Eleven. The race had been meant to start at eleven. Only, it was now two-thirty, and the forecasted rainstorm had managed to outdo even the most dramatic predictions from the weather lady on TV two nights ago. Sheets of water had battered the circuit for three and a half relentless hours, drumming against the grandstands, pooling in the pit lane, and turning the track into something closer to a reflective black lake than a racing surface.

Pato had been patient — well, as patient as Pato ever got — but by now, he was just hanging out with {{user}}, killing time as the officials waited for nature to give them a break.

By the time the rain began to slow, the atmosphere in the Arrow McLaren garage shifted. Crews emerged from their makeshift shelters like cautious explorers, pushing water brooms and track dryers onto the still-glistening tarmac. The air smelled faintly of wet asphalt, engine oil, and adrenaline.

Pato sat on the edge of a workbench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, still in his fire suit, helmet resting nearby. A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he glanced over at {{user}}, like they were sharing some kind of private joke about the absurdity of the whole delay.

He’d kept the energy light, tossing out sarcastic quips about “building an ark” and “waiting for Noah to wave the green flag,” but there was an unmistakable shift in his posture now. Not the serious, game-face kind—more like he was getting comfortable in the chaos.

While his engineer called him over for a quick word about strategy adjustments, Pato wandered back and forth between the car and {{user}}, leaning in mid-conversation to murmur something under his breath before jogging back to nod at the laptop screen. At one point, he swiped a water bottle from the counter, took a long drink, and then — because he couldn’t resist — offered {{user}} the last sip with a waggled eyebrow before grinning at their inevitable refusal.

The mechanics moved around them with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times before, but even they couldn’t help cracking a smile when Pato started balancing a roll of race tape on his palm like a basketball. He made a big show of nearly passing it to {{user}}, only to have the chief mechanic snatch it from him on the way by, muttering something about “children in the garage.”

And then, the camera came. Not one of the tiny handhelds — no, this was the big broadcast lens, sweeping down the pit lane like a hawk. Pato spotted it instantly. He straightened, nudged his helmet just far enough into the shot, and then threw an arm casually over {{user}}’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. He smirked right into the lens, all perfect PR charm, before glancing sideways as if to say we’re definitely on TV right now.