Page 92 of Close Contact
Thirty-one hours since I’d seen her. Fifty-seven hours since her body was under mine and her legs were wrapped around my waist, her mouth begging for more against my ear.
Less than three fucking days. It didn’t sound like much, but it washell. I didn’t realize how often I looked for her or found excuses to be near her until the opportunities were taken from me. I hated it.
The sound of her voice over the phone and the teasing photos in fleeting moments we got to ourselves felt like settling. It wasn’t the same, not even close, and it certainly wasn’t enough. She was here in Barcelona, somewhere in the paddock or at least the same damn city, but every time I looked up, she wasn’t there like she used to be.
“You’re quiet today,” Marco said beside me, signing the last of the posters for a fan giveaway table. “More broody than usual, I mean.”
Startled from my thoughts, I shrugged and capped the black Sharpie in my hand, leaning back against the uncomfortable plastic chair. “I’m fine.”
He snickered. “Did someone steal your morning tea, or is it still the fact that your not-girlfriend is staying on the other side of the city?” I glowered at him. “What? You’ve got that ‘I’d sell my soul to see her in my shirt again’ face. It’s very obvious. You do realize your jaw tenses every time someone says ‘Luminis’ or ‘Dubois,’ right?”
We’d been stuck in meetings and media obligations since this morning—interviews, photos, a livestream Q&A where some idiot asked about my rivalry with Aurélie. Meanwhile, I’d had to keep my face blank while they played clips ofherovertakingme. Usingmysignature move. And I’d felt myself twitch in my fucking jeans.
Professionalism? Gone.
Focus? Complete shot.
I found myself texting her every spare second I got and checking each hallway and alley in the paddock like a lunatic—or maybe more like an obsessive boyfriend. Which I wasn’t. We hadn’t discussed labels yet, but she was mine and I wanted everyone to know it.
The sound of feminine laughter from the Vanguard hospitality area drew my attention. For a moment, I thought it was hers, but it was one of the staff. It just pissed me off more.
“Fuck off,” I grumbled, tossing the Sharpie on the table and folding my arms across my chest. It was mostly to conceal my clenched fists, but also to appear nonchalant.
“I don’t know what you’re expecting out of this, mate. Help me understand, because the man sitting here with me is one missed text away from writing her name in a notebook with little hearts.”
“There’s nothing for you to understand.”
“Really? You bail early on a victory after-party in Italy, then you risk everything to get her out of a crowded paddock in Monaco, and now you’re pouting because you’re being forced to focus on your fucking jobs. So what is this really about?”
I didn’t answer right away, and that alone made Marco side-eye me. The truth was… I didn’t fucking know why this bothered me so much. I knew it wasn’t just about her, or the PR restrictions, or all the bullshit press.
It was everythingafter. After every race, after the season ended, after the final checkered flag in my career. What then?
I’d spent half the morning listening to some kid from a crypto-backed junior team talk about Twitch streams and podcast brand deals, and the other half was spent answering emails from my investment manager asking if I wanted to move forward with two new startups and an oceanfront real estate project in Spain.
It was all feeling a bit cumbersome, repetitive, and unfulfilling. If my future looked like passive income, luxury properties, and sitting on advisory boards for things I didn’t care about just because my name opened doors, then I’d rather race until I died in some fatal crash.
I didn’t know who I was without racing. Until this season, I lived in the blur that was the world of Formula 1. And now, being on the track didn’t feel like enough anymore either, except for when she was there.
When Aurélie was around, the world was more interesting. It gave me a purpose, challenged me, rekindled the fiery passion I felt for this sport. Every lap meant something, and every race had weight. She made the whole damn circus feel like it mattered. But most importantly, she made me feel likeImattered.
She made me slow down enough to realize just how incredible life was with the right person by your side. What the morning after race day could look like—sex and cuddles and full of so much fucking laughter my stomach ached.
I loved her so goddamn much.
I knew that one day, I would retire from the sport, and I would need something else. That something else washer. When I looked at her, I saw my past, present, and future. It was terrifying and haunting and beautiful and messy, and I embraced every single moment of it.
I just wanted her here with me.
elle saura.
My tattoo. After all these years, I finally found her. I just couldn’t keep her in my grip long enough to feel like she wasn’t slipping away.
I dropped my head back against the chair and let out a slow breath through my nose.
Marco watched me suffer through my existential crisis. Scrutinizing me, slowly and silently, he then sat up a littlestraighter and blurted, “Maybe she’s just got a really good pussy.”
I blinked at him. “Are youfucking seriousright now?”
