Chapter 13: The Gossip Mill Churns
The gossip started, as it always did, in the placid, sun-drenched purgatory of the driver’s motorhome lounge. It was a place of low-slung white sofas, overpressed fruit juices, and the constant, low-grade anxiety of competition temporarily at rest.
Alma was at the far end, speaking rapid, quiet French into her headset, coordinating a last-minute visa for a junior engineer. Sergio was across the room, deep in a holographic data projection with Max, his hands moving through the shimmering images of tire wear gradients. They hadn’t touched, hadn’t even looked at each other for an hour.
Luca, a veteran driver from a rival team known for his grandfatherly demeanor and sharp eyes, nudged his wife, Chiara. He nodded almost imperceptibly towards Sergio. “See how he is now? Calm. Last year, after a session like that, he’d be punching walls.”
Chiara followed his gaze, sipping her espresso. “The car is better.”
“The car is a diva. It’s the girl.” Luca smirked. “He looks over there every forty-five seconds. Clock it.”
They didn’t need to. Sergio’s attention was a physical thing, a tide that pulled towards her corner of the room no matter how intently he seemed focused on the hologram. It wasn’t a look of longing. It was a check-in, a verification, like a pilot scanning a vital instrument.
Max caught the direction of Luca’s gaze and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Don’t start,” he muttered, tapping the hologram to enlarge a suspension graph.
“Start what?” Luca said innocently. “I am just observing the… ecosystem. The temperature is more stable, no?”
Across the room, Alma finished her call. She stood, stretching her neck. Sergio’s head turned immediately, the data forgotten. He watched her walk towards the refreshment table for a water. His eyes tracked the swing of her hair, the line of her shoulders. It was not a secretive look. It was proprietary.
“Ecosystem,” Max snorted. “He’s like a cat that’s found a warm spot. Doesn’t want to move.”
“And she?” Chiara asked, her voice soft with curiosity. “She is not a warm spot. She is a Gibraltar. She does not flutter.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Luca said. “Did you see in Canada? After the qualifying mess? He was a thundercloud. She walked up, said three words, and put her hand on his arm. Just there.” He tapped his own forearm. “The storm passed. It is alchemy.”
The observation wasn’t malicious. In the pressure-cooker world of the paddock, any source of stability was noted, analyzed, and quietly respected. Alma’s efficiency was legendary. Her new role as Sergio’s necessary calm was becoming folklore.
Later, in the sterile, air-conditioned gloom of the garage after everyone had left, the folklore became flesh. Alma was doing a final check of the next day’s itinerary on her tablet. Sergio emerged from the shadowy belly of the car setup, wiping his hands on a rag that smelled of solvent and adrenaline.
“The front jack point is still a millimeter out,” he said, though it wasn’t her concern. He was just speaking the tail end of his thoughts aloud to the one person who absorbed them without judgment.
“I’ll note it for the mechanics’ morning briefing,” she said, not looking up.
He came to stand beside her, leaning back against the workbench. The garage was a cathedral of quiet, just the hum of cooling fans and distant, echoing footsteps. He watched her profile, illuminated by the blue-white light of the screen.
His hand came up, as it often did now. He traced the line of her jaw, his fingers gentle, almost casual. He followed the scar down to her chin, then back up. Then his thumb drifted, a slow, deliberate pilgrimage, to the center of her bottom lip. He pressed down, just enough to feel the soft give of it.
This was the new dialect. A question.
Sometimes, she would turn her head away, a gentle refusal, and his hand would drop. Sometimes, like now, she would go very still, her eyes still on the tablet, and let him.
Tonight, he was feeling particularly bold. The frustration of the day had melted into a tired, possessive curiosity. His thumb pressed a little firmer, parting her lips. He didn’t push in immediately. He stroked the inner curve of her lower lip, a shocking, intimate velvet softness. A shiver she couldn’t suppress ran through her.
He saw it. A faint smile touched his eyes.
Then he slid his thumb into her mouth.
The world narrowed to the warmth, the slight grit of his skin from the garage, the taste of salt and carbon. He held it there, pressing lightly against her tongue. His eyes were dark, watching her, reading the dilation of her pupils, the quickening of her breath through her nose.
She could bite him. She had before, a sharp, playful warning that made him laugh. She could use her tongue to push him out. She did neither. She let the weight of his thumb rest on her tongue, a silent, stunning acquiescence.
After a heartbeat that lasted an eon, he slowly withdrew. His thumb was wet, glistening. He didn’t wipe it on his jeans. He dragged it, with agonizing slowness, back across her bottom lip, painting it with a damp sheen. The gesture was unspeakably lewd and tender in the same breath. He was marking her, and she was letting him.
“The media want a joint interview tomorrow,” she said, her voice miraculously steady, though her lips tingled. “You and Lando. A ‘friendly rivalry’ piece.”
He brought his wet thumb to his own mouth, kissed it briefly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Tell them no. I’m not his friend tomorrow. I’m going to dismantle his rear wing in Turn 3.”
She finally looked at him. “You can’t say that.”
“Then you phrase it nicely.” He pushed off the bench, his shoulder brushing hers as he moved past, heading for the door. “Come on. I’m hungry. And your lip is distracting.”
The gossip among their circle became a kind of benign, shared sport. They were “Sergma” in the group chats, a portmanteau that made Max groan and Luca chuckle. No one said anything directly to them. It was all in the glances, the knowing smiles when Alma would silently hand Sergio his electrolyte drink exactly when his energy was dipping, or when Sergio would, in the middle of a crowded sponsor dinner, reach over and gently tuck a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering for a fraction too long on her neck.
One evening in Silverstone, a group of them—drivers, partners, a few engineers—were crammed into a private booth at a pub, the air thick with the smell of beer and fried food. Sergio was arguing passionately about a rule change, his hands carving shapes in the air. Alma listened, adding a succinct, factual point in Spanish when he stumbled over an English term.
As she spoke, Sergio’s hand, which had been resting on the back of the bench behind her, drifted down. His fingers began to play with a lock of her hair at her nape, twisting it absently. He didn’t look at her, didn’t pause his argument. It was an unconscious, possessive gesture.
Luca, seated across from them, caught Chiara’s eye and gave a slow, deliberate wink. Max shook his head and took a long pull of his beer.
Later, in the car back to the hotel, silence settled between them. The streetlights strobed through the interior, painting Sergio’s face in fleeting gold. He reached for her hand, not looking at her, lacing his fingers through hers. His thumb began to stroke her palm, then her wrist, tracing the delicate bones there. He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss, not to her knuckles, but to the center of her palm. A hot, open-mouthed kiss that made her breath catch.
He held her hand against his lips for a long moment, breathing her in. Then he turned her hand over and repeated the gesture on her inner wrist, over her pounding pulse. “They all talk about us,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her skin.
“I know.”
“Does it bother you?”
She considered. The gossip was never cruel. It was observational, almost protective. It was the sound of their world accepting a new, unspoken fact. “No,” she said. “It’s just noise.”
He lifted his head, finally looking at her. In the passing headlights, his expression was raw, stripped of its usual arrogance. “It’s not noise to me,” he said quietly.
He leaned in then, and for a terrifying, glorious second, she thought he would kiss her on the mouth. Here, in the back of a hired car. He didn’t. He pressed his forehead to hers, just as he had in Austria, his breath mingling with hers. His thumb found her lips in the dark, a familiar, seeking touch. This time, when he slid it past her lips, she met him with the tip of her tongue. A faint, exploratory touch.
He made a sound, low in his throat, almost a groan. It was the most intimate sound she’d ever heard him make.
The car pulled up under the hotel’s portico. The moment shattered. He pulled away, his professional mask falling back into place as the driver opened the door. But his hand lingered on hers for a second too long, his thumb brushing over the dampness he’d left on her lip.
“Seven a.m. briefing,” he said, his voice back to normal. “Don’t let me order the eggs Benedict. They’re a tactical error.”
She nodded, stepping out into the cool English night. “Noted.”
As they walked through the revolving doors, separate but in unison, she could feel the eyes of the night concierge on them, the speculative glance of a late-returning journalist in the lobby. The ecosystem was watching. The story was writing itself, one charged, silent touch at a time. And for the first time, Alma realized she was no longer just a character in it. She was co-authoring every line.
She was co-authoring every line.
The invitation for the group photo came during the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend, an event traditionally filled with more relaxed, familial energy. The team principal, Enzo, wanted a “candid” shot of the full traveling crew—drivers, engineers, mechanics, physios, and key support staff—to plaster across social media for a “Behind the Human Machine” campaign.
They were herding everyone near the hospitality terrace overlooking the final corner. The summer sun was harsh and democratic, leaving no flaw un-illuminated.
Alma had been fine all day. Better than fine. She’d deftly managed a logistics nightmare when a customs hold delayed a crucial spare part, her voice calm in three different languages on four simultaneous calls. Sergio had watched her from across the garage, that now-familiar look of focused awe on his face as she effortlessly dissolved the crisis.
Then, walking past the open door of a rival team’s hospitality, she heard it. Two caterers, smoking in the shade, their voices carrying on the still, hot air.
“—the one with Sergio Perez, yeah. The assistant.”
“Intense. Those marks on her face, Dios mio. Looks like someone took a razor to a painting.”
Their laughter was quick, vapid, meant only for each other. It wasn’t about her, not really. It was idle gossip from people who didn’t know her name. But the words, a razor to a painting, adhered to her skin like the humid Budapest air.
She walked on, her posture perfect, her face neutral. But the old, familiar coldness seeped into her bones. The raised line along her jaw, the one Sergio traced like a favorite route, suddenly felt like a trench. The finer one from her temple down her cheek, usually just a pale thread, now seemed a glaring crack. The small, silvery one under her eye and the longer one on her neck felt like beacons.
When the call for the photo went out, Alma instinctively melted backward. She became a shadow at the edge of the bustling group, a clipboard materializing in her hands as she feigned urgent work on her phone. “I’ll coordinate from here,” she said to a passing mechanic, offering a thin smile. “Make sure you’re in the front, your mum will want to see you.”
She watched them assemble, a laughing, jostling organism of color-coded team wear. Sergio was pulled to the center, next to Enzo. He scanned the growing crowd, his expression casual, but his eyes were moving, searching. They found her, a stationary figure against a moving backdrop.
He said something to Enzo, clapped Max on the shoulder, and began weaving through the crowd. He wasn’t hurrying. He stopped to shake a mechanic’s hand, to tousle the hair of a young data kid. It was a meandering, deliberate path that ended directly beside her, his back to the photographers, blocking her from view.
He leaned in close, as if to hear her over the noise. His breath was warm against her ear. “You’re hiding.”
“I’m working,” she said, not looking up from her screen. “The shots from FP2 need to be cross-referenced with—”
“Alma.” His voice was low, a private rumble. His hand came up, not to her face, but to the clipboard, gently pushing it down. “Look at me.”
She forced her eyes to his. The concern there was unnervingly direct.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She couldn’t say it. Giving voice to the caterers’ stupidity would make it real, would drag their cheap ugliness into the sacred space between them. “It’s just a photo. I’m not essential personnel for the shot.”
He studied her, his gaze reading the tension in her jaw, the slight over-brightness in her eyes. His own eyes narrowed. “Did someone say something?” The question was quiet, but it had an edge.
She shook her head, a quick, brittle movement. “No. It’s fine. The light is just… very bright. It highlights… everything.”
He understood then. She saw the comprehension dawn, not as pity, but as a cold, clarifying anger. His jaw tightened. He looked away, over the throng of their colleagues, his eyes sharp. For a second, she thought he might demand a name, might march over and start a war right there on the terrace.
He didn’t. He took a slow, deliberate breath and turned back to her. The anger was gone, replaced by something far more potent: a stark, unvarnished sincerity.
“I want you in the photos,” he said, his voice so only she could hear. His thumb rose, not touching her, but hovering a millimeter from the scar on her jaw. “Not for the campaign. For me.” He paused, his eyes holding hers with an almost physical weight. “But only if you’re comfortable. If you’re not, we walk away right now. Together.”
The offer was a seismic shift. It wasn’t a command. It was a choice, presented with the gravity of a contract. Together. He was placing her comfort above a direct, public expectation from his boss.
She glanced past him at the waiting group. At the glaring sun. At the countless lenses. The memory of the caterers’ laughter buzzed in her ears.
Then she looked back at him. At the man who traced those scars in the dark as if reading a story only he understood. His thumb was still hovering, waiting. Her Gibraltar. Her co-author.
“Okay,” she whispered. The word felt like stepping off a cliff.
A slow, real smile softened his face. “Okay.” His hovering thumb finally made contact, a single, sweeping caress along the line of her jaw, a secret benediction. Then his hand slid to the small of her back, a firm, guiding pressure. “Stay by me.”
He didn’t drag her to the center. He kept her at his side, at the edge of the group, shielding her from the most direct sun with his own body. When the photographer called for everyone to squeeze in, Sergio’s arm went around her shoulders, pulling her close into his side. His hand came up, not covering her scars, but resting casually, possessively, with his thumb on the very edge of the one by her temple.
“Ready?” the photographer yelled.
Sergio looked down at her, his face close to hers. “Smile for the human machine, Alma,” he murmured, a private joke just for her.
The camera flashed, once, twice, capturing it all. The team, the terrace, the summer light. And on the edge of the frame, a world champion holding his assistant close, his thumb on her scar, and the look on her face—not of shyness, but of a defiant, hard-won peace.