Page 10 of Close Contact
Still. This time? The narrative was mine.
The momentI stepped into my private driver suite—tucked behind the Luminis garage, designed for pre-race focus and post-race comedowns—I let the door swing shut behind me, plunging the space into near darkness. It wasn’t much more than a glorified dressing room with a small couch, a vanity, a shower, and just enough space to breathe. But right now, it felt like the only place in the world where I could fall apart without an audience.
I didn’t bother flipping on the lights. I couldn’t face the sterile brightness, not after the day I’d had. The last thing I wanted was to face was my reflection in the glossy windows or see the hollow version of myself that had walked out of the media pen. My body felt like a live wire—tense, overstimulated, and fraying at the edges, as if I’d just stepped out of the car mid-lap, adrenaline still flooding my veins with nowhere to go.
My feet moved on autopilot toward the small couch in the corner, my refuge. I collapsed onto it, the cushions barely soft enough to support the weight of my exhaustion, the scratchy upholstery pressing against my skin, grounding me. But it wasn’t enough. A headache pulsed at my temples, the dull ache growing sharper with every shallow breath I took.
Muffled voices carried through the thin walls, rising and falling from the mechanics and engineers. I recognized their tones—familiar, usually professional—but something was different now. There was laughter, the kind that had my ears straining to hear.
“She’s been trending all day. Have you seen the videos of her stretching in the gym?”
“Oh, yeah,” another voice chimed in, snickering. “Back arched, sweat dripping. I didn’t thinkDuboishad that in her.”
“She’s got it all right,” someone else added, low and suggestive. “Never really noticed before, but she’s got a hell of a body under that suit. Maybe if she put more effort into racing instead of… whatever that was, we wouldn’t be mid-pack.”
“Come on, now. She’s been on the podium. I’d just like to see her on top of me rather than on top of there, you know?”
The laughter grew louder, and my throat tightened until I could barely breathe. My team—the people who were supposed to have my back, to see me as a driver—were dissecting me like I was nothing more than a spectacle. A body. A joke. All from some stupid fucking TikTok videos. It was absurd, humiliating. The kind of thing that went viral not because of my skill or effort, but because someone thought my body was fair game for public consumption.
“She’s probably loving it,” the first voice said. “All that attention. You know how women are?—”
I bolted upright, my chest heaving. The tears burned hotter, my breathing ragged as I pressed my fists into my thighs. Theydidn’t know I could hear them. That was the worst part. This was their truth, laid bare in a space they thought was safe.
They didn’t see me as their equal. They didn’t respect me. They celebrated me when I brought points and laughed about me when I wasn’t in the room.
I stumbled to the mini fridge, my hands shaking as I grabbed a water bottle and pressed it to my forehead, trying to calm the storm inside me. But the damage was done. Their words echoed in my head, louder and crueler with each repetition. My fight at the press conference, the speech, the kiss—it was all for nothing if this was how my own team saw me.
Luminiswas a joke. Between them wanting to replace me despite battling for third in theWorld Driver’s Championship—WDC—and now this? Fuck them all if that was what they chose to latch on to—not the speech, not the stand I’d taken, but some voyeuristic clip taken out of context.
I sank back onto the couch, clutching the water bottle to my chest as if it could hold me together. The darkness pressed in around me, and I felt completely, utterly alone.
Tears burned at the back of my eyes, and I let them fall, hot and relentless, streaking down my face. I didn’t bother wiping them away, because what was the point?
The sound of my own sobs filled the room, harsh and guttural, making my head throb worse. I curled into myself on the couch, as though I could fold away from the weight of their judgment, their dismissal. The fight I’d shown earlier—the defiance and control—felt like it had been wrung out of me, leaving only the broken pieces behind.
I don’t knowhow long I stayed there, lost in the darkness, before I pulled myself upright and reached for my phone. Its light was harsh against the shadows, and I squinted, barely able to make out the notifications cascading down the screen. My eyes were tired and strained, as if I’d been blinking against the sun for hours.
My name was everywhere. #AurelieStandsUphad taken over social media, and videos of my speech were being shared at breakneck speed. The comments flooded in—some supportive, others not.
@f1fangirl25: You don’t have to be a fan of racing to respect what Auréliedid today. Standing up for women in a male-dominated sport? That’s badass.
A small smile crept across my face, bittersweet but genuine. My words had meant something to someone. They’d sparked a conversation, a movement even, far beyond the paddock. For the first time since stepping off the stage, I felt a flicker of pride.
But it didn’t last.
@trollololol69: Classic move from a true man-eater. Distraction tactics in the championship battle by kissing Fraser’s teammate. Dude clearly has feelings for her, and she’s fucking with his head. Low blow.
@therealman47replying to @trollololol69: Using her looks to distract from the fact she can’t compete. Kissing Marco? Pathetic.
@thef2gridfandomreplying to @therealman47: She was a whore inF2too. This isn’t news.
@motorsportsopinionsreplying to @therealman47: She should focus on her driving instead of makingTikToks
The smile faded, and I bit the inside of my cheek. My finger hovered over the keyboard, itching to respond, but I stopped myself. Engaging would only validate their nonsense.
Let them speculate. I was tired of defending myself.
“Distraction tactics,” I muttered to the empty room, a bitter laugh escaping me. As if my stand had been some calculated move. The irony wasn’t lost on me—Callumhad been distracted, all right. His expression had been a mix of shock, horror, and something else I couldn’t quite name. Maybe jealousy.
