Chapter Text
The fan meet-up day at the Spanish Grand Prix filled the paddock with a vibrant, almost tangible energy. Without the usual roar of motorcycles tearing through the air, the circuit seemed deceptively quiet, yet it buzzed with life: fans crowded against the barriers, waving flags adorned with their favorite riders’ numbers, photographers weaved through the throng, capturing fleeting moments, and teams bustled about, setting up merchandise for autograph sessions. The morning sun bathed the asphalt in warm light, illuminating the vivid colors of banners, mechanics’ overalls, and multicolored flags fluttering in the breeze. The paddock was a living organism: laughter, snippets of conversations in various languages, the creak of equipment carts, and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of blooming Andalusian orange groves.
Marc strolled through the paddock, his shoulders swaying slightly, as they always did when he felt in his element. He wore black jeans, a red team-logo T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame, and a black cap with the number 93 pulled low over his forehead. His curly dark hair, slightly longer than usual, peeked out from under the brim, giving him that effortless, almost boyish charm that always drew eyes. He’d just left a briefing with the engineers, where they’d tossed around ideas about strategies for the weekend, discussing setups and racing lines. His bike this season was a wild beast — powerful, responsive, but with a temperamental streak that demanded absolute control. It could pull tricks, especially on corner exits, but Marc tamed it, clawing his way to victory after victory. Jerez, his native Spain, was special — a track where he felt at home, where every corner was like an old friend. But now his thoughts were elsewhere: a late flight had thrown him off, and his eyes stung faintly from lack of sleep. A strong espresso before the autograph session with a swarm of fans would be a lifesaver, helping him shake it off and switch on his signature charm.
He turned toward the pit lane, weaving through bustling mechanics and fans, when his gaze caught something that stood out from the usual paddock chaos. A girl, about five or six years old, stood at the edge of the path leading to the grandstands. Her wavy blonde hair, loose and slightly tousled by gusts of wind, fell over her shoulders, and her blue eyes, as bright as the Andalusian sky, shimmered with anxiety. She wore a simple white T-shirt with a sun design and blue denim shorts. In her hands, she clutched a plush motorcycle — old and worn, its fabric frayed as if it had been dragged everywhere for years. She glanced around, her small shoulders trembling, and it was clear she was on the verge of tears.
Marc slowed his pace, almost instinctively. He wasn’t the type to rush to help every stranger — the paddock was chaotic enough, and everyone had their own business. But something about her lost expression — maybe those trembling shoulders or the look of pure childish vulnerability — made him stop. He glanced around: journalists with microphones, mechanics with toolboxes, all rushed by, but no one noticed the girl. Then she took a step toward him, her blue eyes locking onto his, a spark of determination flashing in them.
— Scusa, signore. — she said in Italian, her voice thin but steady despite the tremble. — Puoi aiutarmi a trovare mio papà? Non so dov’è.
Marc froze, slightly thrown off. Italian? Here in Jerez? He’d expected Spanish, maybe English, but not this. His brows twitched, but he quickly regained his composure, remembering his Italian was good enough to hold his own. A slight Catalan accent slipped through, but it didn’t get in the way.
— Of course, I’ll help. — he replied in Italian, crouching down to meet her eyes at her level. His voice was soft, reassuring, though inside he felt a faint prick of unease — this was unexpected, and he didn’t like surprises. — What’s your name?
— Giulietta. — she answered, clutching the plush motorcycle a bit tighter to her chest. Her gaze was wary, but she didn’t back away, as if sizing him up to decide if he was trustworthy.
— Great, Giulietta. I’m Marc. — he smiled, trying to look as friendly as possible, and took off his cap, revealing his face. His curly hair was immediately tousled by the wind. — Don’t worry, we’ll find your dad. What’s his name?
— Valentino. — she said, her voice gaining a touch of confidence, as if her father’s name gave her strength.
Marc blinked, feeling his smile freeze for a split second. Valentino? He nearly let out a chuckle, thinking it was just a coincidence. In Italy, Valentino was as common as Juan in Spain — plenty of them around. But something in her eyes — that piercing blue, sharp as a beam of light — made his heart skip a beat. He straightened slowly, a chill running down his spine.
— Valentino… and the last name? — he asked, his voice quieter, almost cautious, as if he dreaded the answer.
— Rossi. — Giulietta replied, looking at him with slight confusion, as if it were as obvious as the sun overhead.
Marc froze, as if the air around him had thickened, pinning him to the ground. Rossi. Valentino Rossi. The name hit like an old scar that suddenly ached. He knew Rossi had a daughter, had heard about her in passing, but he’d never seen her — not in social media photos, not in the paddock, where Valentino always kept his personal life under lock and key. And now this girl stood before him, her face — those blue eyes, delicate nose, and the faint smile breaking through her anxiety — like a mirror reflecting a young Valentino from archival footage, the one with a carefree grin. Even the way she tilted her head slightly echoed Vale’s mannerisms at press conferences — a gesture Marc had noticed hundreds of times but never imagined seeing in this context. It wasn’t just resemblance; it was as if a piece of Valentino had been embodied in the fragile figure of a child.
His thoughts spun like a motorcycle on the edge of grip. Valentino here? In Jerez? Marc hadn’t known he was coming. At the last round in Qatar, Rossi had been in the paddock — flitting through the VR46 garages, cracking jokes with Pecco, cheering on Enea — but Marc hadn’t expected him in Spain. And definitely not with his daughter. Jerez was a European round, closer to Italy than Qatar, but Valentino never brought his family to races, at least not that Marc had heard. Shock mixed with something else — a strange, almost painful feeling. Before him wasn’t just the daughter of his old rival, but a child whose vulnerability pierced through his armor. He looked at Giulietta, and two impulses clashed in his chest: one to pull back, recalling Rossi’s icy stares, and the other to help, because this girl was looking at him with hope, and he couldn’t let her down.
He took a deep breath, trying to quell the inner storm. His fingers instinctively tightened around the cap he still held in his hand.
— Alright, Giulietta. — he said, striving to keep his voice steady, though inside everything was churning. — I know where your dad might be. Let’s head to the garages; I think he’s there. Just don’t be scared, I’m with you.
He extended his hand, and Giulietta, after a moment’s hesitation, placed her small palm in his. Her fingers were tiny, warm, but trembling slightly, and for some reason, it made Marc feel responsible. He led her along the path, trying to distract her with chatter so she wouldn’t notice his own tension.
— Cool motorcycle. — he said, nodding at the plush toy she clutched to her chest. — Did you pick it out yourself, or was it a gift?
— Papa gave it to me. — Giulietta replied, her voice brightening a bit, as if talking about the motorcycle restored her confidence. — He said I’ll be a racer like him when I grow up.
Marc chuckled, but a pang shot through his chest. He pictured Valentino sitting with his daughter on a couch, showing her old race footage, explaining how to lean into a corner. It was so unlike the Rossi he’d come to know — cold, sarcastic, with a stare that could pin you to the wall. Giulietta conjured an entirely different image, and Marc caught himself wondering how to reconcile it.
— If your papa says so, then you definitely will be. — he said, winking to mask his own unease. — Have you already ridden? Like, even a small motorcycle?
— No. — she shook her head, but her eyes lit up, like a child dreaming of something grand. — But I watch Papa’s races! The old ones, on video. He’s so fast, always overtaking everyone in the last corner!
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Marc found himself smiling wider than he intended. For a moment, he forgot whose daughter she was and just walked beside her, listening to her bright, chiming voice. They wove through the paddock, where life pulsed vibrantly: fans shouted riders’ names, a mechanic rolled a stack of tires, and muffled music played somewhere nearby. Marc noticed Giulietta gripping his hand a little tighter when noisy groups passed by, so he slowed his pace to help her feel more at ease.
— Do you like Jerez? — he asked to keep the conversation going as they approached the VR46 garages. — It’s pretty here, right?
— Yeah. — Giulietta nodded, her hair bouncing with the motion. — Papa said the sun here is like at home. But home’s better—my dogs are there.
— Dogs? — Marc raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. — How many do you have?
— Two! Luna and Sole. — she smiled, and her blue eyes sparkled as if she’d recalled something deeply precious. — They run after me when I play in the yard.
Marc wanted to ask what Luna and Sole looked like, but they’d reached the garages. Bright yellow banners with the number 46 stood out against the gray walls, and inside, mechanics bustled, exchanging short phrases in Italian. Marc stopped, scanning for Valentino’s familiar figure, but he wasn’t in sight. He was about to call out to someone from the team when Giulietta suddenly gasped:
— Papa!
She yanked her hand free and bolted forward. Marc looked up and saw Valentino Rossi emerging from the garage. He wore a black jacket, jeans, and a VR46 cap pulled low over his eyes, as he always did when he wanted to go unnoticed. But now his face was taut, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight — he was clearly searching for his daughter and teetering on the edge of panic.
— Giulietta! — his voice was loud, rough with relief. He crouched, catching her in his arms, and hugged her tightly, as if afraid she might vanish again. — Where were you? I told you not to wander off!
But then his gaze landed on Marc, and everything shifted. Rossi’s eyes, as blue as Giulietta’s, narrowed, and his face hardened into a mask. He stood, keeping his daughter’s hand in his, and stepped toward Marc. The air between them grew heavy, like the calm before a storm.
— What are you doing with my daughter? — Rossi snapped in English, his voice sharp and laced with anger. Each word struck like an accusation. He glared at Marc as if he’d crossed an invisible line, trespassing where he was forbidden.
Marc felt a flare of irritation ignite in his chest but quickly tamped it down. The shock of meeting Giulietta still thrummed through him, and now, facing Rossi, he felt a familiar ache — the one that had simmered since 2015, never fully fading. He raised his hands, signaling he wasn’t looking for a fight, and responded in English, matching the tone of the conversation.
— She was lost, Valentino. — he said, striving to keep his voice even, though inside he was seething. — She came to me, asked for help finding you. I brought her here. Everything’s fine.
Rossi froze, his gaze cold as ice and brimming with distrust. He opened his mouth to say something, but Giulietta, sensing the tension, tugged at his sleeve.
— Papa, he’s nice. — she said softly in Italian, her voice clear but firm. — He helped me find you.
Rossi looked at his daughter, and his face, just moments ago hard as stone, softened. Giulietta’s blue eyes, a mirror of his own, gazed at him with such sincerity that his anger seemed to ebb, giving way to something gentler. He crouched down, stroking her hair, and in that gesture was a warmth Marc had never seen in Valentino. Then Rossi stood and cast a glance at Marc — not fiery now, but still guarded.
— Thanks. — he said in English, curtly, as if the word cost him effort. It was gratitude, but devoid of warmth, a forced gesture for Giulietta’s sake.
Marc nodded, feeling a mix of relief and something akin to frustration. He wanted to snap back, to remind Rossi he’d only helped, but he held himself in check. Not in front of Giulietta. He took a step back, keeping his tone neutral.
— The important thing is she’s with you. — he said in English, his voice calm, though a spark still smoldered inside.
Rossi silently took Giulietta’s hand and turned to leave. But the girl suddenly looked back at Marc. Her blue eyes flashed like sunlit glints.
— Thank you, Marc. — she said in Italian, her voice too pure and earnest.
Marc smiled, though his chest still felt heavy. He raised a hand and gave a small wave, unable to find words in her language.
— You’re welcome, Giulietta. See you. — he said in English, hoping she’d understand.
She nodded, her hair swaying, and hurried after her father, who didn’t glance back. Marc watched them until they vanished behind the yellow banners of the garages. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the adrenaline slowly recede, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake. The paddock around him thrummed: fans shouted names, someone clapped, and nearby, camera shutters clicked, capturing moments of this vibrant day.
Marc adjusted his cap, his gaze lingering for a moment on the horizon, where the Andalusian hills melted softly into a blue haze. Thoughts swirled in his mind, too slippery to grasp. Giulietta was like a reflection of Valentino — his eyes, his mannerisms, his unquenchable spark. But she was something more — a child unaware of old wars, of the chasm separating her father from the man who helped her. This encounter left a mark, subtle but tangible, like a crack in the asphalt.
Maybe it was just a moment when their rivalry briefly yielded to a child’s sincerity. Or perhaps another scar he’d carry, as he always had.
Marc took a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly release from his chest. He cast one final glance toward where Giulietta and Valentino had disappeared. The paddock roared around him, but for a moment, the sounds were muted by the echo of this encounter. Then he turned and strode toward his garage, where engineers and the bustle of the upcoming weekend awaited. Duty called, and it was time to return to what demanded his focus. Even if his mind was now filled with thoughts far from racing.