The Paddock Pact

Chapter 11: The Shadow Logistics

POV: Anya

My first morning in Austria started with a stupid space war in the bathroom.

Our team hotel room was clearly built for one normal person, not two people trying to get ready at 8:30 AM for a high-pressure media circus. The room was still heavy and humid from the foggy mountain night outside, and the marble tiles felt like ice under my bare feet.

I was standing right in front of the illuminated mirror, holding my mascara wand like I was doing precision engineering. Every muscle in my back was tight. I was trying so hard to maintain this calm, hyper-professional image, like I actually belonged in this crazy world.

And then there was Mateo, invading my space with zero regrets or personal boundaries.

He was leaning right over my left shoulder, brushing his teeth at a ridiculous speed like he was trying to win a pit stop contest. His dark curls were sticking up at wild angles from sleep, and he smelled like this weird mix of sharp peppermint and expensive hotel soap.

"Alvarez," I said through my teeth, keeping my wrist totally still as I applied a second coat. "You’re literally six inches away from causing a medical emergency with this wand."

Mateo spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth real quick—bumping his hip right into mine like it was nothing—and snatched the hairdryer off the wall, turning it on full power. A sudden, loud blast of hot air instantly blew my bangs straight across my face.

I froze. I slowly turned my head and stared at him through the mirror.

"Are you serious right now?"

"I have my first mandatory press conference in two hours, Anya," he said over the noise, running his long fingers through his dark curls to tame them. "Sponsors pay millions for this hair. Step back if you value your eyelashes."

"You’re basically standing on my feet!" I snapped, shoving his elbow with mine to make some space for my lipstick. "There are two entire rooms out there, plus a balcony, but we’re squeezed over one single sink like we're in a dorm room."

Mateo stopped, the dryer still buzzing in his hand, and gave me that lopsided, totally annoying grin in the reflection.

"Two beauties getting ready for the paddock. That’s cute, Anya. You want some of my hair clay, or are you sticking with the boring insurance-agent look?"

"I’m sticking with not choking you with your own team pass," I replied coolly, grabbed my red lipstick, and walked past his shoulder into the bedroom.

By ten in the morning, our stupid hotel argument was completely forgotten. The Red Bull Ring was just a massive, deafening wall of noise.

The hills were hot under the July sun, and the paddock felt huge, fast, and overwhelming. The air smelled like race fuel, burnt rubber, and strong espresso coming from the team hospitality buildings.

I walked a couple of paces behind Mateo. My heavy pass was rubbing against the back of my neck. I had spent years in corporate offices dealing with legal stuff, but this was a completely different beast. Everything was louder, faster, and way more intense. Every person walking past looked like their personal stopwatch was ticking down.

And everyone—literally everyone—was watching us.

Cameras were flashing right in my face, and people were whispering as we walked down the asphalt. I was carrying Mateo's heavy spare gear bag, a branded water bottle, and a tablet with his daily schedule, trying to keep my posture straight and look confident. When a dense crowd of fans started screaming his name at the garage entry, Mateo stopped.

His face changed instantly into his public persona. He put on that brilliant, practiced smile, stepping forward to sign caps and flags like he had done it a million times.

He looked back at me once over his shoulder, just checking if I was getting crushed by the crowd. I gave him a quick, cold, professional nod. I wasn't here to be his friend or his fan. I was just a barrier between him and a PR disaster. Nothing more, nothing less.

We finally got inside the quiet, air-conditioned glass building of the team hospitality and walked into his private driver room.

The heavy door shut behind us, instantly cutting off the roar of the crowd and the flashing cameras.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward to put his bag on the bench so I could organize his stuff like a good assistant. But before I could even unzip it, Mateo stepped in and took the bag right out of my hands. He put it on the floor himself, then took the bottle and the tablet from my arm and placed them on the table.

I blinked and crossed my arms, looking at him. "What are you doing, Alvarez? I’m supposed to unpack that. That’s literally what we told the board."

Mateo rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit awkward and sheepish.

"Out there, under the cameras? Yeah. You carry the bag so those idiots in the press buy the story," he said, his voice quiet and normal for once. "But behind this door? No way. You’re doing me a huge favor just by standing next to me in this nightmare, Anya. I’m not gonna let you act like my servant when nobody is watching. Relax. I can organize my own stuff."

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring at him.

The image I had built up in my head of this arrogant, spoiled F1 driver suddenly had a massive c***k in it. He wasn't taking advantage of me. He was actually thinking about my comfort.

Before I could process that weird feeling in my chest, Mateo pulled off his team cap and ran a hand through his curls.

And then his whole vibe changed instantly.

The playful charm completely disappeared. His shoulders went up to his ears, his breathing got quick and shallow, and he seemed to shrink right in front of me. The cocky guy who blew hot air in my face three hours ago looked completely small. Terrified, even.

He swallowed hard, staring blankly at the timing screens on the wall. His hands were shaking slightly as he reached for his helmet on the counter.

I stood behind him, watching his back, and a cold realization hit me.

I wasn't just here to manage his media image for the directors. I was babysitting a guy who was already on the verge of a breakdown.