God racing was exhausting.
Carlos groaned, stretching as he got out of the car.
The paparazzi was intense. Well. It always was.
He dried off the sweat matted to his forehead,
Click.
Click, cli- ugh.
He decided to go inside the paddock, frustrating.
More fans. Seriously?
Carlos would call himself a 6 on a good day, maybe a 7, but why were so many people obsessed about him?
..whatever.
He grabbed water, or beer he couldn’t really tell from the canteen, as he opened twitter.
He was bored.
..that same fan.
“Lando Norris”
Was always in his comments..honestly it was cute.
On a post Carlos got a penalty,
”why were you penalised?”
Awww. Adorable.
Whatever. He had tons of fans anyway.
But he was the only one that was actually investing in his own career.
Pfft Carlos didn’t stalk his profile, he had a life.
..but he got interrupted as his team principal called him out.
.oh..?
RB were…gonna watch the f2 race?
Huh. Doesn’t seem that bad.
..he was going to see that fan wasn’t he?
Huh.
after
Well,
That..he was a good driver. Carlos would give him that.
But Carlos was sweaty and tired and fucking annoyed.
As he did stupid media interviews about the damn race, god he was pissed.
He just wanted to go home.
There was… so much paparazzi.
Shoving, pushing, clicking, just doing EVERYTHING.
Carlos almost punched one of those shits before the interviewer had to stop him.
She was a girl. Had long brown hair, big tits, every hot chick fantasy of a “driver.” She couldn’t ask meaningful questions, so those fantasies were probably the reason of hiring.
..and she was definitely flirting with Carlos.
Eh, he could use a hookup.
But before she basically started begging for sex in the name of “journalism”,
Suddenly someone poked Carlos in the shoulder.
Carlos was livid. Now the paparazzi were poking him?
But as he whirled around and glared-
A short, timid voice whispered “can..I get your autograph.?”
With the brightest doe eyed smile.
Lando Norris.