Page 64 of Racing for Redemption
“William!” Her cheeks flush slightly, but she’s fighting a smile.She’s adorable.
“…I was just going to say that good dessert, like good sex, is worth taking your time for.” I finish with exaggerated primness.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile wins out. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet, here you are, having dinner with me anyway.”
I head to the dessert section, returning minutes later with a plate of freshly fried, warm churros sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, and a small pot of melted chocolate for dipping. I’ve added extra chocolate, noting how she immediately dips a churro deeply into it.
“You have a sweet tooth,” I observe.
“My one weakness,” she admits, savoring the churro with an expression of pure pleasure that does strange things to my pulse.
“Everyone needs something indulgent in their life.”
“What’s yours?” she asks.
“Besides motorsport?” I consider for a moment. “Music. Live shows, especially. There’s something about feeling the bassvibrate through your chest in a small venue, everyone connected by sound, powerful lyrics and emotion…”
“I haven’t been to a concert in years,” she says, almost wistfully.
“You should try it. Best stress relief there is—better than any spa day.”
“I don't go to spas, so I’ll take your word for it.”
“Wanna come with me? Um… to a small live show when we’re back in the UK?”
She pauses briefly, as if caught by surprise, yet at the same time, it seems she’s pondering something. She breaks the silence. “I could use a distraction, so I’ll accept your offer.”
My palms are sweating again.Did I hear this right?Not trying to hyper-focus on the topic, or sound too excited or awkward, I shift gears.
We talk about Barcelona then—her favorite hidden spots in the city, places tourists never find. She knows it well from years of coming here for testing, and the Spanish Grand Prix. I mention wanting to explore the Gothic Quarter before flying home.
“The architecture is stunning,” she says, animated in a way I haven’t seen before. “And there’s this tiny, family-owned restaurant on a corner—no sign, just a yellow door—that serves the bestgambas al ajilloin existence.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime,” I say without thinking.
Something shifts in her expression again—a moment of awareness, perhaps, that this conversation has crossed someinvisible line from professional to personal. But she doesn’t retreat into formality as I half-expect.
“Maybe I will,” she says softly. “To give back after we go to a live show.”
The moment hangs between us, fragile and unexpected. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there—a spark of connection that transcends Team Principal and driver. She’s genuinely fun. Down to earth. Gentle.
Then her phone buzzes on the table, breaking the spell. She glances at it and sighs. “The board chairman. I should take this.”
I nod. “Of course.”
She stands, gathering her jacket. “Thank you for dinner, William. And for…” She gestures vaguely, perhaps unable to articulate exactly what she’s thanking me for.
“Anytime,” I say, meaning it more than she knows.
She offers a small smile, then walks away to take her call, the phone already at her ear. I’m struck by how different she seems in this moment compared to the formal, reserved Team Principal who narrowed her eyes at me groveling to join the team.
More human. More real. More fascinating.
I’m still smiling long after she’s gone.
The final team debrief runs late into the evening on the third day. Every department reports their findings, from aero to electronics to tire wear. Nicholas, sullen after his morning mishap—putting the car on the gravel and crashing into the barriers—contributes little beyond noncommittal grunts. I compensate by being extra detailed, sharing observations about competitor cars I followed, and suggestions for setup directions to explore before Australia.
