The Paddock Pact

Chapter 12: The Yielding Point

POV: Anya

By Friday evening, all the fake, glossy F1 stuff was completely gone. Reality was just ugly and exhausting.

The first two practice sessions had been a total, undeniable disaster for the team. In session two, Mateo went way too wide on Turn 4, hit the kerbs hard, and ruined the bottom of his car. Just like that, essential downforce was ripped away in a split second.

The mechanics spent three brutal hours sweating over broken carbon fiber in the hot garage while the team principal stood in the corner with his arms crossed, looking like an executioner ready to fire everyone. Every minute wasted cost tens of thousands of dollars, and every look thrown at Mateo was heavy as hell.

When we finally made it back to the hotel at nine in the evening, our suite felt tiny, hot, and completely suffocating.

I was sitting on the narrow sofa in the entry room with my laptop resting on my knees, trying to focus on my actual insurance cases from Poland. The doorway to the bedroom was wide open right next to me, measuring just a few short steps between my workspace and his bed. The whole place smelled like cheap hotel cleaner, cold air conditioning, and pure, lingering tension.

Then the electronic door lock clicked sharply.

Mateo walked in.

His dark curls were damp and flattened from hours under his fireproof hood, his eyes were bloodshot, and his shoulders were completely dropped under the weight of physical and mental exhaustion. He looked totally drained, his usual arrogant bounce completely gone. He didn't even look like a driver; he looked like someone who had barely survived a crash.

He took three heavy steps toward the sanctuary of the bedroom, and a sharp crunching noise echoed off the floorboards.

I looked down. His dirty sneakers were leaving dark streaks of paddock mud, oil, and rubber all over the clean light rug right in front of my sofa.

"Stop," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like glass.

Mateo froze with one foot near the bedroom threshold. He turned his head slowly, blinking at me with a blank, unfocused, totally dead look.

"What?"

"Take your shoes off, Alvarez," I said, pointing a finger at the door mat. "You're dragging the whole pit lane in here."

He rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm, his jaw tight. He was clearly exhausted, and his patience was completely gone after hours of getting chewed out by engineers over data that made zero sense.

"Anya, please. Not tonight," his voice was rough from brake dust and shouting over engines. "I've been on my feet since five in the morning. I just want to lie down."

"And you can lie down. Without the shoes," I said, closing my laptop halfway as my own irritation flared up.

I was tired too. I was sick of playing the quiet fake assistant, sick of being crammed into this tiny space, sick of cameras in my face, and sick of adjusting my life to his career mistakes.

"I’m not spending my night staring at paddock dirt on the carpet," I said, holding his gaze. "Take them off."

Mateo let out a sharp breath through his nose that sounded almost like a growl. He didn't yell, but he gripped the heel of his left sneaker and ripped it off, letting it slam onto the floor. Then he did the exact same with the right one, glaring at me with pure annoyance the whole time.

"Happy?" he muttered, tight and angry.

"Delighted," I said, completely cold, and opened my laptop back up.

He didn't reply. In his socks, he walked into the bedroom, tossed his telemetry tablet onto the bed way too hard, and sat heavily on the edge of the double mattress. The cold blue light from the screen immediately lit up his face with graphs and speed traces.

The silence after that was different. It wasn't just awkward or distant anymore; it was a thick, heavy, vibrating hostility.

I sat on the uncomfortable couch, typing fast over the keys, just using the work to keep myself from losing my temper. Five meters away, he was aggressively scrolling through data charts, his knuckles white against his tablet. Two stubborn people squeezed into a space way too small for our egos and bruised pride.

By midnight, the fast, rhythmic clicking of my keyboard felt less like work and more like gunfire in the quiet room. My shoulders were locked in a tight knot, and my eyes burned from the screen. I finally snapped my laptop shut, stood up, and walked into the darkened bedroom to go to sleep.

Mateo was lying flat on his back, staring blankly at the dark ceiling. He had kicked off his sweaty team polo shirt, leaving it on the floor, and was just wearing his grey sweatpants.

In the pale moonlight filtering through the balcony curtains, I couldn't help but notice the sharp frame underneath—broad shoulders, toned chest, and the heavy rhythm of his breath rising and falling as he fought his own head. He looked raw, vulnerable, and infuriatingly attractive, which just annoyed me even more after arguing with him all day.

I cut my eyes away instantly, mad at my own brain for even registering it.

The tablet was still glowing softly on the nightstand separating our two pillows, casting a dim blue shade across the mattress. The sheer tension coming off his body felt almost like static electricity in the air, but neither of us broke the silence.

I slid under my side of the blanket, turned my back completely to his side, and stared at the wall.

He was lying less than an arm's length away—shirtless, stiff, and completely drowning in pre-race panic. I lay there in the dark with my jaw clenched, realizing with a wave of pure dread that Saturday was going to be even worse.