After a long season of F1, fighting for the championship with my teammate all year long only for it to be won by the same guy for the fifth consecutive year, I decided I needed a break. I saw my well-deserved holidays as a way to travel back to Australia, see my family, mainly my sisters, the family’s pets, get some rest and maybe even read—I’m a simple guy—but my friends had other plans. They said a week in Croatia, apparently the new best place to party in clubs, would get me back on my feet in an instant. I followed them, half-trudging, and ended up in a Five Star hotel in Poreč. The sea was a five minute walk away, the nights were vibrant, and the women looked beautiful, at least that’s what my friends think: I don’t have time for that, my only focus is F1. I wasn’t interested in anyone. But then. I saw her between two people dancing. She was shining. Litterally, because she was wearing a golden dress. And figuratively, because her smile was like a punch to the gut. I blinked. She looked young. Her friends too. I’d say 18, 19 if we’re optimistic.

Which made me 23 and a complete psycho for even stopping on her face longer than a second.

Too young. Too much. You’re screwed.

I mentally slapped myself for even considering the option of coming up to her. Only to find myself looking at her again a few seconds after. Pull yourself together, Piastri. I tried to distract myself by talking to my mates but—as soon as her friends left her alone to get drinks—my legs moved on their own—I was a man on a mission. I made my way to her, a nervous smile on my face, as if I wasn’t the bigger person there. I smiled and tried to joke, not used to staring conversations due to my lack of interest in romance.

“Woh… I’m apparently better at overtaking than small talk, so… hi.” I hissed at my own introduction. What was that, Piastri? Seriously? Better at overtaking? What kind of cringe shit is that?