Page 47 of Racing Hearts
A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.
“Well, well, look who it is? If it isn’t Hermes’snumber twodriver.” Anthony’s voice drawled behind me, and I glanced at Luca, who was gripping his glass so tightly it looked like it could shatter at any moment.
Lacing my fingers with his, I leaned in toward Luca and whispered loudly enough for Anthony to hear, “Luca, I think Hermes’snumberthreedriver is trying to speak to us.” To my surprise, he turned to me, the frown on his face completely wiped.
How bad would it be if I punched the smug grin off Anthony’s face?
Luca’s eyes looked like he was contemplating the same question, but before I could tell Anthony to piss off, he glanced at our intertwined hands.
Anthony’s smirk widened, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see the two of you are still going strong.”
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Anthony,” I bit back.
A familiar voice chimed in. “You might want to keep your eyes to yourself.” Edward approached, a glass of champagne in both hands. “Luca once threatened to crash my car if I asked Georgia out on a date. Be a shame to see all that Texan oil money splattered about the track—there’s enough oil on it as is.” Edward was always one to get in a quick joke, an admirable quality.
Anthony grabbed his drink from the bar, taking a moment to look both directions before leaning in closer to Luca. “Let’s hope your speech doesn’t go as horrifically as your driving.”
Luca’s hand slipped from mine as he balled his fists, stepping forward. But Edward slid between them like a well-practiced bouncer, holding up a hand. Anthony snickered as he walked away, swaggering off to his table at the back.
“He’s not worth it, Luca,” Edward whispered finally, nodding for us to both take our drinks.
“Fucking hate that guy.”
“Anthony is a moron who will never get a Hermes seat. Just ignore him.” Luca nodded as he grabbed his glass and took a sip, but I could see the hurt in his eyes, could sense the frustration.
“Let’s find our table, hmm?” I suggested, and Edward gave me a small hug, before giving Luca’s arm another tight squeeze.
We settled into our seats, and while the others at the table—Henri, Isabelle, a few engineers—chatted animatedly about next year’s specs, I watched Luca. His fingers trembled against his napkin, and he kept rubbing his palms against his trousers like he couldn’t dry them fast enough.
I intertwined our fingers, smiling at him. “Your speech is going to be great, Luca.”
“I don’t know why they asked me to give a speech,” he whispered back, not bothering to look at me. “I’m not a champion like my father.”
“Not yet.” Luca ignored my encouragement as his eyes darted around the room nervously. His grip on my hand was shaky and clammy, and he let go abruptly so he could wipe his hands on his pants again. Gently, I let my hand rest on his thigh, tracing soft circles. He glanced at me, eyebrows raised in question.
I’m not entirely sure why I felt responsible for helping Luca overcome his anxiety about the upcoming speech. Maybe it was because I had experienced similar intense media pressure before and knew how debilitating it could be. Or maybe it was because after Miami and the podcast taping and this morning’s car ride, I was starting to genuinelylikeLuca more and more, and I couldn’t bear to see the charming Luca Rossi everyone loved crumble under the pressure. He didn’t deserve to feel this way.
And then, an idea hit me. Wild. Ridiculous.
Fuck it. I’m doing this.
Excusing myself, I quickly made my way towards the restroom, purse in hand. When I entered the stall, I slid off my purple lacy thong, a huge smile on my lips as I thought back to when Luca called me boring.
See if you think I’m boring now.I smirked, stuffing the panties in my purse with a little too much enthusiasm.
Exiting the bathroom, I looked left and right, as if someone was waiting to interview me on my underwear status, and then cautiously started to make my way back to my table.
“At least now you can picture one person in the audience naked. I hear that’s good for pre-speech nerves,” I whispered, sliding the lace thong discreetly into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He blinked at me. Then his mouth twitched as his hands slid into his pocket. His eyes went wide with disbelief, and no small amount of delight, as a grin crept onto his face.
When his name was called moments later, Luca rose, adjusted his jacket, and walked toward the stage with a swagger that was pure Rossi. Gone was the trembling hand, the bouncing knee. He grinned, took the mic, and gave the room a master class in charm.
He spoke about his time karting as a little boy on the Monza track and gave the Hermes F1 Team a heartwarming thank you.
Then, instead of exiting the stage, Luca paused. He’d left a copy of the speech on the table earlier this evening, and I knew the Hermes thank you was supposed to be the end of it.
“And last, but definitely not least, I want to thank Team Valkyrie.”
