FRANCESCA
I spent the next few days trying to figure out Matthias' personal race strategy. What did he do when he crashed? Was he racing for himself or for the team? I needed to identify a pattern because there was bound to be one that explained his mindset.
His engineer was incredibly kind and compiled all of Matthias' race crashes into one video for me to analyse. Just because my client was injured didn't mean I could take it easy.
I sat in the motorhome hospitality room, my laptop open on the table with my wired headphones draped around it.
I hit play on the video and listened to Matthias' words.
"Fucking hell this man just pushed me off the track."
I rolled my eyes. He clearly had enough room if he'd just held back.
Another crash appeared on my screen, and I flinched. It wasn't easy to watch from the onboard camera. The sound of metal scraping against the wall reminded me of the crash last weekend.
"What just happened? Lambert clipped my edge and sent me onto the gravel. That fucking bastard!"
A light tap on my shoulder pulled me out of the spiral of crashes and groans. It was Romain and Theo.
"Ah, what's the enemy doing in here?" I said, making eye contact with the cute Santoro boy.
"I can't see Matthias anywhere, so I don't know what you're talking about," Theo teased.
I giggled. "Don't tell him I laughed at that. I might get ghosted in person for a week."
The pair laughed as they took a seat in the two spare chairs.
"We're off for dinner tonight if you are interested?" Theo asked.
I glanced over at Matthias, who had just entered the room. I knew he wasn't fit enough to go out like this, especially since his cast hadn't been removed yet. It would've been unfair for me to leave him behind and go out tonight, no matter how much I wanted to.
"I would love to but I—" I signalled for Matthias to come over. "I have a very rigorous plan for Matthias and me tonight. The doctor said we need to be more diligent with our physio exercises, so we'll be spending the late afternoon on that. We'll probably just grab dinner around here."
Roman and Theo looked at Matthias for a reaction, who obviously gave them nothing.
"Suit yourself. But next time there's an outing, you're coming with us," Theo said.
"I won't miss it," I said, smiling back at him.
Once they'd left, Matthias sat down in the spare chair. "That was the first I'd heard about your rigorous plan. Why'd you lie?"
I laughed nervously. "I didn't lie, we do have to do some shit this afternoon... after I've watched you crash a thousand times."
Matthias leaned over to see what was on my computer screen, closing the distance between his body and mine once again.
"Oh, that crash wasn't even my fault," he groaned.
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, you said that the first time on your radio. I got it."
Matthias laughed, glancing at the table before meeting my eyes once again. It was a new expression from him, one I could get used to. The way his eyes nervously shifted away but then quickly returned, as if he couldn't look away any longer. Was I being delusional? Oh my gosh, Francesca, you're being delusional.
"Now get lost so I can analyse your behaviour and grill you later for it," I muttered.
Matthias looked around the motorhome. "Spare office at three?" He winked. I nodded, and then he disappeared up the staircase.
I put my headphones back in and pressed play. The sound of the De Rossi car breaking apart plagued my ears as a third crash lit up my screen.
"Jesus, how many crashes are in this playlist?" I said, scrolling down the side contents. Forty-two. It was going to be a long morning.
The waitress delivered my second coffee to my table, and I thanked her while simultaneously listening to Matt's radio.
"I don't know who that was, but the Maserati just break-checked me."
"That wasn't my fault!"
I sighed. Every single crash had the same pattern afterwards. Matthias would initially swear, yell some more and then blame someone else. It was understandable to try and shift the blame in the heat of the moment, but a simple Google search showed it extended beyond that.
Matthias van der Burg blames FIA for his crash during qualifying on Saturday.
van der Burnt out! Leading champion won't take the blame for FP1 incident.
Two-time world champion set to keep it at two after poor attitude at Australian Grand Prix.
I shook my head. There was no way someone could be involved in that many crashes without being at least partially responsible for some of them. I replayed the videos on my screen. Matthias had definitely overstepped on numerous occasions, especially in the crashes involving Romain. That was his issue; a selfish mindset that was eating him alive.
I needed to find out why he couldn't just accept failure at times. Why was he always in search of an answer that didn't point to him? What made him so afraid to admit the truth?
***
MATTHIAS
I stood on the edge of the pit wall, listening in to Romain as he paced around the track in free practice. I was torturing myself in doing so, considering all I wanted to do was get back out there. It hadn't even been a week, but I was starting to feel like an animal trapped at the zoo. On display to admire. Incapable of doing anything else.
Next to me, Nico removed his earpiece and patted me on the back. I hated affection, but this team seemed to be so fucking touchy.
I turned to my boss and forced a small smile. "Yes?"
"Don't scrunch your brow so much. Life's too short to be sulking about this."
I didn't know why everyone else was trying to dictate how to feel, especially Francesca. I hated her constant reminders that all was done and there was nothing I could do about it. This never would have happened if I'd just given Romain more room. There might be nothing I could do about it now, but it was me that fucked up in the first place—though no one needed to know that part.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearing three, which meant it was time for my training with Francesca. I had no idea why she suddenly sprung the plan on me this morning. I was under the impression we'd be joining the team for the dinner down the road.
But something about the way my body reacted to this woman made me want to stay back with her. I knew she was going to drive me crazy all evening, but for some idiotic reason, I craved it.
I selfishly didn't want her spending time with Romain and Theo. They looked at her like they wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her on the table in front of me. It was disrespectful, not only to me but to her. She was a woman who deserved your wholehearted attention, not an orgasm-less fuck that I was sure either of those men would provide.
I entered the spare office to find Francesca sitting on a yoga mat. Her legs were crossed, and her soft hands rested on the edges of her knees. She was in a deep meditation, with her headphones in and her eyes closed. She looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring myself to interrupt her. Instead, I pulled over a seat and sat quietly.
I was being a creep watching her, but I couldn't look away. Something about her energy made me calm—or maybe it made me horny. Either way, I couldn't control it.
Francesca opened one eye as if she could sense my being. Then she opened the other and pulled out her headphones.
"How long have you been sitting there?" she asked cautiously.
I chuckled. "Long enough to see you drool."
She wiped her chin and frowned. "Don't mind me drooling over my favourite driver."
"I knew I was your favourite, but it's nice to hear the words come out of your mouth."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't remember your name being Theodore Russo."
I knew she was joking, but something about the way she said his name made my cheeks warm. I reassured myself that it was because he was the opposition. Her loyalties lay with me—professionally, of course.
"What are we doing today?" I asked as I grabbed a yoga mat and laid it out opposite her.
She picked up her pink folder and flicked through the pages. The gentle sound of the plastic made me uneasy.
"Well," she began. "You can't really start hand rehab until your cast is off." She snapped the folder shut. "So, I figured we could spend the afternoon talking."
I raised my left brow. "About?"
"You."
I rolled my eyes. There was one thing I hated more than the competitors in this sport, and that was talking about myself. Why bother talking about my life when most of the memories were negative?
"Absolutely not," I said dryly.
Francesca shifted so that she was directly facing me. Kneeling on her knees, she looked as though she was begging. She grabbed my hands, taking me by surprise, and I felt my cock twitch in response.
"Matt," she said softly.
God, were we on a nickname basis now? She'd only said my name, but it sounded like a plea.
" We missed out on three months of getting to know each other," she continued. "I can only do so much with the information I have now and it's all surface-level."
I didn't understand why she cared about my personal life. She was doing perfectly fine without knowing a thing about it. But fuck, as soon as I saw the pleading look in her eyes, I couldn't refuse.
I sighed. "Okay, what do you want to know?"
Francesca let go of my hands, but she didn't shift away. She sat opposite me with those same eyes and her warm smile. How many times did I have to admit that she was dangerous?
"What do you do in your spare time?"
Okay, this wasn't going to be as deep as I thought. "Um," I began. "I go on the sim. Do a lot of running, wrist training."
She widened her eyes in shock.
I titled my head and grinned. "Not in that way... mostly."
She simply rolled her eyes at my response. "Okay, what else? Something that's not related to your job, or sex... because I don't want to hear about all the women you've slept with." She tried to hide her flushed cheeks by resting her hands on her face.
I tried to think of what else I spent my time on, but in all honesty, it was difficult. Formula One consumed so much of my life that I barely got a chance to breathe. "I guess I play golf once a year."
She pulled her legs up so that she could hug her knees. "Gosh, you need something to spice up your life."
I smirked. "You offering?"
Francesca rolled her eyes for the fifth time since the session had started, but I knew my question had knocked a brick off her wall. She refused to make eye contact as she asked her next question, "Do you think you're capable of being at fault?"
Well, this had escalated quickly. I was just getting used to talking about my sex life.
Francesca stared at me like a reporter eager for a headline. It quickly became clear that she wasn't going to say anything else.
I adjusted my body on the mat, realising that this conversation was going nowhere unless I spoke. "Of course," I began. "I was at fault when I lost the championship last year. How does this relate to anything?"
Francesca sighed. "I just noticed something when I played back your radio after your crashes. You never seem to accept the blame. Even when you're in the wrong."
It didn't take her long to overstep, fucking hell. I didn't know how she wanted me to respond. Fuck, she'd disapprove of any answer I gave.
"Matt," she whispered. There she went again, Matt.
I sighed. "Of course I'm at fault at times. God, I'm probably the cause of more crashes than not."
She released her legs. "Then why don't you own it?"
"I do."
She shook her head. "No. I couldn't find a single article that showed you accepting the blame. You blame others on the radio, and you blame others behind the scenes. Why? Why can't you just accept that—"
"Because there's no point in embarrassing myself when I'll get insulted by my family, friends and the public either way!" I didn't mean to raise my voice, but fuck I hadn't been questioned like this since my counsellor ten years ago. It was, quite frankly, traumatising.
"I'm sorry," Francesca whispered as she realised her mistake. She placed her hand on my shoulder and leaned in closer. I closed my eyes, taking in her fresh, sweet scent. She smelled like citrus and almond, and I had to admit it was quickly becoming my new favourite fragrance.
"Do you think you react this way because of how your father treated you as a child?"
I hated how easily she could read me; it was as if I was a billboard on display. She'd only met with my dad for a few days, yet she managed to piece everything together within hours.
"Yes," I shrugged. "Let's just say I didn't have the easiest childhood growing up, but it's made me strong and helped me get to where I am today. I'm not the minority, Francesca, and I don't need your sympathy."
She remained quiet, as if expecting me to continue. For some odd reason, I did.
"He pushed me to my limits as a child. Punished me if I didn't make the podium in karting. Made me stand outside in the rain if I crashed during a race." I laughed to ease the tension. "Once, he made me stand by our letter box for four hours. I was so terrified that the lightning would strike me that it took me six years to get over the fear."
Francesca continued to watch me, her eyes glistening in the dim light. I'd already told her I didn't need sympathy, but I also appreciated her being there for me—so fucking much.
"I guess I've had to come up with all these excuses to protect myself from him. So, it's become second nature to do it on the track."
Francesca nodded. "Of course. It's a response to what you experienced as a child."
"Everyone felt sorry when they found out my dad only comes to two races a year," I scoffed. "But it's the best goddam thing that's happened to me. I'd prefer he never showed up at all. I'm a different person when he's around."
"I noticed that in Bahrain," Francesca sighed. She barely knew me back in Bahrain, so I must have been obvious.
"Do you forget about everything when you're on the track or in the sim?" she asked.
I nodded. "Of course I do. I chase the thrill because it distracts me. It's why I'm so determined to win. When I stand on that podium and make the fans proud, I'm experiencing something I never felt as a kid."
Francesca smiled. "And you make the fans so, so proud."
I grinned, glancing down at the floor and back up at her. I hated that her watery eyes were because of me. She didn't deserve the burden I'd placed on her.