The Paddock Pact

Chapter 6: The Warsaw Gamble

POV: Mateo

Standing right in front of her, I felt that same cold look she’d given me that morning in Barcelona, and my stomach dropped straight into my shoes. She didn't look scared or impressed. She just looked pissed off. Up close, her glasses caught the light, and she crossed her arms, waiting.

Honestly, just seeing her face was a relief after the last forty-five minutes.

Waiting is the absolute worst thing in the world. In a race car, even when everything goes completely to hell—when the brakes fail, the pit stop is a disaster, or you're spinning into a wall—you don’t have time to think. Your brain doesn't sit around second-guessing your choices. You just react.

But standing on a sidewalk outside a grey insurance office in Warsaw for forty-five minutes? Jesus Christ. Pure mental torture.

I’d been leaning back against the hood of my rented sedan, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Hood pulled up, hands shoved deep into my pockets, trying to look like a random guy and not an F1 driver whose face was currently everywhere on social media. Every time those glass doors opened, my stomach dropped. I kept thinking, what if she doesn't even come out? What if she’s working from home today? What if she calls security on me? I looked like an absolute creep hanging around outside her building.

And then she’d walked out.

Damn. My heart had actually skipped a beat. Anya looked just like she did in my hotel room—neat, organized, completely calm despite the crazy city traffic around her. She’d shifted her bag on her shoulder, said something to a guy from her office, and turned toward the street. The surprise on her face had lasted for maybe a split second before she marched right toward me.

And now here we were.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mateo?" she asked. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut right through me.

I tried to pull off a normal smile, but my face was so tense it probably looked weird.

Slowly, carefully, I pulled my right hand out of my hoodie pocket and held up her plastic work badge hanging from a lanyard.

"I found your badge," I said, my voice coming out way more shaky than I wanted. Get it together, Alvarez. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. "You dropped it by the bed. I... I really need to talk to you. Can we talk? Please?"

Anya looked down at the badge, then back at me. Her face didn't change at all.

"You flew across Europe just to give me a piece of plastic, Alvarez?" she asked. "I already ordered a new one from HR on Monday."

"No, I didn't fly across Europe. I actually just flew nine hours back from Montreal," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "And the badge was just... my excuse. Look, Anya, I am so, so sorry. For what I said in the room. I was hungover, my head was a mess, and I panicked. I was a complete asshole to you, and you were just trying to help me out."

She let out a short, quiet laugh, but she didn't look convinced at all.

"Apology accepted," she said flatly. "You can throw the badge in that trash can over there. Goodbye, Mateo."

She turned around to walk back to the bus stop and pure panic hit me. If she walked away, I was done. My career, my contract, my entire life—over.

"Wait, wait, wait! Anya, please!" I blurted out, reaching my hand out toward her shoulder before pulling it back so I wouldn't touch her. "It's not just that! Something happened in Canada. My team... they did something completely crazy."

She paused and slowly looked back over her shoulder, just watching me sweat.

"Oohhh yeah, the new personal assistant, right?" she asked, entirely too casual.

I froze. My jaw actually dropped open. "Wait... you know about that?"

"I watch races sometimes, Mateo. And I read the news. On that thing that is called Internet," she said, turning around completely. "Your PR manager told the whole world that the girl from the hotel is your new assistant. She even told the press I’d be in Austria next weekend."

She took a step closer, looking right at me. "So why are you standing outside my workplace, for real?"

I stared at her. She wasn't stupid—she was an analyst, for God's sake. She had already put two and two together before I even opened my mouth.She knew about the fake news story, and she knew exactly why I was standing here looking like a beaten dog asking for a favor.

"Because," I whispered, dropping the fake confidence, the stupid smile, and whatever pride I had left, "if you don't show up in Austria next week and play the part... they’re going to fire me."