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Chapter Text

The phone rang during the worst possible moment.

Amelia Chambers was in the middle of a debrief, still sweating through her race suit after a P3 finish in the Formula 2 feature race at Silverstone. Her engineer was talking about tire degradation in sector two, but all she could think about was the McLaren personnel she'd seen in the paddock that morning. Zak Brown had been there. The CEO didn't show up to F2 races for no reason.

"Amelia?" Her engineer looked annoyed. "Are you listening?"

"Sorry, yeah. Sector two. I'll brake later into Copse next time." She glanced at her phone buzzing against the table. Unknown number. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

Across the room, her boyfriend Kyle Morrison leaned against the wall, still in his own race suit, arms crossed. He'd finished P7. Again. His jaw was tight in that way that meant she'd pay for outperforming him later, probably with silence that would stretch for hours until she apologized for something that wasn't her fault.

The phone stopped ringing. Started again immediately.

"Take it," her engineer sighed. "We're done here anyway."

Her hands shook as she stepped into the corridor. Kyle followed, because of course he did. He always followed.

"Hello?"

"Amelia, it's Andrea Stella. Do you have a moment?"

The McLaren Team Principal. Amelia pressed her back against the wall to keep from swaying. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"I'll make this quick because I know you've just finished racing. We want you for 2025. Full-time seat alongside Oscar Piastri. Contract details to follow, but I wanted to tell you personally. Welcome to McLaren Racing."

The corridor tilted. Six years of karting on borrowed equipment and sponsorship money scraped together by her mom working double shifts. Three years of junior formulas, sleeping in the backs of vans, eating protein bars for dinner. Two years of F2, proving herself again and again and again to people who looked at her and saw a publicity stunt instead of a racing driver.

"Amelia? Are you there?"

"I'm here. I—" Her voice cracked. She pressed her fist against her mouth, forcing the emotion down. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. That's why we picked you. We'll be in touch tomorrow with next steps. Congratulations."

The line went dead. Amelia stared at her phone, at her reflection in the black screen. A Formula 1 driver stared back.

"Well?" Kyle's voice cut through the moment like a blade. "What was that about?"

She turned to him, tried to find the joy she should be feeling. "McLaren. They're signing me. For next year. Full-time."

For a second, nothing. Kyle's face was perfectly blank, the same expression he wore when team orders went against him. Then he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Wow. That's... that's incredible, Mel."

He never called her Mel unless other people were around, unless he was performing. They were alone in this corridor.

"Aren't you happy?" The question came out smaller than she meant it to.

"Of course I'm happy." He pulled her into a hug that felt like a cage. His voice dropped to a whisper against her ear. "I just don't understand how you got an F1 seat when you've only beaten me by a few points. Makes you think about what you had to do to get it, doesn't it?"

Amelia went rigid. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He pulled back, hands on her shoulders, still smiling. "Just that you're very good at playing the game. The media loves you. That's a skill too, I guess."

The implication sat between them like poison. That she hadn't earned this. That being a woman was an advantage, somehow, in a sport that had spent a century keeping women out.

"I have to call my mom," Amelia said, stepping out of his grip.

"Babe, wait—" Kyle reached for her arm, fingers circling her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop her. "I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't. I'm just... I'm processing, okay? This is huge. For both of us. I mean, my girlfriend is going to be in F1."

He said it like it was about him. Like her dream was something that happened to him.

"Let go," Amelia said quietly.

"You're being sensitive. I'm trying to be supportive here." But he released her, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Look, let's go celebrate. Dinner, just us. We can talk about everything. I want to hear all the details."

"I need to call my mom first."

Something flickered across his face. "Right. Of course. Your mom." The way he said it made it sound like an accusation. "I'll wait in your motorhome then."

"Kyle—"

"I said I'll wait." He was already walking away, shoulders tight with barely contained anger.

Amelia watched him go, that familiar knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. She'd done something wrong again, somehow. She'd been too excited, not excited enough, hadn't immediately made it about them as a couple. There would be a fight later, quiet and vicious, where he'd twist everything until she was apologizing for getting her dream job.

But she couldn't think about that now. She pushed through the paddock exit into the evening air and called her mom.

"Amelia? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Amelia's voice broke on the words. "Mom, I got it. I got the McLaren seat."

The sound her mother made was half-sob, half-laugh. "Oh my god. Oh my god, baby. I knew it. I knew they'd see what I see."

"I'm going to be a Formula 1 driver." Saying it out loud made it real. Made it terrifying.

"Your dad would be so proud."

Amelia closed her eyes. Her father had died when she was twelve, a heart attack that came out of nowhere and took everything with it. He'd been the one who put her in a kart for the first time, who'd spent weekends driving her to tracks across Washington State, who'd believed she could be anything she wanted. He never got to see her win her first championship, never got to see her leave for Europe to chase this impossible dream.

"I wish he was here," Amelia whispered.

"He is, honey. He's always with you." Her mom's voice was thick with tears. "God, I wish I was there to hug you. I'm so proud of you. So, so proud."

They talked for twenty minutes, her mom already looking at flights to Australia for the first race, talking about taking time off work, about how they'd make it work financially even though Amelia knew money was always tight. Her mom never complained, but Amelia had seen the bills, had heard the phone calls with creditors. Everything her family had went into her racing career. The pressure of that never went away.

"I'll send you money from my first paycheck," Amelia said. "Pay back everything—"

"Absolutely not. That money is yours. You earned it."

"Mom—"

"Amelia Rose Chambers, you listen to me. This is happening because you're talented and you worked harder than anyone else. You don't owe me anything. You never did." Her mom paused. "Have you told Kyle?"

The question landed like a stone. "Yeah. He was here when I got the call."

"And?"

"He's... processing."

"Amelia."

"It's fine, Mom. He's happy for me. It's just a lot to take in."

The silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes. Her mom had never liked Kyle, had said from the beginning that he was too controlling, too jealous. But Amelia always defended him, made excuses, said her mom didn't see the good parts.

"Just be careful, honey. This is your dream. Don't let anyone take that from you."

"I won't. I promise."

After they said goodbye, Amelia sat on a tire barrier, watching the track marshals pack up for the evening. The sun was setting over Silverstone, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. In four months, she'd be at the McLaren Technology Centre for her seat fitting. In six months, she'd be in Bahrain for pre-season testing. In seven months, she'd line up on the grid in Melbourne for the Australian Grand Prix.

She'd be the only woman on that grid. The first in decades.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Kyle: Where are you? We need to talk.

Then another: Don't ignore me.

And another: You're being dramatic. I'm happy for you. Come back.

Amelia stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She should go back. Should smooth this over. Should make him feel better about her success. That's what she always did.

But then other messages started coming in.

Osc (the fast Australian): Heard the news. Welcome to the madhouse. 🧡

LEWIS: Congratulations, young blood. About damn time. Call me tomorrow.

George Russell: AMELIA!!!! This is amazing!!! Dinner in Monaco to celebrate?

She'd raced against George in F3, had stayed in touch even as their careers diverged. He'd always been kind to her, had defended her more than once when paddock gossip got nasty. Lewis she'd met through Mercedes' diversity initiatives, and he'd taken her under his wing, given her advice that had nothing to do with racing and everything to do with surviving the pressure.

Then an unknown number: This is Max. Oscar gave me your number. Welcome to F1. You're going to be great. See you at the factory.

Max Verstappen. Three-time world champion. They'd met a handful of times at sponsor events, had fallen into conversations about racing that stretched for hours. He'd never treated her like a curiosity, never questioned whether she belonged. Just talked to her like she was another racing driver, which was all she'd ever wanted.

Amelia saved his number, reading his message three times.

Her phone buzzed again. Kyle: Fine. Be that way. See if I care.

The whiplash between the messages from the grid and the messages from Kyle was dizzying. One group treating her like a colleague, an equal. The other treating her like she'd done something wrong by succeeding.

"There you are."

Amelia looked up to find her F2 team principal, Martin, walking toward her. He was smiling, which was rare. Martin didn't smile unless you'd done something exceptional.

"I heard," he said, sitting down beside her on the barrier. "McLaren made a good choice."

"Thanks, Martin."

"I mean it. I've been in this sport thirty years. I know talent when I see it." He looked at her seriously. "You're going to face things up there that you didn't face down here. It's going to be harder. The scrutiny, the pressure, the politics. People are going to question everything you do."

"I know."

"I don't think you do. Not yet." Martin's voice was gentle but firm. "You're going to need people in your corner. Real people, who believe in you. Make sure you know who they are."

It felt like he was trying to tell her something specific. Amelia thought about Kyle waiting in her motorhome, thought about the tightness in his jaw and the edge in his voice.

"I will," she said.

Martin stood, clapped her on the shoulder. "Get some rest. Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, the real work starts."

After he left, Amelia sat in the gathering darkness for a long time. The track was empty now, just the sound of wind through the grandstands and the distant hum of the motorway. She thought about her dad, about the tiny kart he'd bought secondhand and rebuilt in their garage. About her mom working overnight shifts at the hospital so they could afford race entries. About the sponsors who'd taken chances on her when no one else would.

About Kyle, who'd been there for two years but somehow made her feel smaller instead of bigger.

About the seat fitting in four months, about pulling on a McLaren race suit with her name on it, about the moment when the lights would go out in Melbourne and she'd be racing in Formula 1.

She typed back: Thanks! I'm definitely coming. See you there.

Then she stood, brushed off her race suit, and walked back through the empty paddock. The lights were still on in her team's area, and she could see Kyle through the window of her motorhome, pacing.

Amelia stopped outside the door, hand on the handle. She could hear her mom's voice in her head: This is your dream. Don't let anyone take that from you.

She thought about the messages from Lewis and George and Max. From Oscar, who she'd be working alongside, who'd sent a simple message of welcome without any of Kyle's complications. She thought about the girl in Seattle who'd spent every weekend at the karting track, who'd dreamed of this moment so hard it hurt.

Amelia took a deep breath and opened the door.

Kyle looked up immediately, his expression carefully neutral. "Finally. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Sorry. I was talking to Martin."

"For an hour?"

"I needed some time to think."

"About what?" He moved closer, softening his voice. "Babe, I know I was weird earlier. I'm sorry. This is incredible news. I'm so happy for you." He reached for her hands. "Let me take you to dinner. Celebrate properly. Just us."

Amelia looked at their joined hands, at his face that was so familiar but somehow felt like a stranger's. "I'm really tired, Kyle. It's been a long day. Can we just... can we do this tomorrow?"

His grip tightened just slightly. "You're shutting me out."

"I'm not. I just need some sleep."

"You always do this. Something good happens and you push me away." His voice was rising now, the careful control slipping. "I'm trying here, Amelia. I'm trying to be supportive even though this is fucking hard for me too."

"How is this hard for you?"

"Because!" He dropped her hands, started pacing again. "Because I've been faster than you all season. Because I've been racing just as hard, working just as much. And you get the call-up? You really don't see how that would mess with my head?"

There it was. The truth underneath the congratulations.

"I finished ahead of you in the championship," Amelia said quietly.

"By thirty points. Thirty. That's basically nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"It is when you factor in reliability. I had way more DNFs than you. If we'd had equal machinery—"

"We have equal machinery, Kyle. We're on the same team."

"You know what I mean." He was angry now, really angry, the kind of anger that usually made her backtrack and apologize. "They picked you because you're a woman. That's it. That's the only reason. They want the PR, the headlines, the diversity points."

The words hit like a slap. Amelia had heard variations of this her entire career—from journalists, from other drivers, from random people on the internet. But never from Kyle. Never from someone who was supposed to love her.

"Get out," she said.

"What?"

"Get out of my motorhome."

"Amelia, come on. I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. You meant every word." She opened the door, held it. "Get out."

Kyle stared at her like she'd grown a second head. She never stood up to him like this. Never pushed back.

"You're going to regret this," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You think those F1 drivers are your friends? You think they actually respect you? They're just being nice because they have to. Wait until you're actually on track with them. Wait until you realize you're out of your depth. You'll come crying back to me, and I might not be here."

"I'll take that risk."

He left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Amelia locked it behind him, then slid down to sit on the floor, her whole body shaking.

Her phone was buzzing with more messages—her team, her sponsors, other F2 drivers she'd raced with. People congratulating her, supporting her, believing in her.

And one from Oscar: Ignore whatever Kyle said. You earned this. See you at MTC.

Amelia laughed, a slightly hysterical sound in the empty motorhome. How did Oscar know? Could everyone see what she'd been trying to hide?

She pulled herself up, caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror by the door. Still in her race suit, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, mascara smudged under her eyes. She looked exhausted. She looked overwhelmed.

She looked like a Formula 1 driver.

Amelia pulled out her phone and opened a new message to Lewis: Can I call you? I know it's late.

The response came immediately: Always. Give me two minutes.

When her phone rang, she answered on the first ring.

"Talk to me," Lewis said, no preamble.

And she did. She told him about Kyle, about the things he'd said, about the fear that maybe he was right. That maybe she didn't belong, didn't deserve this, was only here because of her gender.

Lewis listened without interrupting, and when she finally ran out of words, he was quiet for a long moment.

"You know what I heard when I got to F1?" he finally said. "That I was only there because I was Black. That McLaren needed diversity. That I didn't earn my seat, Ron Dennis just wanted to look progressive."

Amelia's breath caught. "Lewis—"

"Let me finish. People said that after I won my first race. After I won the championship. After I won seven championships. They'll always find a reason to diminish what you've accomplished. The question is: are you going to believe them?"

"No," Amelia said, and meant it.

"Good. Because Andrea Stella didn't call you because you're a woman. He called you because you're fast. Because you're smart. Because you can develop a car and work with a team and handle pressure. He called you because McLaren wants to win, and they think you can help them do that."

"Thank you," Amelia whispered.

"Don't thank me. Just prove them right. And Amelia? That boyfriend of yours? Lose him. He's dead weight, and you can't carry dead weight in F1."

After they hung up, Amelia sat in the quiet motorhome, letting Lewis's words settle over her. She thought about Kyle, about the two years she'd spent trying to make him happy, trying to be small enough that her success wouldn't threaten him.

She was done being small.

Amelia stood, stripped out of her race suit, and pulled on comfortable clothes. Then she opened her laptop and started going through the messages from McLaren that had already started arriving. Schedules, logistics, preliminary contract terms to review with her lawyer.

Her phone buzzed one more time. An unknown number: This is Andrea Stella. I forgot to mention—first day at MTC is October 15th. Dress code is casual. Looking forward to working with you.

October 15th. Three weeks away.

Amelia looked around the motorhome, at the small space that had been home for the past two years. At the photos taped to the walls—her and her mom at her first F2 race, her podium finishes, her and Kyle from better days.

She pulled down the photo of Kyle and dropped it in the trash.

Then she opened a new message to the group chat Oscar had apparently created: Max, George, Oscar

Oscar: She's here! 🎉

Max: Fair warning, these guys never shut up

George: That's rich coming from you, Max

Amelia smiled, typing quickly: Thanks for the welcome. Can't wait to bore you all in Monaco.

The responses came rapid-fire, jokes and race talk and plans for dinner. She fell asleep reading them, her phone still in her hand, and dreamed of Melbourne.

Dreamed of standing on the grid in papaya orange, of lights going out, of everything she'd worked for finally, finally coming true.

She was going to be a Formula 1 driver.

And she was going to prove she deserved to be there.

Chapter Text

Kyle showed up at her hotel room at midnight with flowers and tears in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," he said before Amelia could even speak. "God, Mel, I'm so sorry. I was such an asshole. You got the biggest news of your life and I made it about me."

Amelia stood in the doorway, still in her pajamas, exhausted from a day of back-to-back sponsor meetings. She'd been ignoring his calls for three days, letting his apologies pile up in her voicemail, trying to figure out what she wanted.

"Can I come in? Please? I just want to talk."

She stepped aside. He came in slowly, like he was afraid she'd change her mind, and set the flowers—white roses, her favorite—on the desk.

"I've been thinking a lot," Kyle said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "About what I said. About why I said it. And I realized... I was jealous. Not of your success, but of the fact that you're moving on and I'm not. We've been doing this together for two years, and suddenly you're going to F1 and I'm still here, and I panicked."

Amelia crossed her arms, staying by the door. "That's not an excuse for what you said."

"I know. I know it's not." He looked up at her, and he really did look miserable. "You earned that seat. You're faster than me, you're smarter than me, you're better at everything. I know that. Everyone knows that. And instead of being proud of my girlfriend, I let my own insecurity turn me into someone I don't want to be."

The words hit something soft in her chest. This was the Kyle she'd fallen for: the one who was honest about his feelings, who didn't pretend to be perfect.

"I can't promise I won't struggle with this sometimes," he continued. "But I can promise I'll never take it out on you again. You're going to Formula 1, Mel. That's incredible. And I want to be there supporting you, not dragging you down."

Amelia was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. He looked sincere. He looked sorry.

"I need you to mean it," she finally said. "I need you to actually be happy for me."

"I am. I swear I am." Kyle stood, came closer but didn't touch her. "I love you. And I'm so, so proud of you. You're going to be amazing."

She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him so badly. And for the first time in a while, she really did.

"Okay," Amelia said softly. "Okay."

The relief on his face was palpable. He pulled her into a hug, and this time it didn't feel like a cage. It felt like coming home.

"I'll be better," he whispered into her hair. "I promise."

The next two weeks were good. Better than good. Kyle was attentive and sweet, showing up to her races with coffee exactly how she liked it, texting her encouragement before every session, making her laugh when the pressure got too intense. He stopped making comments about her driving, stopped comparing their results. Started talking about "when you're in F1" with genuine excitement instead of resentment.

Amelia let herself relax into it. Let herself believe that the fight at Silverstone had been a moment of weakness they'd worked through and come out stronger.

She finished the F2 season in P2 in the championship—not quite enough to win, but a result that no one could question. Kyle finished P8, respectable but not remarkable. He congratulated her after the final race in Abu Dhabi, kissed her in front of the cameras, told anyone who would listen how proud he was.

"See?" he said that night over dinner. "I told you I'd be better."

And he was. He really was.

But the media attention was something else entirely.

After the official McLaren announcement dropped, Amelia's phone exploded. Interview requests, sponsorship opportunities, magazine profiles. Everyone wanted to talk to the girl who was breaking barriers, making history, becoming the first woman in F1 in decades.

The questions started out innocuous enough. "How does it feel?" "What does this mean to you?" "Who are your inspirations?"

But then they got sharper.

"Do you think you're ready for Formula 1, or is this happening too fast?"

"How do you respond to critics who say you're only getting this opportunity because of your gender?"

"F1 is extremely physical. Do you worry you won't be strong enough?"

"Have the other drivers been welcoming, or do you sense resistance?"

Amelia learned to smile through gritted teeth, to give polished non-answers that her media trainer had drilled into her. But each question was a small cut, a reminder that she'd have to prove herself in ways the men never did.

The worst was a interview with a British journalist who'd been covering F1 for thirty years. He was supposed to be reputable, serious. Instead, he'd asked: "Let's be honest: do you think McLaren would have signed you if you were a man with the same results?"

Amelia had frozen, the carefully prepared answers evaporating from her mind. "I... yes. I do. I was runner-up in F2 this past season."

"But you can see why people might question it."

"People can question whatever they want. I'm going to prove I belong on track."

The clip went viral. Half the internet rallied behind her. The other half tore her apart, said she was defensive, entitled, couldn't handle the pressure. Said she'd crack before the season even started.

Kyle found her that night sitting on the floor of her brand new apartment in Monaco (small, and in the cheapest part of town, but still in Monaco), scrolling through Twitter with tears streaming down her face.

"Hey, hey, stop." He took her phone away, pulled her into his arms. "Don't read that garbage. They're just trolls."

"But what if they're right? What if I'm not ready? What if I get to Australia and I'm just... not fast enough?"

"You're fast enough. You wouldn't have gotten the seat if you weren't." Kyle kissed the top of her head. "But Mel, you have to stop letting them get to you. You can't read the comments. You can't engage with this stuff."

"I know. I just—"

"I know. I get it." He was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "Can I say something without you getting mad? And you can tell me to stop if you don't want me to keep talking."

Amelia pulled back to look at him. "What?"

"I think... I think you need to be really, really prepared. Physically, I mean." He rushed on before she could respond. "Not because I don't think you're strong enough. You are. But F1 is brutal. The G-forces, the races, the travel schedule. And everyone's going to be watching, waiting for you to show weakness. You need to be in the best shape of your life. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm already training six days a week."

"I know you are. I just mean..." Kyle chose his words carefully. "The guys in F1, they're like machines. Lewis, Max, Charles—they're so dialed in with their nutrition and fitness. Maybe we should look at your diet? Make sure you're fueling properly? I've been reading about what F1 drivers eat, and it's pretty specific."

Something tightened in Amelia's chest. "You think I need to lose weight?"

"No! God, no. You're perfect." He cupped her face. "I just want to make sure you're giving yourself every advantage. That's all. I want you to walk into that paddock knowing you've done everything possible to be ready."

It sounded reasonable. 

"Okay," Amelia said. "Maybe you're right."

"We can figure it out together. I'll help you. Meal prep, training plans, whatever you need. I'll eat whatever you do." Kyle smiled. "We're a team, right?"

"Right."

Her phone buzzed on the floor where Kyle had set it. A text from an unknown number.

Oscar: Saw that interview. You handled it well. Don't let the bastards grind you down. See you at MTC next week.

Amelia felt something loosen in her chest. Oscar. Her future teammate. She'd been so caught up in everything that she hadn't even thought about the fact that she'd be seeing him soon, that this would all become real.

She typed back: Thanks. Needed to hear that. Can't wait.

"Who's that?" Kyle asked.

"Oscar. Just checking in."

"That's nice of him." Kyle stood, pulled her up with him. "Come on. Let's make dinner. Something healthy. Start as we mean to go on, right?"

In the kitchen, Kyle pulled up a meal plan he'd apparently researched, talking about protein ratios and carb timing and hydration. Amelia listened, feeling grateful that he was taking such an interest, that he wanted to help her succeed.

She didn't notice that the portion he served her was smaller than his own. Didn't notice the way he frowned slightly when she reached for a second helping of rice.

"You sure?" he asked lightly. "That's a lot of carbs for this late at night."

Amelia paused, hand hovering over the pot. "I'm hungry."

"I know, babe. I just want to make sure you're being smart about it. F1 drivers have to be so disciplined." He smiled. "But if you're hungry, you're hungry. That's important too."

She pulled her hand back. "No, you're right. I'm probably just bored eating, not actually hungry."

"You sure? I didn't mean to tell you you couldn't."

"It's fine," Amelia said.

That night, Amelia lay awake while Kyle slept beside her, one arm thrown across her waist. Her stomach was growling, but she ignored it. He was right. She needed to be disciplined. Needed to be perfect.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand. Another text, this time from Lewis.

Remember what I told you. Don't let anyone make you smaller. See you soon, champ.

Amelia stared at the message in the darkness. Lewis's words from their phone call echoed in her head, but they felt distant now, like something from another life.

She was fine. Kyle was helping her. She was lucky to have someone who cared so much about her success.

She repeated it to herself until she fell asleep.

McLaren Technology Centre was even more impressive than Amelia had imagined.

She stood in the parking lot for a full minute after getting out of her car (a bright papaya McLaren that picked her up from the airport), just staring up at the sleek glass building. This was it. This was really happening.

Kyle had wanted to come with her, but she'd insisted on going alone. This was something she needed to do by herself. He'd been disappointed but understanding, made her promise to tell him everything.

Inside, the reception area was all clean lines and papaya orange accents. Trophies in glass cases. Photos of past champions. And there, on the wall of current drivers, was a space waiting for her photo.

"Amelia Chambers?”

She turned to find a woman in McLaren team gear smiling at her. "I'm Sarah, from PR. Welcome! We're so excited to have you here."

The next few hours were a blur. Facility tour, meeting what felt like hundreds of staff members, everyone warm and welcoming but also clearly curious. She was the new thing, the historic signing, the question mark.

Then she was led to the driver area, and there was Oscar.

He looked up from his phone and grinned. "There she is. The woman who's going to make my life very difficult."

Amelia laughed, surprised by how genuinely happy he looked to see her. "Yeah? How's that?"

"Because now I actually have to be fast. Can't just cruise to being best of the rest anymore." Oscar stood, offered his hand. When she shook it, he pulled her into a quick hug instead. "Seriously, though. Welcome to the team. This is going to be fun."

Something in Amelia's chest unclenched. Oscar's energy was easy, uncomplicated. No hidden meanings, no resentment. Just a teammate who seemed genuinely pleased to have her there.

"Thanks for the text," she said. "After that interview. It helped."

"That guy's a dinosaur. Everyone knows it." Oscar grabbed a McLaren cap from his locker and tossed it to her. "Come on. Let me show you the good stuff. Like where they hide the decent coffee."

They spent the afternoon together, Oscar introducing her to engineers and mechanics, showing her the simulator, explaining the quirks of the team. He was funny and self-deprecating, making jokes about his own rookie mistakes, asking her opinion on setups and race strategies like they'd been working together for years.

"Your teammate last year," Amelia ventured as they sat in the cafeteria. "Was he... competitive? Like, in a bad way?"

Oscar considered this. "Lando was great. Super fast, good guy. But yeah, teammates are always competitive. It's the nature of it. You're compared to each other every single session. Some people handle it better than others."

"And you?"

"I like to think I handle it well. But ask me again after you've beaten me a few times." He grinned. "Look, here's my philosophy: we're both trying to go fast. Sometimes you'll be faster, sometimes I'll be faster. As long as we're pushing the team forward and not taking each other out, we're good. Sound fair?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Good. Because the media's going to try to make this into a thing. They're going to want drama, want to pit us against each other. We just ignore it and do our jobs." Oscar's expression turned more serious. "I know you're going to get different questions than me. More scrutiny. It's not fair, but it's reality. Just know that I've got your back. Teammate to teammate."

Amelia felt the sting of tears and blinked them back. "Thanks, Osc."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until I'm actually useful." He checked his watch. "Alright, seat fitting in twenty minutes. You ready to get molded into a race car?"

The seat fitting was surreal. Lying in the mold while it formed around her body, knowing this would be her seat, her car, her Formula 1 car. The engineers were meticulous, asking about comfort and support, making adjustments, treating her exactly like they'd treat any driver.

"Perfect," the lead engineer finally said. "We'll have it ready for you in a few weeks. First test is Bahrain in February. You excited?"

"Terrified," Amelia admitted.

"Good. Means you care." He smiled. "You're going to be great, kid."

On her way out, Andrea Stella stopped her in the corridor.

"How was your first day?"

"Amazing. Overwhelming. Exciting."

"All the right feelings." Andrea studied her for a moment. "I'm going to tell you something I tell all our drivers. There will be days when you doubt yourself. When the pressure feels like too much. When everyone has an opinion about what you should be doing. Those are the days when you need to remember why we signed you."

"Why did you sign me?" The question came out before she could stop it.

"Because you're fast. Because you're smart. Because our data says you can win races." Andrea's voice was firm. "Not because of your gender. Not for PR. Because we think you can help us win championships. Don't forget that."

Amelia nodded, not trusting her voice.

She bumped into Oscar on her way out. "Where are you staying?" 

"My boyfriends apartment," she smiled. "Benefit of dating someone from the UK."

Oscar laughed. "I'm sure that's why you date him. Apartment close to the MTC."

Driving back to Kyle's that evening, her phone connected to the car's Bluetooth. He called immediately.

"How was it? Tell me everything!"

She did, talking through the tour, the seat fitting, her time with Oscar. Kyle listened, asked questions, sounded genuinely interested.

"I'm so proud of you," he said when she finished. "My girlfriend, the Formula 1 driver. Still can't believe it."

"I can barely believe it either."

"When do you get back? I was thinking we could go for a run, maybe do some meal prep for the week. Keep that momentum going."

Amelia glanced at the clock. It was already seven PM. She'd barely eaten all day, too nervous to have more than coffee and a protein bar. "I'm pretty tired. Maybe we just order in?"

"Babe, come on. You can't slack off now. You've got four months until testing. That's not a lot of time to get into peak condition." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Just a quick 5K. Then we'll make something healthy. You'll feel better, I promise."

She was exhausted. Her body ached from tension. All she wanted was to go home, eat a real meal, and sleep for twelve hours.

"You're right," she heard herself say. "A run sounds good."

"That's my girl. I'll see you in thirty."

After they hung up, Amelia drove in silence, watching the sun set over the countryside. Her stomach was growling again, a constant companion these days. But Kyle was right. She needed to be disciplined. Needed to be the best version of herself.

Her phone buzzed with a text. George Russell.

Heard you were at MTC today! How was it? Dinner soon? I want to hear everything.

Amelia smiled, typed back: It was incredible. Dinner sounds perfect. Maybe next week when I'm back?

George: Done. My treat. Congratulations again, Amelia. You deserve this.

She believed him. George had never been anything but supportive, even when they were competing against each other. Even when she beat him.

But a small voice in the back of her mind whispered: Kyle's supportive too. Kyle loves you. Kyle wants you to succeed.

She ignored the part that whispered: Then why do you feel so tired all the time? Why do you feel so small?

Amelia turned up the music and drove faster, pushing the thoughts away.

Four months until Bahrain.

Four months to prove she belonged.

She could do this. She would do this.

Even if it meant being perfect.