Chapter 7: Practice

Time zones are like emotional jet lag, my body's still in Australia while my heart's trying to keep up with Blair's schedule.

It's Friday morning in Shanghai, five days since Blair's victory sent shockwaves through the Formula 1 world. Monday morning, we'd left Melbourne behind, the taste of champagne barely faded from our lips as we boarded the team's private jet. Now we're in China, where the air feels different, heavier with humidity and expectation.

Blair's alarm pierces the pre-dawn quiet of our hotel room, the harsh electronic tone dragging me from dreams where she's still celebrating on that podium, blue hair wild in the Australian sunshine. 6:30 AM glows accusingly from her phone screen.

I'm wrapped around her like a human blanket, my chest pressed against her back, one arm draped over her waist, our legs tangled together in a complicated knot of intimacy. Since it's not the night before race day, we've indulged in sleeping together, one of those small mercies I've learned to appreciate in our relationship.

Blair shifts in my arms, reaching to silence the alarm before twisting to face me. Those silver eyes find mine in the dim morning light, already alert while I'm still half-submerged in sleep.

"Come on," she says, her voice carrying that edge of impatience that's become more pronounced since her victory. "Wake up."

"I'm up," I mumble, though my heavy eyelids suggest otherwise. I tighten my hold on her for just a moment, savoring the warmth of her body against mine before the day claims her.

Her fingers find my hair, stroking through the messy brown strands with surprising gentleness. For a brief, perfect moment, we exist in a bubble where Australia's triumph and China's pressures can't reach us. Then she's untangling herself from my embrace, already focused on the day ahead.

"Big day today," she says, stretching her arms overhead, revealing a strip of toned stomach as her sleep shirt rides up. "First practice after a win hits different."

I prop myself up on one elbow, watching as she moves through the hotel room with practiced efficiency. "Different good or different terrifying?"

Blair pauses at the bathroom door, that familiar competitive spark lighting her eyes. "Different amazing. Now everyone's watching to see if Australia was a fluke." Her smile turns predatory. "I can't wait to show them it wasn't."

"I like when you're confident," I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "It's sexy."

She disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start. I rub my eyes, fighting the jet lag that's still dragging at my limbs. Five days isn't enough to adjust to a new time zone, especially when we're already preparing to jump to another one next week.

"Join me," Blair calls from the bathroom, her voice almost lost beneath the rush of water.

I don't need to be asked twice. I shuffle toward the bathroom, shedding my t-shirt and boxers along the way. Steam billows around me as I step into the spacious shower, where Blair stands with her back to me, blue hair darkening under the spray.

"Hand me the shampoo?" she asks without turning.

I reach for the bottle, some expensive brand the team provides at every hotel, and pour a dollop into my palm. Instead of handing it to her, I step closer and begin working it into her hair, my fingers massaging her scalp in slow, deliberate circles.

Blair stiffens momentarily, then relaxes into my touch. "Hmm," she hums, a sound between approval and surprise.

"Let me take care of you," I murmur, working the shampoo into a lather. "You've been going non-stop since Australia."

She tilts her head back, allowing me better access. "The press won't leave me alone. Everyone wants a piece of the rookie who beat Ivy Hunt."

My hands move down to her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension I find there. "You're not just 'the rookie' anymore. You're Blair West, race winner."

She makes a sound that might be satisfaction, but there's something off about it. I guide her under the spray to rinse her hair, then reach for the conditioner. As I work it through her blue strands, I notice how she's holding herself, slightly distant, like there's an invisible barrier between us that wasn't there in Australia.

"Something on your mind?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.

Blair turns to face me, water streaming down her perfect features. For a moment, vulnerability flashes across her face, so quickly I almost miss it.

"Victoria says I need to be more careful about my image now," she says, her silver eyes studying my reaction. "Winners are scrutinized differently than rookies."

I reach for the body wash, squeezing some onto a loofah. "What does that mean exactly?"

Blair turns again, presenting her back to me as I begin washing her shoulders. "It means everything I do matters more. Who I'm seen with, how I present myself."

I work the loofah in gentle circles across her back, careful not to press too hard against her race-tuned muscles. "So what Victoria's really saying is that dating some random streamer might not be the best look for F1's newest star?"

The question hangs between us, dissolving into steam. Blair doesn't answer immediately, which is an answer in itself.

"That's not what she said," Blair finally replies, but there's no conviction in her voice. She takes the loofah from my hand, quickly finishing her own washing without looking at me. "I need to get ready. Team breakfast is in twenty minutes."

I stand there, hot water cascading over me, as she rinses herself one final time. There's an efficiency to her movements now, clinical almost like she's completing a task rather than sharing a moment.

"I'll be quick," I promise, reaching for her arm, but she's already stepping out of the shower.

"Take your time," she says, grabbing a towel. "I need to call Bridgette about some sponsorship thing anyway."

The bathroom door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow feels louder than a slam. I'm left alone in the steamy cocoon of the shower, water pelting my skin as I try to process what just happened.

I wash myself mechanically, my mind replaying our conversation. The way she avoided my eyes. The sudden urgency to leave. The distance that's been growing between us since that podium in Australia.

By the time I shut off the water, my skin is pruned and my chest feels hollow. I grab a towel and dry off, staring at my reflection in the foggy mirror. Same brown hair, same green eyes, same me. But something has shifted in my world, tilted sideways when I wasn't looking.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Blair is fully dressed in her team gear, hair perfectly styled, sitting on the edge of the bed with her phone pressed to her ear. She glances up as I enter, offering a quick, distracted smile before returning to her conversation.

"Yes, absolutely," she's saying, voice pitched in that media-ready tone she's perfected. "I'd be honored to be considered for the cover."

I move around the room quietly, gathering my clothes, trying not to disturb her important call. As I pull on my jeans, I catch her watching me in the mirror, her expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, she quickly looks away.

"Sorry about that," she says after hanging up, but she doesn't specify what she's apologizing for, the abrupt shower exit or something deeper.

"Big opportunity?" I ask, nodding toward the phone.

"Sports Illustrated wants me for an issue," she replies, a hint of genuine excitement breaking through her cool exterior.

"That's amazing, Blair!" I say, meaning it despite the unease settling in my stomach. "You deserve it."

She stands, smoothing her team shirt with practiced precision. "Come on, get dressed properly. Unless..." Her silver eyes flick to the clock, then back to me with a hint of calculation. "You'd rather stay here today? I know how mind-numbing practice sessions can be for you."

"No way," I reply, pulling a Zenith team polo over my head with sudden determination. "It's a sprint weekend, Blair. I'm not missing a single moment." I grab my credentials from the nightstand, looping the lanyard around my neck. "I want to see everything."

Something shifts in her expression. For a moment, she looks like the Blair I fell for years ago, before podiums and press conferences.

"Well, alrighty then."

*****

The team garage is a symphony of mechanical chaos, engineers hunched over screens like fortune tellers reading digital entrails while mechanics dance around the second car, their purple uniforms blurring as they make minute adjustments. I stand just outside, leaning against the barrier where I can see the pit straight, my hands gripping the metal railing.

Through my headset, I can hear snippets of Blair's communications with her race engineer. Her voice is clipped, professional, focused in a way that makes my chest tighten with pride despite the morning's tension.

"Copy that. I'll push harder in sector two," she says, her voice crackling through the radio as her purple beast screams past the pit lane, a blur of motion and purpose.

The timing screens show her sitting in P3, two-tenths behind Lana Norris and nearly half a second behind Ivy. After her Melbourne victory, the pressure to perform is crushing. Every journalist in the paddock is watching to see if Australia was a miracle or a mission statement.

"She's overdriving," mutters one of the engineers behind me, not realizing I can hear her through my headset. "Trying too hard to match Hunt's pace."

I wince at the assessment but can't argue with it. Even to my untrained eye, Blair's attacks on the corners look desperate, aggressive in a way that's bleeding time rather than saving it. The data confirms it, red sectors flashing across the timing screens where Ivy's are consistently purple.

A collective gasp ripples through the garage as Blair locks up into turn 14, the car sliding wide before she wrestles it back onto the racing line. Precious milliseconds evaporate.

"Fuck," I mutter, rubbing my face.

The bench beside me creaks as someone sits down. I don't need to look to know who it is. Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion and the current occupant of P1, has decided to grace me with her presence.

I keep my eyes fixed on the track, pretending I haven't noticed her. My heart hammers against my ribs as I remember Blair's command in Australia. "Hate her with me, Nick."

Ivy crosses her legs, the material of her racing suit rustling with the movement. She's still in full gear minus her helmet, her black hair with those distinctive purple highlights falling loose around her shoulders. For several excruciating seconds, she says nothing, seemingly content to watch the practice session beside me as if we sit together all the time.

"Your girlfriend's trying too hard," she finally says, her voice casual, almost bored. "She's fighting the car instead of working with it."

I swallow hard, refusing to look at her. "Look, I'm just here to support Blair. That's it."

"Support." Ivy rolls the word around her mouth like she's tasting something unfamiliar. "How adorable. So tell me, Boyfriend, what exactly is Blair's driving style like? You've watched her for years, right? Through all those junior categories?"

The question catches me off guard. Why would Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, want my amateur analysis?

"She's aggressive but precise," I answer cautiously based on the interview she did. "Likes to brake late."

Ivy makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff. "That's what the press release says. I'm asking what she's really like. When she's angry, does she does she get worse? When she's happy, does she get sloppy?"

I turn to face her fully now, unnerved by the intensity in those purple eyes. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because you're the expert on all things Blair West, aren't you?" Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The dutiful boyfriend who follows her around the world, wearing her team's colors like a good accessory should."

My jaw tightens. "I don't think this conversation is appropriate."

"When she's under pressure," Ivy continues as if I hadn't spoken, "does she hit the apex early or late? I noticed in F2 she had a tendency to compromise the exit some times. Perhaps that's when she was frustrated?"

"She doesn't…" I start to object, but Ivy leans closer, invading my personal space with the casual entitlement of someone used to people moving out of her way.

"Tell me," she presses, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Does she blame the car when she's slow? Or does she blame herself? These are things teammates should know about each other."

I shift uncomfortably, trying to put distance between us without being obvious. "I'm not going to dissect Blair's driving psychology with you."

Ivy's purple eyes narrow, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. "You really are loyal, aren't you? Like a well-trained puppy. Does she give you treats when you behave?"

The mockery in her tone makes my cheeks burn. I open my mouth to tell her to fuck off when a familiar engine note cuts through the air, higher pitched, more aggressive than the others. Blair's car.

My eyes snap to the track just as her purple beast screams into the pit lane, slowing dramatically as it approaches our position. Through the halo protecting her cockpit, I catch Blair's gaze behind her visor. Even with her face partially obscured by her helmet, I can see it, that cold, silver stare drilling into me with unmistakable fury.

She's seen us together. Worse, she's seen me talking to Ivy.

My stomach drops as her car rolls past, her eyes never leaving mine until she's forced to look ahead. The message couldn't be clearer if she'd screamed it through the radio.

I fucked up.

"Oops," Ivy says beside me, not sounding sorry at all. "Seems like I've gotten you in trouble with the girlfriend." She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her racing suit. "Such a shame. I was just starting to find you... interesting."

She walks away without another word, leaving me sitting there with my heart hammering in my chest and the certainty that I've just made a terrible mistake.

A/N: A sprint weekend in F1 means theres two races. A short race on Saturday and the main event on Sunday.