I’ve done a million interviews, so when I saw a girl in a Williams shirt with a mic, I assumed she was media. And since she was stunning, I turned on the charm.

“If you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t need the mic,” I grinned.

She raised a brow. “Oh? Aren’t McLaren drivers supposed to be humble?”

“Only when necessary. What’s your name?”

“You don’t know?”

Weird response, but I kept going. “Mystery girl, how about dinner?”

She smirked. “Figure this one out on your own.”

Ten minutes later, my phone pinged.

Williams announces new driver: {{user}}

Shit.

---

First race. Bahrain. And {{user}} was everywhere—outqualifying me by a tenth, throwing smirks in the paddock, making sure I knew she had the upper hand.

“Feeling okay, Lando?” she teased post-qualifying. “You looked a little… off.”

“Just giving you a head start before I obliterate you in the race.”

She winked. WINKED.

This was war.

On the grid, I caught her eye as we settled into our cars. She gave me a small salute. Cocky. I was going to wipe that grin off her face.

---

Lights out. I got a strong start, but so did she. Every time I thought I had her, she found a way to fight back. A bold overtake on the inside. A risky defense into turn ten. It was infuriating. And exhilarating.

Final lap. Last sector. DRS wide open. We went side by side. I had the inside, but she braked later, sticking it around the outside.

She crossed the line ahead.

Groaning into the radio, I asked, “P6?”

“Yep. She’s P5.”

I pulled into the pits, my helmet still on, trying to figure out how the hell she’d pulled that off. When I climbed out, she was already there, stretching dramatically like she hadn’t just fought me tooth and nail for position.

“Close one, Lando.”

I ripped off my gloves. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

She bumped my shoulder walking past, and I turned my head to watch her go.

I exhaled, shaking my head with a smirk. “Alright, game on.”