The Paddock Pact

POV: Anya How can you imagine a divorce after 10 years together? You may think about tears and cream, slammed doors and breaking dishes. Yeah I thought so too. But when it was my turn, it was none of that. When one day you realise that your partner became more a friend than a lover - you do it quietly and respectfully. Although there is a ton of paperwork, I can tell you. Half a year ago I divorced my husband and I couldn't say I stopped living, but something just felt off. I was sitting in my quiet apartment in Warsaw when my phone rang. It was my bestie Elena, she was living in Barcelona now because of her new job, and I really missed her. "Hey giiirl," Elena`s voice came through the speaker, loud and cheering as always. "I want you in Barcelona for the weekend. Just don’t tell me you can’t, because I already bought you a ticket." "Did someone tell you today you’re insane?" I replied with a laugh. “Nah, not yet. So will you come please?”, her voice was pleading. “You know I can’t tell you no, do you?” “That’s why I love you! See you on Friday, baby!” Elena hung up even before I could reply. Which was exactly how I found myself in Barcelona 2 days later. I was sitting in Elena`s living room drinking wine and minding my own business when she came like a hurricane to me. “We are going out. Get ready. Wear something sexy, you know?” “Sexy, hah?” I replied with a smirk. “Dah, you’re a young good looking woman, you silly. And you are finally back on the market. Be ready in 20”, she said and went straight to the bathroom. I didn't even try to argue with her, she was the best at persuading people. I curled my hair a bit, got dressed in a nice dress, adjusted my glasses and let Elena drag me out. Barcelona was really alive. It was the Formula One Grand Prix weekend. Plenty of sports fans—and even more fangirls, if you know what I mean. Good looking girls and boys crowded outside one of the exclusive clubs tucked away near Passeig de Gràcia. The club was loud. The bass vibrated like hell and the air smelled like expensive perfume and alcohol. Within 10 minutes my friend just vanished and I was left to navigate the crowded bar alone. I smoothed my dress down and ordered a gin and tonic from a good-looking bartender. "Make that two," a man's voice muttered right beside me. I’m an observer by my nature so I like to process what I see before I start to engage with it. But when I turned my head, the catalog of sports faces instantly clicked into place. It was Mateo Alvarez. Even without a branded team kit, he was impossible to miss if you know something about international motorsport. At twenty-three, he was F1's most controversial driver —the fiery, wildly unpredictable talent from Chile who had spent the last two seasons being slowly dragged down by a struggling midfield car, abysmal team strategy, and the brutal, unforgiving meat-grinder of the racing media. Up close, he looked very fine. Around five-eight and he had the unmistakable build of an athlete—toned shoulders, a firm, athletic chest visible beneath his open-collar linen shirt, and forearm veins that stood out clear under the bar's warm lighting. His dark brown curls were chaotic, falling over a forehead that was currently etched with deep frustration. What I saw first, though, were his eyes. They were surprisingly large, deep shade of green surrounded by long dark lashes, and when he actually smiled, those eyes would crinkle at the corners into these warm, genuine laughter lines that made him look unbelievably cute. Right now? That famous, hyper-charismatic smile was completely off. He looked exhausted, somehow even older. His shoulders seemed to carry a lot of weight. But I guess that's what driving at 300 kph does to a person. I definitely knew this guy. I am not a screaming fan girl, don't get me wrong. I watch races for sport, not for handsome guys. I always loved everything connected to cars and speed. But this one was really an eye candy, I'm not gonna lie. The bartender slid our drinks across the bar. Mateo reached for his, his fingers wrapped tightly around the glass. I took a long sip of my drink, it was bitter and quite strong. I thought if it was a nice idea to tell him something, like anything. Or if he is too tired from the girls approaching him all night. I chose to explore his limits. "You're a very good driver, you know." He literally froze with his drink half-way to his mouth. Great, now he thinks I’m another i***t. "What are you, a talent scout?" he asked with a smirk touching his lips. "Or just doing a bit of late-night psychoanalysis? I’m not interested in either." I flinched a little bit from his answer. “Why be so rude? It’s not necessary. If I were you,I would listen to what people think and stop underestimating yourself.” Mateo blinked slowly. The smirk vanished off his face. He stared at me for a long beat, I can tell he was quite surprised by my attitude. "Ouch. Direct. Usually, people at least ask for a selfie before they start tearing me down." “Well, then sorry for that. I don’t know what I was thinking even starting this conversation. Good luck, you will definitely need it.” I replied, picking up my bag and adjusting it on my shoulder. “So no selfie, huh? You’re interesting. Why leave so early? The night is still young” "I don't think this is my scene," I said honestly. “Stay for a drink. Just one. I want to know you better,” he said, slightly leaning towards me, his eyes locked on mine. “My treat.” I looked at him for real. He seemed genuinely interested in this conversation. Usually, I’m not that type of person, I was married for a long time, you know. I’m not easy to connect with strangers. But something in his eyes made me wanna stay.