you all alright to find your seats?"
I nodded and was ready to step forward to wish him luck—not that he needed it, but he had too much of the bad version last year for me to not say anything—when Roman saluted him. After wishing him good luck himself, he fell into our favorite Windsor F1 driver, clutching him for dear life like he never wanted to let him go. (He probably didn't.) (Both Everleigh and Maverick looked mortified, to say the least.)
Brendon laughed it off. Probably appreciated it, honestly. "Thanks. We'll try not to cry this time."
"Not likely." Maneuvering around Roman proved somewhat difficult, but I was just grateful Brendon towered over both of us so he could lean down and reach me. "See you on the other side. You got this."
"I love you."
"Love you too." That came from both Roman and me at the same time. Awkward.
"Hey, buddy." Maverick leaned forward as if he meant to yank Roman off of Brendon. "If you want to watch him race, you're gonna have to let go of him—"
Roman pulled away. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't let go of Fake Me." After the initial shock, it was clear Brendon was enjoying this too much.
"I won't."
...
"Roman and I call front and center seats."
"As if they were going to anyone else," Rami scoffed as the two of us linked arms and ran down to our seats. Even if it was only our first time meeting in person, Roman and I had formed a bond over our shared love for Brendon—I wasn't entirely convinced whose was stronger, if I was being honest—and the walk over to the seats proved that. Not having the pressure of Brendon's presence helped him relax.
"I'm sorry about before," Roman started saying once we sat down. "I'm not used to, like, celebrities. Nerves kind of hit."
Maverick and Everleigh shuffled in behind us. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that one."
"Why?"
"Never mind."
"Don't worry about it." I lightly tapped his shoulder. "Seeing them in person for the first time is... weird. If you come to more races, you'll get used to it, though."
"You actually want him back at more races after this—" Everleigh exclaimed.
"Shut up," Roman hissed.
"At least he understands what's going on."
Rami cleared his throat.
"Rami is, of course, welcome to join us up front."
Looking over my shoulder, I caught the narrowing of Seira's eyes before she looked down at the lone open seat in the second row. "So, I'm stuck with the spoon that probably only knows F1 cars go vroom vroom?"
"I bet you I could name a driver over than Bash," Maverick challenged. Boldly. Very boldly.
Seira wasn't buying it because she knew better. "Current?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
His confidence faltered once he was faced with the reality of actually having to prove what he said was the truth. "...Idris—"
Maverick was promptly surrounded by a chorus of groans. Someone in the row behind might have rolled their eyes.
"Even I know he retired last year—" Everleigh said.
"That's not public knowledge."
"That's quite literally public knowledge," Rami corrected.
"Literally all of us posted about it last year after the race," I added.
"That's—no." Convincing.
I grabbed my phone from my purse and pulled up Instagram so I could read directly from the caption I posted. "When someone forever changes the landscape of an entire sport the way that Idris Johnson did, saying goodbye seems like the hardest thing you could possibly do—"
"Okay, I get it." Maverick reached up and fiddled with his hearing aids."
Now that I thought about it, Idris did call me a couple of weeks ago to inform me that he was planning on coming to the race. The last thing he wanted to do was miss out on Brendon possibly winning his first championship title. "I think he's actually around here somewhere—"
Roman looked ready to vomit. "No way."
"Wait, let me text him—"
"Should ask him if he's like Tom Brady so Kingston can cheer him on—" Everleigh said.
"Cut it out."
"I'm offended on Idris' behalf." The reply came swiftly, informing me he had just arrived at the box. "Oh—he's here, he said." A quick look around and I caught him near the entrance, flashing everyone that signature megawatt smile as he descended back onto his previous kingdom. I waved to catch his attention, which I received rather quickly, given how much everyone was vying for it. "Idris!"
No matter how many times we hung out and how close we had gotten—both of our names were saved as Baby Mario and Mario in our respective contacts—seeing someone like Idris would never not feel like witnessing a titan. He would always be in a class of his own despite his immeasurable humility and kindness.
"Hey! Was wondering if I'd run into you."
"Obviously, they can't keep Mario and Baby Mario apart." I gestured to the crew. "Have you met my friends yet? This is Roman, Everleigh, and Maverick."
Idris shook Roman's hand while acknowledging the other two with a friendly nod. What he didn't do was stop shaking Roman's hand because the latter showed no sign of letting go, and while Brendon was fair game as far as I was concerned, Idris Johnson received no warning regarding Hurricane Roman. I eyed them carefully, somewhat worried that Idris would have to spend the entire race sitting with us. Surely, he had better seats than we had been given. He was royalty, after all.
"Hey, how's it going?" He asked Roman, not at all fazed by the long handshake.
"Good—Great. How are you?"
Idris laughed. "Happy to be on this side of the track."
There was certainly no way someone like Maverick could become a spy because he not-so-stealthily tried to hide from everyone, embarrassed by the scene playing out in front of him. As if he didn't have nineteen chances to name a driver on the current line-up and guessed the most prolific driver in the history of Formula One who retired last year.
"Have you been to one of the races before? Your name sounds familiar."
I swallowed. Maybe Brendon had Everleigh send him the pictures of Roman crying after Brasil and then sent them to me, who then, because I was a little shit, showed them to Idris. Maybe none of that happened. All I knew was that if it did happen, nobody else was going to find out about it. Roman would never recover from that totally hypothetical scenario.
"Uh, no. Not with us. You haven't heard of him."
"Are you sure?" He narrowed his eyes in concentration. How he managed to forget about those pictures in the first place, I wasn't sure. "I swear you were telling me about someone Bash knew who saw the Brasil race last year—"
"Definitely not him. Must be mixing him up with someone else."
Roman squeaked like a mouse. Everleigh was probably eyeing him like Lucifer. "You raced good."
"Thanks, man. Had to leave with style, I guess."
"You looked good."
Maverick peeked out from behind his girlfriend. "That's not what he meant."
"Fingers crossed it's Brendon's year," I said, changing the subject. Roman needed saving, bless his heart.
"No doubt about that." Idris' name was called, signaling the rest of the world's request to bask in his glory. He shook Roman's hand one final time. "Enjoy the race, yeah?"
All he received in return was a nod. That was all he needed.
I leaned over to Roman and whispered, "Now that is a famous person."
...
After what happened last year, I didn't want to take any chances with thinking Brendon had it in the bag when anything could happen, down to the very last lap of the race. He only needed to score at least P6 to secure his championship title and he was currently in second place, which was good but there were still a few laps in the race, and he was right behind his teammate who also happened to be the person he got into a collision with last year.
To say we were stressed would be an understatement.
Around the twentieth lap was when Roman kindly relinquished Fake Bash to me for moral support, which I was using liberally at that moment. Especially since the unofficial rule of F1 was to go for the gap, and with coming right up for the taking, Brendon swung for it.
"Is he—oh my god, he's about to— Roman, I can't breathe." I squeezed the bear. "I think I might be killing Fake Bash."
Roman was battling against his desire to keep his eyes on the race and his natural instinct to put on his counselor hat. The latter ended up winning. (Talk about a green flag.) "It's—He's—Okay—Wait, what are five things you can see—"
"Um... Fake Bash. I can see Fake Bash. And Rami's empty water bottle. There's a Windsor guy right down there. And the scoreboard over there. And—"
"AND AFTER SPENDING THE LAST FIVE LAPS RIGHT ON HIS TEAMMATE'S TAIL, ELLIS PULLS AHEAD OF HIM INTO P1 JUST BEFORE THE FINAL THREE LAPS! BRENDON ELLIS IS POISED TO TAKE HIS MAIDEN CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE."
Roman and I stare at each other for only a split second before we both let out a piercing, eardrum-blasting scream that forces everyone around us to nearly hold their hands around their ears for protection. Adrenaline shot straight through me and I jumped into the air sending Fake Bash flying in Rami's direction. (He thankfully caught him.) Roman and I threw our arms around each other, still screaming but now with the added benefit of spinning like we were on a carnival ride. Somehow through the chaos, I caught sight of Brendon pulling away from the rest of the pack toward the finish line. He was unstoppable. Nobody would touch him. This... this was his.
"AND THERE WE HAVE IT FOLKS! BRASIL 2023 BELONGS TO ELLIS. A REDEMPTION DAY AFTER A DEVASTATING LOSS LAST YEAR AT THIS VERY TRACK. BRENDON ELLIS FLIES HOME FOR HIS FIRST-EVER WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE AHEAD OF HIS TEAMMATE RIX TSUI, ALSO SECURING THE WINDSOR CONSTRUCTOR'S TITLE. ELLIS BECOMES THE 35TH DRIVER IN HISTORY TO WIN AN F1 CHAMPIONSHIP."
There were simply no words to encapsulate my emotions at that moment. My eyes were already welling before the announcement was made, but once he raced past the chequered flag, they were all free-falling. My heart grew enough to want to push straight out of my chest. Every nerve ending was sent into complete overdrive. Every bit of frustration from this delayed reaction to him not rightfully winning last year was washed away. All I felt then was pure, blissful pride. That was my person. My Brendon. And he did the fucking thing.
As if we had somehow separated from the excitement of the final overtake, Roman and I embraced even more after the title was won, but my brain kicked back into gear and I pushed him away just enough to grab his hand and start tugging him toward the end of the aisle. "Roman, we gotta go! Right now!"
I didn't give him any time to respond, though I imagined I didn't need to. Roman had to know where we were going, and there was no way in the world he would want to miss it. We somehow kept up with each other's pace even though he was somewhat taller than me, and we snaked our way through the crowd waiting excitedly behind the fenced-in area. Most of them were Windsor crew members who were waiting to welcome their new champion into his rightful place on top of the world. There was nowhere else he belonged, except right by my side.
By the time Brendon's car pulled up to the P1 marker and he exited the cockpit, we had made it up to the very front to get an unobstructed view. Brendon stepped on top of the car, holding his arms up in the air as cheers erupted around him and soaking all of it in. I could barely see him through my tears as he spotted us in the crowd and immediately made his way over. By the time he arrived, it was like letting the lid off a pressure cooker, and the fence could barely hold us apart as I lept up, wrapping my arms around him and crying into his shoulder. I knew it would only be moments until I would have to let him go as he had driver duties to fulfill and the rest of the Windsor team deserved their time with their driver as well, but I held onto that moment, that blinding, sun-filled moment of pure clarity where everything cosmically aligned. I loved many people, most of whom were trailing behind to catch up to us, but never like that. Never like the way I felt for the man I held so dearly in my arms.
Nothing could ruin that moment. Not even when Roman couldn't help himself and threw himself into the mix, wrapping his arms around both of us. Quite frankly, it was everything. I wouldn't have changed that moment either, and Brendon appeared to feel the same when he smiled and returned the embrace. He had his two biggest fans in the world right there to help him celebrate. It didn't get much better than that.
After exchanging hugs with the rest of the group that finally made it, Brendon was whisked away.
Fake Bash stared at him from Rami's arms. The teddy had big shoes to fill.
...
"Hi."
"Hi? Hi?" It was embarrassing how hysterical I must have looked. My F1 Champion boyfriend just walked up to me and said fucking hi of all things. "Babe, you did it. You fucking did it. I knew you would. I just—" I wasn't sure how I managed to stop crying for even just a moment while we waited off on the side for him, but they immediately started up again. They were never truly going to stop. "I love you. I love you so much."
Everyone else could have run away for all I cared. I wouldn't have even noticed. There was nothing I could do to make up for this moment being an entire year too late, but I still kissed him anyway, hoping it could convey even just a fraction of how proud of him I was. The sky was the limit with Brendon, and all he could do from this point was go up. I just considered myself lucky that he had chosen me to stand by his side for the rest of it. And I planned to. Every moment, every tear-jerking, soul-soaring moment would be shared.
"I love you." He kissed me again. "My Stevie. Always my Stevie."
Everything was perfect.
And then—
"Piston Cup Champ!" Maverick shot forward to hug Brendon. "Congrats, man!"
The look on Brendon's face said everything. The look on everyone's face said everything. Most notably, Roman looked as if he wanted to strangle the little dude to death. Everleigh had never looked more concerned over her life choices than at that moment. The MARS members that were present both looked of varying degrees of dismay. I wasn't entirely sure that Jun and Lauren hadn't spontaneously grown nauseous wherever they were on their couples retreat.
"Thanks, Mav," Brendon replied with a smile, tears barely contained. At least he had the title as an excuse if he couldn't keep them in. "So happy to see you here."
"That's—" Rami started to say before I elbowed him. Sir Tow Maverick could have this one. "Yeah. Our Piston Cup champ."
"The best Piston Cup champ," Maverick agreed enthusiastically. "Obviously."
"He was like lightning out there," Seira added, completely deadpan.
Everleigh spoke so quietly as if she was afraid of her own words. "Real McRoyalty."
"A true precision instrument of speed and aerodynamics." Rami managed to pull himself together for that one.
"I wanted to give the folks a little... sizzle."
I shoved my face into Brendon's arm for that one.
Even Roman had to join in on the fun, as much as it probably pained him to do so. "Floated like a Cadillac. Stung like a Beemer."
Whatever debilitating disappointment had consumed him over someone who would likely never become his brother-in-law because there was no way he was going to let Maverick talk his way into getting Everleigh to marry him after that one, it was all water under the bridge after Brendon threw his arm around Roman's shoulder, crushing him to his side. Nothing could damper his spirit. If anything, this was all just making this day that much more memorable. "Yeah, exactly."
Roman hugged his loving husband. "Congrats, champ."
"See? You were my good luck charm."
That was all the encouragement Roman needed to squeeze him tighter if that was even possible. My bets would always be on Roman finding a way to get closer to his favorite champ. Even if that meant writing himself into the next Cars sequel.
"Do we want a picture of the happy throuple? Seira asked.
It should be noted that we managed to take one normal smiling picture. Brendon was the shiny trophy in the middle of the second one where Roman and I kissed each of his cheeks. Brasil, you were unforgettable. In the best way, this time.