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Lance meets him when he’s fourteen.
Lawrence is a fan of motorsport, likes to attend the races he can, Lance less so. He drives for Ferrari. What’s Ferrari to a billionaire’s son? Red car, illegal engine, only the most decorated team in Formula Uno. They meet at a luncheon. This is Lance, his father wraps an arm around his shoulder, my son, he squeezes. Offer your hand to shake.
Lance does, “I’m Lance, pleasure to meet you,” shakes his hand. It’s more calloused than he expected a racing driver’s to be—don’t they wear gloves? The handshake is firm, appropriate grip, practised length. He waits for Lance to let go first. Handsome young man, his smile is wide, but his clear eyes, framed by dark, curling lashes, say more, you must be proud, no? Lawrence laughs, clasps a heavy hand on his arm. He turns to Lance, head tilted down to look at his son. Ruffles a hand through his thick head of hair. Of course. He winks at Lance when he says it. At fourteen, Lance is too riddled with the fear of being embarrassed. His lips draw back, offering a pout, incapable of not making a face. Daaad.
“Run along,” Lawrence says, like Lance is eight again, half his father’s height and always crowding behind his legs at public events; waiting for a nanny to take him away from the adult buzz with an annoyed uptick of his lip. Chloe would pinch his arm once they were gone. You can’t make that face, people can see; she’d always been better at masking her expressions than him. She’d scold him, her voice already sounding like their mother’s. She was only three years older.
A Ferrari driver is not impressive to Lance. He’s leading the world championship right now, Lawrence tells him, but the words don’t mean anything to Lance. Driving is still boring; he likes ice hockey more, thinks his dad should invest in the Canadiens instead of Ferrari’s F1 team.
“Nice to meet you, Lance.”
At fourteen, meeting Fernando Alonso is no more than a passing thought.
—
Lawrence purchases a racing team. Chloe begins a relationship with a driver’s best mate. Somehow, they don’t end up in the same garage every race weekend.
Lance performs his filial duties, and then he does his sibling duties; his time is split mostly down the middle, even with both teams. He tries to be there for Chloe when Scotty is hanging off of Daniel’s arm in the Renault hospitality. Keeps her company. Shakes his head roughly when she asks, voice wobbling, glass in hand—do you think–? Sometimes, he can’t fall asleep at night. I think I just found the guy you’re going to marry. Maybe he is in as much denial as she is. We felt a connection. He asked me officially. Her eyes water but no tears fall. She looks the way their mother had in Lance’s nightmares when Lawrence and Claire-Anne had made the separation apparent to their children. The divorce had been hard on all of them. Claire-Anne had moved out with Chloe chasing at her feet.
Lance stayed; Lawrence needed someone. Your choice, Lance. But he knew when his father hugged him with shaking arms and tucked his face into Lance’s shoulder that he really didn’t. He starts attending races more, by Lawrence’s side, trying to mend a sore he knows he doesn’t have the tools to. Formula One as a coping mechanism—the public would be outraged. Let them eat cake. One weekend, then another he goes—until it snowballs to Lawrence Stroll purchases Racing Point Force India for £90 million plus £15 million in debt. And Lance is suddenly in the paddock 21 weeks out of 52, with drivers to root for. Esteban grimaces at his French once and they are fast friends. Sergio is too busy with his newborns to pay them any mind. On track it’s a different story. No favouritism allowed. Esteban is your friend but they’re both our drivers.
“They might kill each other if this goes on,” Lance says.
“I will get to them first if they keep destroying my cars,” Lawrence replies. He looks out of place in the team polo—Lance is used to him in bespoke suits with various price tags. BWT Racing Point. At least the pink is cute.
No favouritism allowed, Lawrence had said. But Esteban and Lance have become close friends. Why are you like this? So defensive and aggressive? He doesn’t ask; knows how Esteban grew up. “One year,” Esteban cryptically tells him on the white leather couch in his hotel room. There’s a whole bag of gummy snakes open in the space between them. It’s like being kids at a sleepover again. Telling spooky stories in the dark while munching on snacks snuck away from the pantry. “I drove with Fernando Alonso.” Lance nods. He takes a sip from his soda can. It’s sweet. Lance hadn’t really kept up with the grid up until this point. The lollies taste better. He’s not sure Esteban’s trainer will approve of their impromptu midnight meal. “He is a monster,” Esteban continues anyway, chewing the head off a snake, “he will play mind tricks on you. Try to destroy you psychologically. I learnt that year I fight with everything I have.” I felt fear for the first time, and since I’ve never stopped feeling it. Je le crains. Je le crains.
“But isn’t he like– retired?” Lance says. He saw Fernando occasionally on track throughout the years, though he never spoke to him again. There was no real need to interact with him when he’d left Ferrari soon after. The memory of Fernando from that luncheon when he was fourteen is a distant, blurry image. And then he was doing donuts in Abu Dhabi after a slow year, Lewis and Sebastian flanking his sides. For old times’ sake. To celebrate the life of a champion. One of the greatest of our times. He hadn’t won a race since his home circuit in 2013. Lance had watched from the grandstands that day. The crowd roared. He hadn’t thought much of it.
“Oui. Yes. Dieu merci. I hope he stays away.” To which Lance responds with a laugh: don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? Esteban crushes the can in his hands and throws it at Lance. He tries to dodge. He’s unsuccessful; it hits him in the chest. He’s snorting but Esteban keeps a straight face. No. You won’t understand until you’ve raced him. He will do everything to ruin you as a driver and in the media. Evil, evil man. Reste à l'écart si jamais tu le vois. As if Lance is a driver. As if Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, would need some sort of leverage against Lance.
“Well isn’t he like forty or something? Isn’t that too old to come back?” Lance tosses another snake into his mouth, chews with his mouth open just to annoy Esteban. Je ne peux que prier, Esteban tells him. He’s so solemn about it Lance can’t take him seriously. The French are always with their flair. Lance misses Montreal.
—
The rest of 2019 passes fast.
Lance invites Esteban to go on a short vacation with him over the winter break by the shoreline in Monte Carlo, before Esteban heads back to Paris for the holidays, and Lance to Canada. They are photographed on the second day together playing padel, and the tabloids are filled with Ocon spotted in Monaco with Stroll’s son: Favouritism seems to run strong in Racing Point—Can we expect Perez to lose his contract soon? Lawrence calls Lance with annoyance in his tone to say again: Esteban is your friend but they’re both our drivers. Lance apologises over the phone—promises to not do it again. He grins at Esteban when he hangs up. Maybe I should invite Checo to join us? Esteban frowns at him, the set of his brows hardens. Don’t you fucking dare. They spend the rest of their shared vacation inside a seaside apartment playing video games. Lance beats Esteban on FIFA. Laughs in his face. Esteban retaliates by going all out in F1 2019.
—
2020 races off the starting line like the Mercedes W11.
Max Verstappen—will he finally be the one to challenge six-time world champion Lewis Hamilton? Maybe not; the Honda engine seems prone to exploding out of nowhere, like a temperamental, finicky senior cat that is particularly averse to vet visits. Still, Max does the impossible, sets the paddock alight. Podiums at every race, is he insane? He’s matching both Mercedes drivers!
Esteban tells Lance at lunch on a Saturday: Max will make history. Lance doesn’t doubt him. Trusts Esteban’s intuition as a driver. The rest of the season slowly crawls by. The paddock is eerily empty on the race weekends. Adjustments are constantly made. Lance is unsettled but he doesn’t comment on it; silent acknowledgement—as do most others. Max DNFs back to back in Italy; maybe a tifoso cursed him. His recovery to the podium is swift. Lewis wins his seventh title. He equalises Michael Schumacher’s world record. He cries on the radio. That’s for all the kids out there who dream the impossible! Max finishes third this year. Signs a contract extension. Red Bull blearily begins to see a glimpse of hope that emerges from Sebastian’s shadow.
Lance sees Chloe on his birthday. She and Scotty are going strong, she tells him wearily. They’re thinking about marriage, they’ve talked vaguely about it. Maybe later, when this is all over. He stops going to Daniel’s garage to spend time with her; she rarely comes down to the paddock anymore. He proposed, she admits to him in a hushed voice, I don’t think– I believe in him. I trust him. It lifts weight off Lance that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying. He silently wishes Daniel a good end to the season; tries not to think about Lawrence buying stock in Aston Martin and what it means for Esteban’s future. I’m sure it’s nothing. But the difference in performance from Sergio is stark and telling. Esteban pulls him aside before the Imola race start: you will let me know? Lance nods fervently. Of course, buddy. I’ve got your back. He tries to be reassuring, encouraging. Rubs a hand down Esteban’s back, lays it across his waist. Goes cycling with Esteban when he can; they play tennis and he lets Esteban win. Offers security physically in the only way he knows how.
It sorts itself out though. In the midst of building a team up around himself, Daniel does the incredulous; he doesn’t renew with Renault—he signs with McLaren. He’s too greedy. I bet his accountant must be happy. But Renault is not happy. The French are dramatic, Lance thinks. They will remember. Maybe curse Daniel’s name, too. And like all things Daniel does, it’s seemingly again a catalyst in Lance’s life. The paddock thrives on rumours. A French team with French drivers, someone suggests, all too quickly.
“I called an old friend,” Lawrence says in the same breath as Esteban announces: I have signed with Renault. We’re rebranding to Aston Martin Aramco Cognizant F1 Team. A new start for the team: different colours, different cars, different sponsors, development direction, strategies, and—drivers. I will not drive alongside him again, Esteban tells Lance. He’s been drinking. His face is flushed, voice heated. Through the anger and hostility, Lance thinks he can see palpable fear. Plus jamais. Sergio loses out too. His management is disgruntled. The sponsors withdraw with him. Just who–
Sebastian is leaving Ferrari. He’s had enough. The car could never challenge Lewis consistently. Bad strategy after bad strategy, then the illegal engine. Outdone and outscored by Leclerc, who’s begun to replace him in the eyes and hearts of the tifosi. Charles, Charles, Charles, they chant under the podium, in the grandstands, under his hotel window, from the pedestrian streets outside. Youngest Ferrari driver in sixty years. Longest contract in Ferrari history. They sing: Forza Charles. Il predestinato. Tesoro nazionale. Portaci il campionato. Portaci orgoglio, portaci la vittoria, portaci gloria. Oh, Lerclerc, portaci il mondiale. The Ferrari red is pretty; the Ferrari red entices a lot of drivers. Voi siete la squadra rossa, appassionati, arrenderete mai. But she is a siren, luring sailors to be drowned in storming waves. When she finds a shiny rock, she pats it over and over again; and when the pebble loses its sparkle, she is bored. She will toss it aside—chewed up and dull. For someone else to pick up, maybe. Usually, the rock ends up lost at sea while she moves on. E adesso, io quasi quasi dirò addio. Sebastian is the latest she spat out, but it seems her spell, the rosso corsa, is still seducing Charles. Forza Ferrari sempre.
A four-time world champion. Lawrence is overjoyed. But it’s only one driver, it doesn’t explain–
Two-time world champion. Robbed from his third. A villain’s making—a slow descent from glory, trajectory fixed on an unfulfilling end.
Back from his sabbatical.
“He’s 39,” Esteban hisses, “why can’t he just enjoy retirement?” But Lance is too busy thinking about– I called an old friend. I asked him if he was still committed to the endurance championship. He said no. He wants to drive for us in his last few years, he wants a role in the team after. He’s committed to us. He is happy. It was an easy decision.
“I don’t want to be on track with him,” Esteban says petulantly, his cheeks huffed like a squirrel’s despite his frustrations. He’s being particularly difficult, like an unruly child. “He is a menace.”
“I don’t think you have a choice, dude,” Lance says softly. He’s not particularly worried. Esteban got a seat, Renault wanting to retain him for a long time, probably traumatised. It doesn’t really matter which team Esteban drives for, they’re all in the same paddock every weekend. “Maybe he’s mellowed out.” Not that he expected a racing driver to willingly lose their edge. But time away changes everyone.
“You cannot teach an old dog new tricks,” Esteban replies. He’s smug, as if Lance hadn’t been the one to teach him the phrase. “Lance, you have to promise me, do not get involved with him. Il va te mâcher et te recracher comme un mauvais morceau de chewing-gum. He is vicious. If you turn your back to him, he will stab you.” Esteban has always been theatrical, alcohol seems to elevate it. Enough drinks for him, Lance decides. Thinks, it doesn’t matter, I’m not a driver. Of course it does, Esteban would say with a pinched face, you are the team boss’ son. You are fair game to him. And if Lance is being particularly uninhibited and careless, Esteban would click his tongue, wiggle his finger around in his face and say: je t'ai donné des avertissements, c'est à toi de décider si tu écoutes.
“Okay, I promise. I promise,” Lance says, placating. Esteban heaves a sigh with his whole body. Lance only managed to convince him to attend the Racing Point end of season celebrations because Fernando couldn’t make it. He would be there for the drivers’ new years party, however. He’d said, but I have some other things back home right now. In Asturias. I will see you later, ah? Lance had been in the office when Lawrence was on the phone with him. You send my wishes to the team, yes? Say hello to Lance for me. Like he knew that Lance was sitting there on the other side of the phone. Lance had been surprised Fernando still remembered him, let alone knew his name. It shows on his face. Lawrence sees.
“Of course I will. But you’ve got plenty of chances to say hi to him yourself next year, eh?” He’d looked at Lance when he said it, a twinkle in his eye. I am committed to this sport, Lance. I’ve invested a lot. Give it a few years, we will win races and we will win championships. Lance hadn’t heard what Fernando replied with. Esteban had sent him a text: I’m here, where are you? Lance had excused himself quietly and left. He hadn’t told Esteban about the phone call. He’s not sure Esteban would want to know.
Esteban slumps against Lance’s shoulder. It’s already quite late. Sergio had already left earlier. You know, my wife and kids. Sebastian walks up to their table holding two glasses. “Hello Esteban, Lance.” Esteban grumbles but shifts a little to let Sebastian scoot into the booth the two of them have been huddled in all night. Sebastian sets a glass down in front of each of them. “I got you water,” he says, “seems like Esteban’s had too much.”
“Yeah, Este,” Lance says. Nudges Esteban with his elbow. Esteban burps; Sebastian laughs. It’s weird. Lance hadn’t thought drivers could be so friendly with each other due to always being direct competitors, but he’d learnt that like clockwork, they’re shuffled around the grid. A deck of cards during a poker game. Probably just the usual for them. No need for awkwardness.
“You’ll do well at Renault,” Sebastian says to Esteban, then turns to Lance, “I look forward to working with you.”
“Thanks. You too, man,” Lance says. Not that he does anything for the team. He’s there every weekend only because he’s always been there since the divorce—hanging around in the back of the garage, in the hospitality sometimes. He’s pretty sure half the paddock thinks he’s Esteban’s wag—he’s certainly there more often than Elena.
“Good luck with Fernando,” Esteban grumbles, lifts his head from Lance’s shoulder to peer at Sebastian, “I hope he does not kill you.”
“He hasn’t yet.” Sebastian shrugs, folds his arms on top of the table. “Don’t worry. I am used to dealing with him.” He winks lousily at Lance, who holds back a snort.
“He will try,” Esteban obscurely warns. Lance pushes the glass of water firmly into his hand while rolling his eyes. Tells him: Esteban, drink. Please. For fuck’s sake.
“I can take him on in a fight.” Sebastian laughs. “He’s much shorter than me.”
“You said that about Hamilton,” Esteban says pointedly. Look at where you are now. Lance grimaces. Shoves his own glass of water into Esteban’s hands. Says: here, drink this too. But Sebastian’s not offended. There’s a quiet resignation about him. It isn’t a very long contract that Seb had signed. Two years. Your father asked me to help develop the car, give feedback. I have young children at home in Switzerland. Driving means I’m away from them for half the year. I want to be there while they grow up. I don’t want to miss anything. I am thinking about retirement. This, of course, Esteban does not know.
“You’ve got a long future ahead of you,” Sebastian says instead, tone ambiguous.
—
“Ugh. It’s Pierre,” Esteban whispers into his ear when Pierre walks into the party with Charles trailing behind. He looks like he’s going to say something else but decides against it. Good choice, Lance thinks, after all there is no language they speak that Pierre cannot also speak. Esteban grunts. “Oh, mon dieu. I need another drink.”
“I want a vodka coke,” Lance chirps. Esteban gives him the stink eye but doesn’t say no. The way he stomps off into the crowd against the bar makes Lance almost snort the last bit of his beer up his nose.
“Having fun?”
Lance had almost forgotten that Fernando is also here at the new years party. But he’d said on the phone, I’ll be there, and, say hello to Lance for me. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to step back on his word.
“Oh, hi Fernando,” Lance says. Clinks his beer bottle against Fernando’s when he offers.
“Good party, no?” Fernando asks again, slinking into the seat opposite to Lance. “More of these to come.”
“Yeah, of course,” Lance grins, remembers, “welcome to the team.” He hadn’t expected Fernando to seek him out like this. Maybe he’d coincidentally see Lance in Bahrain during the pre-season testing. Hello Lance. Look at you. You have grown a lot, ah? And Lance would nod and they would both move on with their day. Just another one of his dad’s friends. Uncle Nando, if he’d seen him more during his childhood. Plenty of those around.
“Big boy now,” Fernando says, gestures with his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling around familiar lines as he smiles, “when I met you—you were this big!” He laughs. “Now you are–” throws a hand into the air. It makes Lance laugh too. Fernando smiles, puts a hand on Lance’s shoulder. It’s awfully close to his neck. Lance thinks about what Esteban said. It’s all mind games and tricks with him. Stay away. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Fernando’s hand shifts, patting his cheek gently. “Pretty boy, too. Girls must love you, yes?” Were they always this familiar?
Sara broke up with him about six months ago. Said, I don’t think we’re in the same headspace. Lance hadn’t squabbled over the issue. Doesn’t think about Chloe and Scotty in the year prior. The separation stung less than he thought it would. It had been a dull ache for a couple of days and then he was over it. Marilou had been a ‘one week on daddy’s yacht in Sardinia’ kind of situation over the summer break; they’ve never spoken after. There hasn’t been much else in Lance’s life. Esteban had told him, unprovoked, you won’t find a girlfriend like this. It’s like you have no passion, no enthusiasm in them. He’s been steady with Elena for a few years now, so he thinks he has wisdom to pass down onto Lance. Lance tries not to think too deeply about what he says.
“Not really,” Lance huffs. He says it self-deprecatingly. It’s mostly a joke.
Fernando scoffs like Lance had just called the sky green. “No worries. You are still young.” Pinches Lance’s cheek like an old auntie. His thumb is closer to Lance’s mouth than what is considered normal, Lance thinks. If he stuck his tongue out, he could probably taste the saltiness of his sweat–
A glass slams down on the table between them. The liquid sloshes violently and half of it pours out. A few drops of it make it onto Fernando’s white sleeve. “Your vodka coke,” Esteban says through gritted teeth. His jaw is visibly clenched. Lance imagines steam pouring out of his ears. Fernando remains unfazed, doesn’t acknowledge the new, intruding presence looming over them.
“You enjoy the party, Lance.” His expression hadn’t budged an inch. His hand on Lance’s face doesn’t move either, even though Esteban is glaring at it very intensely, “I will see you around.” He lifts himself out of the seat and goes. Before he saunters off, he ruffles Lance’s hair like the way Lawrence does. It’s impressive the way he doesn’t acknowledge Esteban at all during the whole exchange. Lance is honestly a little baffled.
Esteban refuses to sit down in the seat Fernando just vacated. “I don’t want my ass touching his ass print.” Whines about it like some dog pissing, territory marking contest. He makes Lance shuffle down the bench until he can squeeze himself into the space next to him. Turns to face him, eyes narrowed. “Why are you talking to him?”
“Is this an interrogation?” Lance sighs, takes a sip of what’s left of his vodka coke. Wants to tell Esteban that he finds Fernando kind of—well. Je ne sais quoi. But the FIA probably does not encourage or condone torture as one of its core values. And Esteban will probably try to strangle him for appropriating and desecrating the French language like that. He keeps the thought to himself. Says, “his boss is my dad. Am I just supposed to ignore him for the rest of my life?”
“Yes,” Esteban hisses, “that is exactly what you are supposed to do.”
“You’re being a bit insane,” Lance says, rolling his eyes.
“No,” Esteban mutters, “you are insane for thinking he will be nice to you.”
Lance purses his lips. Maybe Esteban mentally checked out after seeing Fernando Alonso in the flesh again. A trauma response. “What can he possibly do to me? My dad writes his paychecks. Be serious.”
“He will make himself your dad’s new son.”
“Okay, just because my dad is forty years older than me, doesn’t mean–”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Esteban.” You’re taking this too far, Lance thinks, says, “I’m sure he can be nice. Cordial even.”
Esteban side-eyes him with such scepticism Lance almost believes him. “Maybe if you are the one signing his cheques.” This is Esteban conceding. Lance doesn’t pursue the topic any further. The back and forth could go on all night. Instead he smirks over the rim of the glass: how long do you think before Renault signs Pierre, too, for an all French team?
The indignant squawk Esteban lets out cheers him up.
—
Fernando catches him by the elbow in Bahrain during the pre-season testing. Huh. Déjà vu.
“You were not at the car reveal,” he says, eyes unblinking. The intensity of his tone makes it sound like an accusation. He’s a little stern, but not unkind about it. His hand on Lance’s arm is warm; Lance can feel the heat of his body seeping through the thin layer of fabric of his new Aston Martin team polo. Fernando doesn’t let go.
Lance rubs the back of his head sheepishly with his other arm. “Yeah, sorry man. I had an emergency.”
Chloe and Scotty had a fight. Daniel’s name had come up; she’d been hysterical. Scotty had gone to stay at a friend’s house. He would’ve stayed at Daniel’s but Daniel was away in Woking doing simulation work. Lance flew to Monaco to console her, and hadn’t really known what to say when Chloe cried: he asked if Daniel could join us on our honeymoon. Is that a normal thing between friends, he’d wondered while purchasing two tubs of ice cream at the local grocer. It’d been night time and he’d gone out with only his slippers on and no socks. It was so cold he was sure he’d gotten frostbite on his toes.
He’d thought about suggesting separation or a break to cool off. Thought about pulling Scotty aside in the spacious, lushly-carpeted hallways of the lavish apartment they’d kept in Monaco. Don’t you fucking dare hurt my sister. But when he got back to the apartment, Chloe’s tears had dried. I love him. I can’t let go of him. If Daniel– she hiccuped, as if her soul was rejecting the words trying to pry itself out of her mouth, so be it. So be it. Lance had swallowed his thoughts then and there, and then he swallowed half a tub of some overly decadent and luxurious Monaco branded mint and chocolate chip gelato clearly marketed at the affluent while watching The Notebook on repeat for six hours. Chloe sobbed through the first two runs—she fell asleep midway through the third. Lance kept her head propped up against the back of the couch with a hand while letting the film play through on low volume.
In the darkness of the apartment, their silhouettes faintly illuminated by the soft glow of the television screen, Lance had quietly thought about Noah and Allie, and Chloe and Scotty. His mind drifts briefly; remembers reading and studying the Iliad in his high school English class, and then much later on in the privacy of his own bedroom—I would recognise you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf. I would recognise you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times. And I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion. He’d thought about Lawrence and Claire-Anne then, perhaps with a level of maturity and perspective he’d never had before. The second tub of ice-cream Lance bought for Chloe had sat untouched, melting on the coffee table. It was salted caramel with peanut butter chunks and white chocolate swirls. Lance can’t remember what happened to it. Maybe they should’ve watched The Talented Mr. Ripley instead.
“But you’re okay?” Fernando asks. Gentle. Coaxing. His hand leaves Lance’s arm. Lance hadn’t thought he’d miss it.
“Yeah,” he nods slowly, “it wasn’t very serious. No one got hurt. Thanks for asking.” Pauses. Scratches the hair at the top of his nape. The voice of rationale in his head that’s beginning to sound eerily like Esteban lately goes completely silent. “How was the– do you like the new livery? I haven’t gotten the chance to see it yet.”
“Yes, beautiful,” Fernando says with a grin, lips curling around his teeth. The way he maintains eye contact unsettles Lance. “Fast, too. You’ve been here all day, no? You saw? It matches the simulator times. Good at fast laps, maybe a bit weak on the long runs but we will work on it. We are like lions. Podiums soon.”
Lance smiles. Rubs the underside of his fingers against the stubble on his chin. Wonders if Fernando knows. Cocks his jaw a bit. “I could see. The timesheets looked promising.” Overheard one of the engineers say: you’re matching both Ferraris on pace. Whatever that means.
“The next two weeks will tell but I think we will have a good race on Sunday,” Fernando says, “but now, lunch. Come on, no Formula One talk during the break. My treat, yes?” He jokes, tosses a wink at Lance, “Aston Martin has good food.” And, well. Lance had already promised Esteban lunch at the hospitality. He’d been on the way to meet Esteban there when Fernando had caught him. He means to speak up, he really does. Sorry Fernando. Rain check? I already have plans for today, but I’m sure tomorrow– But Fernando rests a warm, broad hand against the small of his back, right above the curve of his ass, urges him along in the direction of the hospitality decked out in the signature Aston racing green, and any sign of protest fizzles out in Lance’s brain like the fight in a Haas being overtaken by Lewis Hamilton on a fresh pair of medium tires down the main straight with DRS. Fernando’s hand stays steady on his back the entire walk there; a guiding force. Esteban’s going to kill him.
—
Esteban, of course, makes no salient effort to hide that he’s eyeing them very intently with scrutiny as they approach him. Lance can see the thoughts brewing behind the rigid complexion of his face. Clearly spots the moment when Esteban goes from bewilderment at Fernando’s presence, to irritation, disdain, back to confusion, then: scornful resignation. Lance pulls away from Fernando’s hand to greet Esteban with a quick hug. They hadn’t seen each other much in the last month, mostly because Esteban was in Enstone strapped to the simulator and Lance had sat in a plush office in Silverstone, taking notes on the construction of their new factory while Lawrence was out of town on other business. There’s a tense pause when Esteban and Lance let go of each other and Fernando is still standing off to the side, eyes wandering about. Esteban begrudgingly offers him his fist for a fist-bump. After a considerable beat, Fernando reciprocates.
“I think today we’re serving chicken curry,” Lance says, as they walk up to the self-serve catering station.
“Sounds good,” Esteban says while reaching for the lid of the pot. Fernando beats him to it, which leaves Esteban’s outstretched hand hanging in the air awkwardly. Lance tries not to laugh out loud. In the pot is some very nice-smelling, but tragically beige, mushroom risotto.
Fernando laughs. “Must’ve misheard Italian for Indian.”
Lance offers him a sheepish lilt of his lips; off to his side, Esteban attempts poorly to disguise a snort as a cough.
Seating leaves Lance facing Fernando with Esteban to his side. No way I will sit next to him or look at his evil face while eating my lunch—it will ruin the taste of the food and make me throw up, Esteban tersely insists when they find a table to set their plates down and Fernando excuses himself to the bathroom briefly. He says to Lance: I would rather drive an Alpha Tauri for the rest of my life, like it’s the worst fate on earth. Lance tells him to think about all the drivers who have done exactly that.
“Ha. Pierre,” Esteban spits his name out, jilted like a curse. Lance had been thinking more along the lines of Brendon Hartley, actually. He doesn’t ask Esteban why Pierre is always on the forefront of his mind like that. Seems personal.
“I think this needs, like, a little bit more salt,” Lance says, once Fernando had returned and the conversation had petered off into stilted silence. They probably made an odd image to onlookers. Two-time world champion Fernando Alonso, sitting askew one of his most publicly-despised ex-teammates Esteban Ocon, alongside Lawrence Stroll’s trust fund, socialite son, all three of them silently shoving bland risotto into their mouths like a few anxious rats. Well. That’s mostly Esteban and Lance. Fernando’s eating just fine, arms propped on the table but somehow not hunched over his plate. Casual, but still attentive. Lance isn’t sure if Fernando is resting his leg against Lance’s knee because he thinks it’s the table leg or not. Easy mistake to make.
“Tastes fine to me,” Esteban says at the same time Fernando tells Lance, “I agree. More salt.” Esteban ignores him, spends a suspiciously long time chewing another spoonful of soft risotto. If he gripped the spoon any harder, Aston Martin would have to send Renault a bill for destroyed silverware.
“Um, I’m going to grab some salt and pepper,” Lance says to the table, looks to Fernando, “you want some, too?”
“Please,” Fernando drawls, then, “wait, Lance. Come here.” Lance turns to him, eyebrows slightly lifted with confusion. Fernando reaches across the table, swipes his thumb across his bottom lip and then the corner of it. Before Lance can even react, Fernando’s licking the specks of risotto off his thumb, tongue flicking out of his mouth to press against the rough, tan skin of his finger, before it retreats back in. Lance watches him do it in slow motion, eyes shifting between Fernando’s and the thumb against his mouth. Fernando reaches down and wipes the spit off his thumb on the napkin. Smiles at Lance, all teeth, eyes still. “All clean, principito. Off you go.” It’s all very surreal.
Lance can hear the vein burst in Esteban’s forehead.
“Okay, what the fu–”
“Mind if I join you, lads?” Sebastian asks, hands full of risotto, like a divine interruption to halt a celestial war.
“No, of course not. Feel very free to join,” Lance says, and Sebastian settles into the seat next to Fernando. He’s unloading the things in his trouser pockets onto the table when he notices the tensive silence.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” He asks, shifts his shades off his eyes and onto his cap. Bless his heart, Lance thinks.
“No,” Esteban gripes at the same time Fernando mutters, “yes.” Seb blinks innocently.
“Okay,” Lance says before anything else can escalate. His lip is still tingly from where Fernando had pressed the calloused tip of his thumb against it and dragged it across the soft and delicate of his skin. “I’m gonna grab salt and pepper. Seb, would you also like some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Alright then.” Lance shuffles off to grab the little packets of salt and pepper kept in small buckets next to the pot of risotto. Tries very hard not to think about the same drag of Fernando’s thumb elsewhere on his body. Or the wet drag of his hot tongue against his own skin instead of Fernando’s.
The silence is not any less oppressive when he gets back to the table. Sebastian has also begun to shovel risotto quietly into his mouth, chewing meticulously and swallowing with excessive care.
“Here.” Lance drops the handful of packets onto the table. He rips one open and accidentally drops the whole packet of salt into his risotto. Puts one regrettable spoonful into his mouth. Almost spits it right back into his plate. He swallows valiantly, though. A son of a billionaire he may be, but a waster of food he is not. Sticks his tongue out like it would help mitigate the sting of too much sodium. “Ugh, too salty now.”
Esteban scoffs, polishing off the last remains on his plate. Sebastian opens his mouth to probably suggest Lance get another plate but Fernando beats him to it.
“Ay, tú niño torpe,” he scolds, bats Lance’s hand away gently when he goes in for a second spoonful, “can’t even look after yourself properly, ah?” He takes Lance’s plate and pours it into his own unsalted risotto, mixes it around, and scoops half of it back into his plate. Lowers it in front of Lance. “Better now?”
Lance takes a bite from his newly mixed risotto while Esteban stares at the side of his face with disgust. Thinks about how Fernando’s saliva is inadvertently mixed in it like some weird, kinky, fetishy seasoning. He could spit right into my mouth and I would like it, thank him for it —a precarious thought; he cuts it off before it can go anywhere. The risotto is perfectly seasoned. “Mm, yeah. Perfect. Thanks, Fernando.” Flashes him a deliberate, wide smile; knows that the way his lips lazily stretch past his teeth around the sss inherently exposes hints of his pink tongue. Doesn’t think too hard about why the risotto suddenly tastes a lot more delicious—it’s the salt, right?
There’s an unpleasant screech from Esteban’s chair legs scraping against the floor when he promptly stands. “Excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces, voice strained and clipped. Pushes the chair in with his foot and leaves. No one comments on why he’s going to the bathroom with his finished plate of risotto and cutlery in hand, and Lance can’t be bothered to consider why he doesn’t ever return from the bathroom. He’ll get an earful on why from Esteban later, anyway.
—
Bahrain is a wild ride.
Fernando retires midway due to a brake issue. Lance doesn’t know whether to be joyous and frustrated. Sometimes, he feels oddly distant from the racing, like he’s watching the track through a pane of thick and foggy glass. The noises are muted. He doesn’t understand himself. Sometimes the excitement spikes through when Esteban, or even Sergio, has a particularly good result. In Sakhir, Lance had thought he felt genuine elation. The garage had been roaring when Sergio crossed the line, the cheers of the mechanics and engineers were deafening. Lance stood in the back and smiled to himself. He had felt happy, sure, but there’s always been a disconnect—lack of passion, Esteban had said, chewing on a croissant. Lance had asked: do you get offended when I don’t celebrate with you like the others do? Yes and no. I think, in the moment, ah, he does not really care about me. Lance had stopped picking at his own croissant then, looked up to disagree—but I know this is the way you are. You make sure I am happy. But you are not sure that yourself is happy. I am happy, Lance had insisted. Then why ask these questions, Esteban tells him curtly. You have never truly wanted something for yourself, Lance. Is why you have a lack of passion. Un jour, vous en ferez l'expérience. Cela fait battre votre cœur pour la première fois et votre cœur ne cessera de battre après. Lance had frowned, bottom lip jutted out. Eyes narrowed behind the protection of his sunglasses. Esteban lazily shrugs with an easy smile—he can be so full of himself sometimes; Lance pelts him in the face with bullets made of croissant in revenge.
In the media pen, unfortunately with the race still going on the screen in the background, Fernando lifts a shoulder and says to the reporters: it’s a good car to drive. Easy to control. Tyre degradation is manageable. Missed opportunity but if we went the full race distance, we could’ve shown the race pace a bit more. The weekend was a bit more competitive than what we thought so that’s a positive surprise. Yeah, unfortunate with the brake issue but we will improve in the next couple of races. Hopefully, in the next weekend we can score with both cars but at the moment it’s tough.
Back in the garage, Fernando says to Lance, the sleeves of his race suit tied around his waist and a cap on his head, “enjoying the race, cariño?”
“Yeah,” Lance nods affably, then because he’s stupid, he says, “not as much now, though. Since you’re out. Sorry about the brakes, man. I’m sure you could’ve finished ahead of Sainz at least.”
“Ah, more races to come. This is just the start,” Fernando tells him. Glances at the screens projecting Seb’s telemetry data. He’s very calm for a man who’s just DNF’ed on his grand return to Formula One. Too calm. Whenever Esteban had to retire from a race, he’d always need an arm around his shoulders assuring him it’s not his fault. Sergio had been less demanding in that aspect, but liked to be consoled, too. Fernando’s an image of nonchalance, rubbing his beard contemplatively, the black fireproof stretched tight and thin across his shoulders. He turns back to Lance and smiles casually. “Plenty of chances to watch me later, no?”
“Sure,” Lance laughs. A thought catches him for a brief moment—he offers like he would to Esteban, “do you want some comforting?”
Fernando is quiet for a moment, stares at him intensely. “Very forward,” he says, smile widening, his teeth on display.
“A hug is?” Lance replies with a tilt of his head. Knows he’s being coy. Fernando only laughs. Lance opens his arms out, he means for it to be teasing—a joke, but Fernando shifts, leans into his space; expectant, awaiting. Lance blinks, thinks—fuck it —and wraps his arms around Fernando’s middle. The sturdy, hard corded muscle evident beneath his touch. Fernando slips one hand onto Lance’s cheek. It catches him off guard, and he is still processing the caressing drag of Fernando’s fingers against the warm skin of his face when Fernando drops his hand further below and gives his ass a firm tap. Lance stifles a shiver.
It shouldn’t mean anything and it probably doesn’t. Lance had seen Fernando pat Carlos’ backside too earlier in the week. But they are close, in the typical way that countrymen often are in an international sport.
“Better?” Lance asks. He catches a faint whiff of the cedar wood from Fernando’s cologne, barely there but still very present underneath the musk of his sweat.
“Much better. From now on, after every race we do this, yes?”
“Okay, sure. If it helps with making you feel better,” Lance replies with a small shrug, not bothering to hide that he’s preening a bit. It’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “Not too often, though. Wouldn’t want you retiring from every race.”
Fernando really laughs then, head tipping forward. Clasps a hand over Lance’s shoulder, slides it to his nape. Before he can say anything else, an engineer offers Fernando a pair of headphones, asks if he wants to listen in on Sebastian’s race, an opportunity to understand the car, the set-up a bit more ahead of Imola. Fernando doesn’t say no. His hand on the back of Lance’s neck doesn’t falter, even when the Aston engineer eyes it quickly with a soft frown in their eyebrows. Lance stands next to Fernando for the rest of the race, the hand on his neck gradually shifting lower and lower.