I've never understood why hotel towels feel like they're made of sandpaper dipped in disappointment. You'd think with what these places charge, they could spring for something that doesn't exfoliate three layers of skin every time you dry off.
The mirror's still fogged as I run a comb through my damp hair, trying to look presentable despite the bags under my eyes. My late-night streaming session hadn't exactly been the pre-race relaxation I'd hoped for. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:36 AM, I'd snoozed my alarm twice before dragging myself into the shower.
I pull on a fresh Zyn Zenith team shirt, adjusting the purple fabric across my shoulders. Blair had given me the entire team wardrobe when she signed with them, jackets, shirts, hats, even socks, all emblazoned with that distinctive white logo. Sometimes, I feel like a walking billboard for chewing tobacco, but today, it matters. Today, I'm part of her armor.
I'm just fastening my watch when three sharp knocks hit my door. My heart does that stupid little flutter it always does when I know it's her.
When I swing the door open, Blair West stands in my doorway like a vision from some alternate universe where gods walk among mortals. Her electric blue hair is still damp, slicked back from her face in a way that accentuates her cheekbones. She's wearing team-issued workout gear – formfitting purple leggings and a matching compression top that hugs every curve of her athletic frame. A thin sheen of post-workout sweat gives her skin a glow that makes my mouth go dry.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, those silver eyes taking me in with amused assessment. "You look... rested."
"That's a polite way of saying I look like shit," I reply, stepping back to let her in.
Blair steps into my room with that effortless grace, like gravity affects her differently than the rest of us. She glances around, taking in my hastily packed streaming setup in the corner.
"You look exhausted," she says, crossing her arms. "Don't tell me you stayed up watching movies or something."
I perk up, oddly excited to share. "No, actually! I was streaming F1 last night, driving around Melbourne in your car! Had a few decent laps too."
The change in her expression is subtle but immediate. Her silver eyes cool by several degrees, and the slight smile playing at her lips vanishes completely.
"You were what?" she asks, voice suddenly flat.
"Streaming. You know, my gaming channel? I thought it would be fun to race the virtual Melbourne circuit before watching you tackle the real thing today." I gesture toward my folded racing wheel setup. "Had almost a thousand viewers. Some of them are pretty excited about your debut."
Blair's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She walks over to the window, looking out at the parking garage with her back to me.
I watch her, suddenly unsure what I've said wrong. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of traffic outside. The rigid line of her shoulders tells me something's off.
"That's great, honey." Her voice is carefully modulated when she finally turns back to me. There's a smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But maybe next time, try to go to bed a little earlier, okay? I want you looking your best for the cameras."
The subtle criticism lands like a gentle slap. I blink, momentarily thrown off balance.
"Cameras?" I echo.
"Of course." She crosses the room to me, reaches up to adjust my collar with practiced fingers. "The team's PR department confirmed you'll be in the garage today. They want the 'supportive boyfriend angle' for the broadcast."
I nod, swallowing my confusion. "Right. Of course."
"You know how these things work, Nick. First impressions matter." Her fingers move from my collar to my face, thumb brushing beneath my eye where the dark circles are most prominent. "The cameras pick up everything."
There's something in her tone I can't quite place, concern mixed with... something else. Annoyance? Disappointment?
"I'll grab a coffee on the way," I promise. "No one will even notice."
She pats my cheek, a gesture that feels oddly patronizing. "Good boy. The car's waiting downstairs. Let's get out of here."
Before I can respond, Blair's demeanor suddenly shifts. She steps forward, closing the space between us, and captures my lips with hers. The kiss is hungry, passionate. Her hands sliding up to cradle my face as she presses her body against mine. I'm momentarily stunned by the intensity, but quickly respond in kind, my arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer.
When she finally pulls back, there's a satisfied gleam in those silver eyes. "God, that's one of the best things about you, Nick," she says, her voice lower now, husky with approval. "You're always so into me whenever we do anything. No hesitation, just... complete surrender."
I feel heat rising to my cheeks as I reluctantly let her go, moving to grab my duffel bag from beside the bed. "How could I not be?" I manage, still a little breathless from her kiss.
"You'd be surprised," she says, leaning against the wall as she watches me collect my things. "I was talking to Lancia Stroll yesterday at the track."
"Oh?" I zip up my bag, trying to sound casual at the mention of one of her competitors. "How is she?"
"Frustrated," Blair says with a smirk. "She was complaining about her latest boy toy. Said even with all her money, her boyfriends only ever put out a few times a week unless she gets them new gifts." She pushes off from the wall, running her fingers along my arm. "And here you are, ready to go at a moment's notice."
I laugh nervously, my mind flashing back to that other reality, the one where I'd spent twelve years before somehow ending up here. Where men chased more often than not, and women chose. It's funny how that world seems like a dream now, yet sometimes those old expectations still linger in my head.
Not that I could ever explain this to Blair. "Born in another dimension where gender roles were reversed" isn't exactly first-date material. Or fourth-year-anniversary material, for that matter.
"I guess I'm just really into you," I say instead, reaching out to tuck a strand of electric blue hair behind her ear. "Always have been."
Blair's lips curl into a grin as she traces a finger down my chest. "Like a human dildo, really. Just press a button, and you're ready to go."
She laughs at her own joke, the sound echoing slightly in the hotel room. Something inside me tightens at the comparison, a flicker of irritation warming my cheeks. Is that really how she sees me? Just a convenient toy?
I force a smile, swallowing the urge to say something. Today's her first Formula 1 race. The culmination of everything she's worked for since she was a kid. The last thing she needs is me getting sensitive over a stupid joke.
"Whatever works for you," I say lightly, shouldering my bag. "As long as you're happy."
Blair tilts her head, those silver eyes studying me for a moment. "Did I hurt your feelings?"
"No, no," I say quickly, moving toward the door. "I'm just... focused on today. Your big day."
Blair's expression softens as she steps closer, cupping my face in her hands. Her thumbs trace gentle circles on my cheeks.
She presses her lips against mine again, softer this time but no less possessive. When she pulls back, there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, both tender and calculating in that uniquely Blair way.
"Good boy," she whispers, patting my cheek lightly. "Eyes on the prize today. This is what I've been working toward."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Let's not keep the driver waiting," I say, reaching for the door handle.
The hotel corridor is quiet as we make our way to the elevator, Blair walking slightly ahead with that confident stride that seems to part the air around her. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, I catch our reflection, her, vibrant and powerful in team purple, me trailing slightly behind like a supportive shadow.
The lobby bustles with activity, other team personnel and a few journalists milling about. Several heads turn as Blair passes, recognition flickering in their eyes. She acknowledges them with the practiced nod of someone who knows they're being watched.
Outside, a sleek black SUV with the Zenith logo waits at the curb, engine idling. The driver, a woman in her forties with a Zenith-branded polo shirt, jumps out to open the door for Blair.
"Good morning, Ms. West," she says, her Australian accent thick. "Beautiful day for racing."
"Perfect day for winning," Blair corrects with a smile, sliding into the backseat.
I climb in after her, settling into the plush leather as the driver returns to her position. The partition between front and back is already raised, giving us privacy as we pull away from the hotel.
The city slides by outside the tinted windows, Melbourne already alive with race day energy. Street vendors set up F1 merchandise stalls, fans in team colors stream toward the circuit, and the occasional purple Zenith flag flutters from apartment windows. Blair doesn't seem to notice any of it. She's staring at her phone, scrolling through what looks like telemetry data, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I watch her profile against the backdrop of the passing city, struck as always by how the morning light catches the electric blue of her hair. Even focused like this, intensity radiating from her like heat, she's breathtaking.
After a few minutes of silence, she leans back against the headrest, eyes closing as she takes several measured breaths. It's part of her pre-race ritual – this moment of centered calm before the storm. Her head tilts slightly to rest against the leather, those perfect features relaxed in rare tranquility.
"How are you feeling?" I ask softly, reaching across to place my hand over hers.
The change is immediate. Her eyes snap open, silver gaze hardening as she pulls her hand away from mine.
"Don't talk to me right now." Her voice is flat, cold in a way I've never heard directed at me before.
I blink, the words hitting me like a physical blow. During her F2 days, she'd always welcomed my support on race mornings, sometimes nervous, sometimes excited, but always including me in that sacred space between preparation and performance.
"Sorry, I…" I start, but the look she gives me cuts the words dead in my throat.
I nod instead, swallowing the hurt as I turn to look out my own window. The rejection stings more than it should. This is her first F1 race, I remind myself. The stakes are higher, the pressure more intense. She's just focused, that's all.
But as the kilometers tick by in silence, with Blair returned to her phone and me suddenly fascinated by the passing traffic, I can't help the loneliness that settles over me like a thin, cold blanket. I'm physically beside her, but we might as well be in different cars, different cities, different worlds.
It's okay. I tell myself. The only way to compete at her level is to put everything second. And I knew that when we started dating. I just wish it stung a little bit less.