Page 44 of Racing Hearts
Something about that question caught me off guard. As F1 drivers we all had this speech perfectly prepared, had all answered it countless times each year. But as time had gone on, my answer felt more and more crafted, and less and less genuine. Suddenly, that feeling I’d felt back at the Hermes offices overtook me again. It felt like an invisible weight had settled on my chest, squeezing tighter with each shallow breath I took.
Why was this question so difficult to answer?
I don’t know if Georgia sensed my hesitation, but I appreciated her answering first.
“When I was five, our father took us to the Monaco Grand Prix. I remember it like it was yesterday. The cars were shiny and beautiful, the weather was incredibly sunny, and my father held me for most of the race, pointing out the different cars as he explained the racetrack. I knew in that moment that I wanted to be a race car driver, wanted to make him proud. Racing each weekend, it became more than just a hobby. It was a way for our family to spend meaningful time together. My parents sacrificed everything to get Henri and I into race cars, and now, each week, we get to pay them back in the best way possible.”
There was a comfortable silence in the air as I pictured the image of sweet little five-year-old Georgia learning about the cars as they raced at one of the most famous tracks in the world.
She wanted to make her dad proud. My heart tugged at the thought. How could Georgia not make her parents proud? She was unstoppable this season. “A real champion,” as my father liked to gush.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she offered quickly.
I shrugged. “I guess, since my dad was one, it was expected I’d become one, too.”
Her pursed lips told me she didn’t quite know how to respond—or didn’t believe me, which was fair. Racers dreamed of competing in Formula 1. Until recently, racing the fastest cars in the world had been all that I’d wanted to do, but now? Now it felt more like a nightmare I was trapped in.
“If your dad wasn’t a professional driver,” she asked finally, “what did little Luca want to be when he grew up?” A good question, one that I had been too afraid to ask myself recently.
Had I always wanted to be a driver?
“I don’t know,” I said softly, thinking back to my childhood. “I really love to cook.”
“An Italian that loves to cook, could you be more of a cliché?” Georgia teased, poking me gently in the side. “Well then, Chef Luca, here’s a question that Nora keeps sending to me. Let’s see if you’d pass the test: What’s your favorite pasta?”
“I like maccheroni. It’s a simple, classic Italian pasta. Easy to make, no matter the sauce.”
“As in… mac and cheese?” Georgia’s loud snort startled me. “Are you telling me that Luca Rossi lovesmac and cheese?”
“No,” I replied with mock offense. “I am telling you that Luca Rossi loves the classic Italian pasta maccheroni, which is an excellent way to eat a meat-based sauce.” It was difficult to keep a straight face when Georgia was grinning at me with that radiant smile. Her laugh was something special; when she laughed, it was as if every part of her joined in. Her shoulders shook and her eyes sparkled as effortless laughter filled any open space. It was contagious being around Georgia when she laughed, and impossible not to smile back.
It made me want to do it more.
“I don’t know, Luca. All I can picture is you shoveling copious amounts of mac and cheese into your face like a five-year-old.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead making mac and cheese.” I shook my head in disgust. “Next question?”
She scrolled through her phone. “Ugh, so sneaky of Nora. She wrote, ‘Luca, what’s something Georgia could do better in this week’s press conference?’”
I cleared my throat, maybe a little too eagerly. “Well…”
Georgia scoffed. “Oh, do tell. Please bestow your wisdom upon me, Luca, King of Journalists, First of his Name.”
“Mock me all you want, Dubois,” I teased. “I watched some of the conferences from the last few races, and I noticed something.” My voice trailed off at the look of apprehension on Georgia’s face. The press conference in Miami had been brutal, and we needed to get things back on track.
“Yes?”
“I think for this week you should really focus on your body language. I hate to say it, but you kind of look like prey to these journalists.”
“Ahh, so you want me to tell my anxiety to quit it?” Georgia said with a hard edge, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.
I cracked a smile, shaking my head. “No,amore, not at all, but I want you to at least try and think about your body language if you can. I just want you tolookconfident in front of these journalists. You’re a successful F1 driver and it’s an honor to be in that room with you. I want you to sit with your back straight, smile wide as you face them down. Even if you don’t feel it on the inside, I think it’ll help. I like to liken it to a black bear. If you look scary, it’s probably going to leave you alone.”
“You know a brown bear will chase you if you look intimidating,” she deadpanned.
Such a know-it-all.
It was impossible to stop a smile from slipping onto my face. “I want you to show them that you’re not to be underestimated. You’re a predator on the track. Let that translate to press conferences, too.”
