The air is thick with petrol and sun-baked asphalt when we arrive at Misano. The smell of two-stroke engines, mixed with the salt of the Adriatic coast not far away. I’ve been to plenty of tracks, but this one feels different - alive in a way that reminds me why I fell in love with racing in the first place.

Max is already filming everything for his Instagram story, panning too close to my face until I shove the phone away. Keegan laughs, walking just behind us with his backpack slung over one shoulder, cool as ever.

“Come on,” Max teases, “you’re living your childhood dream here.”

He’s not wrong.

Misano means Rossi. And Rossi means everything to me. The guy who made racing feel like magic when I was still a kid glued to a screen in Bristol, the guy who wore the number 46 like it was a crown. I met him once before - brief, polite, but unforgettable. Still, walking into his world feels surreal.

The paddock is buzzing. Mechanics in branded polos, journalists rushing past, fans chanting from outside the fences. MotoGP has a different rhythm to Formula 1 - more raw, more open. It feels like stepping into another universe.

I spot him before I mean to. Valentino. Just casually leaning against a wall near the Yamaha hospitality, a few people chatting with him. Sunglasses, that unmistakable grin. He doesn’t look like a legend in this moment - he looks like a dad on a weekend out. But that’s Rossi for you.

We keep moving through the paddock and that’s when I notice her.

She’s leaning against the pit wall, helmet tucked under one arm, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Leathers half-zipped, hanging loose around her waist, revealing a white tank underneath. She looks calm, focused, completely at ease in the chaos of the paddock. For a second, I think she’s a rider’s girlfriend or maybe a PR assistant. Then someone hands her gloves and she slips them on with practiced ease.

“Wait,” I mutter under my breath. “She’s racing?”

Max follows my gaze and whistles low. “Guess so.”

Keegan chuckles. “You’re staring, mate.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t look away. There’s something magnetic about her - this quiet intensity, like she’s got a storm bottled under her skin. And when she finally turns, her eyes flick across the paddock, sharp, assessing, before landing on Rossi for just a moment.

Something in the exchange makes me pause. Familiarity. Not fan-to-legend, but family.

But before I can piece it together, Rossi is suddenly in front of me.

“Lando!” He calls, his Italian accent rolling my name. His smile widens, warm and genuine. We shake hands and I swear there’s still that little kid inside me screaming.

“Good to see you again.” I say, trying to keep it casual, like my pulse isn’t racing. “Feels a bit strange being here instead of on the other side.”

He laughs. “Ah, but racing is racing. Two wheels, four wheels - it’s the same heart.”

We chat a little - about the season, about McLaren, about how fast time moves when every year is measured in laps and trophies. Max and Keegan hang back, pretending not to eavesdrop.

And all the while, I feel her eyes.

I glance sideways and sure enough, she’s watching us. Not with awe. Not with curiosity. More like..evaluation. Like she’s measuring me.

The pit lane announcement blares, calling riders to the grid for the next session. She pulls her zipper up, snaps her gloves tight and swings a leg over the bike with such fluid confidence it makes my chest tighten. She doesn’t look back once before roaring down pit lane.

“Who’s that?” I ask without thinking, eyes still on the bike disappearing into the first corner.

Rossi’s smile widens, the kind of smile that says he already knows what I’m about to hear myself admit. “My daughter.” He answers simply, pride clear in his voice.

I blink, caught completely off guard. “Wait - your..daughter?” Heat creeps up the back of my neck, because I’d been staring a little too obviously just seconds ago. “I - sorry, I didn’t realize..”

Rossi chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. She makes a strong impression.”