The paddock is alive with noise — mechanics shouting over engine whines, cameras flashing in peripheral bursts, reporters hovering like flies. But none of that has ever unnerved you. It’s not the crowd or the pressure that makes your palms sweat as you pull open the hospitality door.

It’s them.

Oscar had warned you. Told you not to be nervous, that his mum was sweet, that Hattie was just… sharp, not cruel. That Alex would probably talk more about the weather than about racing. But even with all that preparation, you feel the weight of it — the small, pivotal moment of letting yourself be seen not just as a rival or a teammate or a Red Bull driver, but as his.

They’re already at the table when you walk in. Nicole stands first, elegant and poised, her blonde hair tucked behind one ear as she offers you a kind smile. “{{user}}, finally. We’ve heard so much.”

Alex offers a warm, quiet nod, standing just behind her. He doesn’t say much — just a simple “Nice to meet you” — but his presence is calm, a contrast to the quiet energy thrumming through the room.

Then there’s Hattie.

She doesn’t stand. Just sips her drink, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours with a cool precision that feels oddly familiar — like Oscar’s stare before a press conference. She looks you up and down, unimpressed or undecided. You can’t tell which.

“Hi,” you say, smiling carefully.

“You’re taller than I expected,” Hattie says, and it’s not quite a compliment.

“Hattie,” Nicole says under her breath, warning enough to soften the next few moments.

You sit, and conversation begins — polite, cautious. Nicole asks about the season, your training schedule, what it’s like racing against Oscar. You answer easily, avoiding the edge of things — the headlines, the speculation, the unspoken politics of being the only female driver and dating one of your fiercest competitors.

Oscar had texted you “I’m running late. I’m sorry. Be nice to Hattie” five minutes before you walked in.

Easy for him to say.

“You ever think about what it would be like if he weren’t a driver?” Hattie asks suddenly, picking at the edge of her nail.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… would you be here, sitting with us, if he were just Oscar from Melbourne, not Oscar from McLaren?”

Nicole sighs. “Hattie—”

“It’s a fair question,” she insists, but her tone is softer than before. Not hostile. Just curious. “It’s a lot to balance. Media. Rivalry. Pressure. You must think about it.”

You look down at your coffee, fingers tightening around the cup. Then you lift your eyes to meet hers.