Page 17

Carlos smiled. “Nicola, this is Maisey Andrews. She’s working with PitSpark this season, strategic analysis, presenter extraordinaire in the making.”

Nicola extended her free hand, manicured fingers reaching out and wrapping around my own hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said warmly. “Love the pink!” She smiled down at my hand. The bright pink manicure had felt like a needed comfort and good luck charm for the day. I braced for the next comment. The ‘What happened?’ shock of seeing a very scarred-up hand. But it never came. Instead, she continued with, “Oh, I know PitSpark, they’re really great! So you’re reporting on strategy?”

“Yes, I have a background in analytical data in motorsport, and we’re creating a new platform called the PitSpark Paddock Report. Some behind the scenes stuff, interviews with drivers and the teams, and motorsport in general.”

Nicola nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if you ever want to highlight the teams’ charity work, I run the Moretti Foundation.”

“Oh, wow, I would love to!”

Carlos grinned and looked back at me and said, “You should do a segment about women in motorsport. There are so many incredible women working in this paddock—engineers, strategists, mechanics, media. Fans don’t always see that side of things.” Nicola nodded along.

“Yes, absolutely. That is absolutely something I want to include!”

“I’d be happy to talk about the Foundation’s programs too. We do a lot of mentorship work for young women interested in racing careers.” Something in my chest warmed. Seeing a woman high up in motorsport felt like a small victory for all women in motorsport.

“That would be amazing,” I said honestly.

Carlos leaned casually against the garage wall. “Maisey here also grew up racing,” he explained to Nicola.

“Karting and junior formulas for a few years,” I smiled.

Nicola’s eyes lit with interest. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and honestly, seeing more spotlights on women in motorsport when I was younger…would have meant a lot.” I glanced around the paddock, watching a group of female engineers walk past with laptops tucked under their arms. “When you’re the only girl on the grid as a kid,” I continued, “it can feel like you’re the odd one out all the time.”

Nicola’s eyes softened. “I imagine that must’ve been difficult.”

“It was,” I admitted. “But if I’d seen more women in motorsport when I was younger—engineers, team directors, foundation leaders—it would’ve reminded me that there was a place for me in the sport.”

Carlos smiled. “Well then,” he said, pushing off the wall, “it sounds like you’ve got your next episode idea.”

Nicola bent down to scratch her dog’s head. “And Monty here can make a guest appearance.”

I laughed, “I think the fans would love that.”

Monty wagged his tail enthusiastically, clearly in agreement.

The sky was a pale gray when I pulled into the paddock parking lot, the early morning chill biting at my cheeks.

My bag was heavier than it needed to be—laptop, camera gear, notebooks—but I hardly felt it. My stomach was so full of knots that nothing I carried could weigh me down. I paused at the entrance to the team hospitality motorhome, letting my gaze drift over the garages. Mechanics were already moving, engines humming, crews shouting across the pit lane. The smell of hot tires and fuel hit me immediately. My chest tightened.

And there he was.

He wasn’t doing anything particularly unusual—just standing with Sebastian and Angel, sipping coffee and checking his tablet—but my pulse kicked into overdrive anyway. Seeing him here, in his element, made the world feel impossibly small. This whole world we had dreamed about, except he had made it, and I hadn’t. But there was no essence of jealousy for Theo, no. He made it here despite it all. I had yet to see his father around the paddock and hoped he wouldn’t be present at all this season. A chill raked through me at the thought. That man made me rather violent. The thought of his face alone made my fingers burn with the need to throw a punch. Not that I had ever punched anyone at all, but thinking of Mr. Bauer made my imagination rather vivid. I pushed that away though, focused on seeing Theo here. His suit was pulled down around his waist, and the blue undershirt was like a second skin. Branding from all his sponsors peppered the fabric. PitSpark was the largest splashed across the chest, and a sense of pride filled me for him, but also for me. Theo had made it here to Formula One; that was always the dream. And in some rather rollercoaster twisty-turvy way, so had I.

Those feelings were so wrapped up in everything, the nostalgia of it all felt like it was choking me out, stealing all my air. So, I took a deep breath. Focus, Maisey. You’re here to work. I stepped forward and caught Sebastian’s eye. He gave me a small ‘Good luck’ nod before moving on to talk with someone wearing a Kaz Energy Racing polo. It really took an entire village to run a Formula One team. Angel was distracted by a monitor nearby, which left only Theo. I squared my shoulders, adjusted my long-sleeve top with little lace frills on the edges, and smoothed out my long skirt. I wished I was wearing heels to help me not feel miniscule around Theo. He had grown taller, and I had heard he was the tallest out of all other Formula One drivers. But seeing some posters around the paddock, it was clear he was much, much taller than most.

He looked up just as I was approaching, and all my false bravado shed away. Another mental pep talk, and I got my mouth to open and words to actually come out.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” he replied, his voice steady. More upbeat than I expected, but I could hear a small edge to his normal tone. I had forgotten how thick his Irish accent could be, especially in the mornings on early race days. It sent a shock through my system, and I tried to shake away the memories. His eyebrows creased in a scowl. He was watching me too, and I could feel it in the slight tilt of his head, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

“It’s a million degrees out; why are you wearing that?” he prodded, the crease deepening, little lines surfacing between each eyebrow. His blue eyes felt stormy today. I forced a smile, forcing myself not to fidget under his gaze.

“I like this top,” I said, pulling my hands to my hips, trying not to tug at my long-sleeved top. I knew the false confidence was only on the outside because he seemed taken aback by it, while my insides twisted into knots of anxiety. I didn’t want my burns to show. I wasn’t ashamed of them…not exactly. But I also didn’t want to deal with the looks and the questions. Honestly, the questions were better, because walking into a room and everyone zeroing in on my hand and arm with shock and disgust was not something I particularly enjoyed. I don’t think a lot of people had ever seen such severe burn scars, so some assumed it was a disease and would back away or give me a wide berth. Some would blatantly ask, some kind and questioning, some harsh. I just hadn’t wanted to deal with it. And while yesterday was cold enough to wear a sweater, today was unusually warm. But I had still reached for the long sleeve in my suitcase rather than anything more exposing. It was easy enough to tuck my hand away if I caught someone staring. The whole arm was a little different; the scars were redder and angrier as they went up. They didn’t climb too far, but this was just easier.