The Paddock Pact

Chapter 4: Under the Red Lights

POV: Mateo

Every single shutter click in the paddock sounded like a gunshot.

I pulled my hat low, staring straight at the tarmac, but there was no escaping it. The blurry video was everywhere.

To make matters worse, my ex had just dropped fuel onto the fire. Before the morning even started, she posted a story: a black background with the text, “Some people show their true colors faster than others. Moving on.”

Great. She was playing the victim, letting the internet believe I’d cheated, and the media was eating every single second of it up.

"Mateo! Over here! Who's the girl from the hotel?" some guy shouted, shoving a mic over the fence.

"Mateo, is the team fining you for last night?" another one yelled.

I ignored them and ducked into the garage. Not that it really helped. Marcus, my race engineer, looked up from his monitors. He didn't say anything about the video, but the quiet disappointment on his face felt like a punch in the gut.

Two hours later, I was strapped into the car. Engine roaring behind my head, vibrating right through my back. When the five red lights went out, I just wanted to drive fast enough to forget how bad I felt. I drove like an i***t, honestly, pushing our slow car way harder than I should have on the hot track.

But F1 doesn't work like that. You lose focus for a second, and you’re done. Every time I hit a long straight, my brain went right back to how cold Anya’s voice sounded this morning. I value honesty and safety, and right now, you are neither.

I finished P11. No points. Total waste of a weekend.

"Sorry, guys," I said into the radio on the cool-down lap. "Just didn't have the pace."

"Copy, Mateo. We focus on Montreal," Marcus replied. His voice was completely flat.

After the team debrief, I practically ran back to my room at the Majestic to throw my stuff into a bag. Our flight to Canada was in less than three hours, and I couldn't be late.

I was shoving dirty clothes into my suitcase, brain totally fried, when my foot hit something on the floor near the bed.

I bent down and picked it up.

It was a plastic corporate pass on a black lanyard. Anya must have dropped it when she grabbed her stuff and walked out on me. I flipped it over. Her face was right there on a tiny ID photo—serious, no smile, looking sharp. Under her name, Anya Novak, it had the logo of some big international insurance company.

I actually let out a breath. I didn't have her phone number, but at least I had this. I tucked the pass into the front pocket of my backpack. I’d fix this when I got back from Canada. I’d find her, talk to her, and apologize properly.

Except Montreal turned into a complete shitshow before we even landed. By Thursday’s media day, the whole thing had spiraled. Nobody wanted to ask about the track or the setup. They wanted gossip.

I was sitting on the stage at the FIA press conference, sweating under the bright lights in my team shirt, just waiting for the axe to fall.

A journalist in the front row leaned into his mic. "Mateo. Your ex-girlfriend posted on social media that your relationship ended because of cheating, and the Barcelona video seems to confirm it. Is your seat safe considering the strict morality clauses with your sponsors?"

My mouth went completely dry. I wanted to explain—tell them the truth, that Anya was just a random girl who had to drag my drunk ass home—but I knew how lame that would sound. Nobody would believe it.

Before I could say anything, Sarah, our Head of PR, stepped up from the back of the room and grabbed a mic.

"Let’s clear this up right now," Sarah said, totally calm. "The woman in the video from Barcelona isn't a romantic partner. She is Mateo's newly appointed personal assistant."

I whipped my head around so fast I almost pulled a muscle in my neck. I just stared at her, mouth open.

"She handles his schedule when he’s in Europe," Sarah kept going, completely ignoring the fact that I was gaping at her like an i***t. "She isn't here in Montreal because her contract only covers European races. She was doing her job—making sure our driver got back to his room safely after a tough week. You’ll see her in the paddock at the next race in Austria. Now, let’s stick to racing questions."

The room instantly blew up with people whispering and typing frantically, but Sarah was already grabbing my arm and pulling me off the stage.

The second the doors of the press center slammed shut behind us, I yanked my arm back. "Are you out of your mind?!" I yelled. "An assistant?! Sarah, she doesn't work for me! I was an asshole to her, she hates my guts, and I don't even have her number!"

Sarah stopped and looked at me like I was an i***t.

"Our main sponsor is a family brand, Mateo," she said, dropping her voice so low it was almost scary. "They were ready to drop us by Monday morning if we didn't fix this whole 'cheater' story. So here's the deal: you have two weeks before Austria. You have her work badge, right? I saw it in your bag. You are going to track her down, and you are going to get her to put on a team pass and pretend she works for you. Because if she doesn't show up in Austria... you don't have a seat."