Podium Prize
Summary: You flew to the Netherlands in secret to surprise your boyfriend not knowing he would get his first podium in F1....
Song: In Da Club · 50 Cent
Author’s note: Thank you to everyone who got me to 50000 likes! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 5.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hum of the aircraft engines was a lullaby against your ear, but sleep was a distant country you couldn't reach. Every fiber of your being thrummed with a different kind of energy, a potent mix of excitement and trepidation.
You were flying to the Netherlands, and Isack had no idea. It was a secret mission, meticulously planned over weeks of stolen moments and coded messages with a sympathetic member of his support team.
Your heart, a frantic hummingbird, was convinced it would betray you at any moment.
You pulled out your phone, the screen lighting up his latest Instagram post. A shot from practice, helmet off, a determined glint in his eyes.
He looked tired, but focused, the weight of the upcoming Grand Prix evident even through a photograph.
You had messaged him earlier, a casual "Good luck this weekend, mon amour! Thinking of you always," carefully crafted to avoid any suspicion.
He’d replied with a simple heart emoji and a "Merci, ma chérie. Je t'appelle après la course." I'll call you after the race.
A call he wouldn’t be expecting to take in person, in the flesh, in his arms.
The decision to surprise him had been spurred by countless, quiet evenings spent staring at your phone, longing for his presence. The F1 season was relentless, a whirlwind of travel, media, and intense competition that left little room for anything else.
You missed his laugh, the way his hand found yours without thought, the easy comfort of his silence. He’d been consistent, fast, hungry for a major result.
You just had a feeling. A gut instinct that told you this was the moment to be there, even if only as a silent, unseen guardian angel.
Landing at Schiphol, the Dutch air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of your last shared holiday. You collected your small carry-on, careful not to draw attention, and navigated your way to the train that would take you towards Zandvoort.
The coastal town was quaint, already buzzing with the distant murmur of race fans, a sea of orange and team colours.
You’d booked a small, discreet hotel a short drive from the circuit, one that Isack’s team wouldn’t typically use. Anonymity was key.
The next day, you felt like a spy. You dressed casually, a large pair of sunglasses masking your eyes, a team cap pulled low. Your contact, a bubbly young woman named Sophie from Isack’s PR team, met you at a pre-arranged, out-of-the-way café. She was beaming, clearly thrilled to be part of the deception.
"Il n'a aucune idée, ma belle," Sophie whispered, pulling you into a quick hug. "Il est tellement concentré." He has no idea, my dear. He’s so focused.
"Parfait," you grinned, a nervous flutter in your stomach. "Je veux que ce soit une surprise totale." Perfect. I want it to be a total surprise.
Sophie had managed to secure you a pass for a general viewing area, tucked away but with a decent view of the main straight and the podium.
It wouldn't put you in the paddock, but it would let you feel the roar of the engines, the electric charge of the crowd.
Race day dawned with a clear, blue sky, promising perfect conditions. The air vibrated with anticipation. You ate a quick, tasteless breakfast, your stomach too knotted with nerves.
What if he had a bad race? What if he crashed? The thought was a cold knot in your chest.
But then, an image of his determined face flashed in your mind, and you pushed the anxieties away. He was a fighter.
You arrived at the circuit early, blending into the surging crowd. The scent of hot asphalt, exhaust fumes, and the sweet, sugary smell of Dutch stroopwafels filled the air.
You found your spot, a railing overlooking the final corner, close enough to hear the commentary over the loudspeakers, though it was mostly drowned out by the sheer, deafening volume of the cars themselves.
The pre-race buzz was intoxicating. The pitlane bustling, the grid forming, the national anthem echoing across the dunes. You saw Isack on the giant screen, standing stoically beside his car, his helmet already on.
He looked calm, collected, a picture of intense focus. Your heart swelled with pride and a fierce, unyielding love.
The lights went out. The roar was deafening, a primeval scream that shook the ground beneath your feet. The cars launched forward, a blur of colour and speed.
You leaned against the railing, your knuckles white, your eyes glued to the track where a tiny speck, designated by a number you knew by heart, was battling for position.
The race unfolded with breathtaking intensity. Isack was magnificent. He was aggressive but precise, making daring overtakes, defending fiercely.
He was holding his own, climbing positions. Lap after lap, your hopes soared. He was in the top five, then the top four.
The commentators, speaking in rapid Dutch, sounded increasingly excited, their voices rising with each pass.
You found yourself gasping, cheering, even letting out a silent scream when a rival tried an audacious move. Your eyes barely blinked, tracking his every move.
He was pushing the car to its absolute limits, dancing on the edge of disaster with exquisite control.
Then, with just a few laps to go, a car ahead of him had a mechanical issue, forcing it to retire. And just like that, Isack was in third position.
Your breath hitched. Third. A podium. Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a cry.
Could he hold it? The final laps stretched into an eternity. Every corner was an agony, every straight a prayer.
The checkered flag waved.
He crossed the line.
Third.
The roar from the crowd was immense, a cascade of pure, unadulterated joy. But for you, it was a silence, a moment of profound, disbelieving awe.
Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, blurring your vision. He’d done it. His first F1 podium. And you were here.
You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking, sending a quick, breathless text to Sophie: "Il l'a fait!! Mon Dieu, il l'a fait!" He did it!! My God, he did it!
Her reply was instant: "Je sais! C'est le moment! Rendez-vous au point de rencontre." I know! This is the moment! Meet me at the rendezvous point.
Navigating the jubilant crowd was a challenge, but your adrenaline propelled you forward.
You met Sophie at a side entrance, your face still streaked with tears. She pulled you into a tight hug.
"Félicitations, ma belle! Et maintenant, au champion!" Sophie laughed, pulling you through a secure door, the sounds of the post-race celebrations growing louder. Congratulations, my dear! And now, to the champion!
You were led down a corridor, past buzzing media crews and excited team members. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat. This was it. The moment.
Sophie stopped outside a door, taking a deep breath. "Il est fou de joie. Prépare-toi." He’s ecstatic. Get ready. She gave you a conspiratorial wink, then knocked.
A moment later, the door swooshed open. Isack, his face flushed with elation, a champagne bottle still clutched in one hand, was standing there.
His racing suit was unzipped to his waist, his hair damp from sweat, his eyes still sparkling with the thrill of victory.
He was laughing, talking animatedly to someone inside the room, but then his gaze flickered to you.
His smile faltered. His eyes, usually so quick to recognize you, narrowed slightly in confusion.
He took a half-step back, as if he needed to verify what he was seeing.
"Q-Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici?" he stammered, his French laced with disbelief, the champagne bottle nearly slipping from his grasp. What are you doing here?
You couldn't speak, a lump in your throat. You just stood there, tears of joy still tracking paths down your cheeks, a tentative smile gracing your lips.
His eyes widened, the recognition finally dawning, chasing away the shock. "Mon amour?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
He dropped the champagne bottle with a clatter, uncaring, and launched himself forward. You met him halfway, throwing your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
The smell of him – sweat, exhaust fumes, champagne, and that uniquely Isack scent you adored – enveloped you.
His arms squeezed around your waist so tightly it nearly took your breath away. He lifted you off your feet, spinning you gently, his laugh a pure, joyous sound that vibrated through your entire body.
"Tu es là?" he murmured into your hair, still sounding utterly floored. You're here?
"Oui, je suis là," you choked out, your voice muffled. Yes, I’m here.
You pulled back just enough to look at his face, framed by soft dark curls. His eyes were bright, glistening with tears of his own. You reached up, cupping his jaw, and he leaned into your touch.
"Félicitations, mon champion," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed emotion. "C'est incroyable. Magnifique." Congratulations, my champion. It's incredible. Magnificent.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, his lips found yours. It was a kiss born of surprise and elation, of longing and relief, of shared triumph and overwhelming love.
His mouth was soft and firm, tasting faintly of champagne and pure happiness. He kissed you deeply, hungrily, as if trying to commit the moment to memory, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.
You responded with equal fervour, pouring all your unspoken love and pride into the embrace.
Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, as his hands slid down your back, pressing you impossibly closer.
The world outside, the cheers, the flashing cameras, the celebratory chaos – it all faded into a distant hum. There was only Isack. Only you.
When he finally pulled back, gasping slightly, his forehead rested against yours. "Je n'arrive pas à y croire," he breathed, his eyes still closed. "Tu es là. Et un podium. C'est le meilleur jour de ma vie." I can't believe it. You're here. And a podium. This is the best day of my life.
You chuckled, a shaky, happy sound. "Je savais que tu pouvais le faire. Je suis tellement fière de toi." I knew you could do it. I'm so proud of you.
He opened his eyes, his gaze intense, full of a love that stole your breath. "Mais comment… Comment es-tu arrivée ici?" But how… How did you get here?
You grinned. "C'était un secret. Une surprise. Sophie m'a aidée." You gestured vaguely behind you, remembering his PR manager’s vital role. It was a secret. A surprise. Sophie helped me.
He turned slightly, pulling you with him into the room, where a few close team members and Sophie were watching with knowing smiles.
"Sophie! Tu étais dans le coup?" he exclaimed, a playful glint in his eye. Sophie! You were in on it?
Sophie just laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Il était temps, Isack. Tu avais tellement besoin d'elle." It was time, Isack. You needed her so much.
He pulled you closer, wrapping an arm securely around your waist, his thumb stroking your hip. "Oui, c'est vrai," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your face. "Tu m'as manqué tellement, mon amour." Yes, it's true. I missed you so much, my love.
"Tu m'as manqué aussi, plus que tout," you confessed, leaning into his warmth. I missed you too, more than anything.
He turned back to you fully, his eyes alight with a mixture of joy, exhaustion, and adoration. "Viens ici," he whispered, pulling you into another kiss, softer this time, a promise of quiet moments to come.
This one was slow, deep, savouring the taste of him, the feel of his lips, the sheer impossible reality of him being right here.
The team eventually started to disperse, offering quick congratulations to Isack and a few amused glances at your intertwined presence.
Sophie gave you a final wave and a thumbs-up as she left.
Finally, you were alone in the small driver’s room. Isack sank onto a plush couch, pulling you down with him, your head resting on his chest.
He sighed, a sound of profound contentment, and wrapped both arms around you.
"Je n'aurais jamais pu imaginer un jour comme celui-ci," he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. "Un podium… et toi ici pour le voir." I never could have imagined a day like this. A podium… and you here to see it.
You tilted your head back, looking up at him. "Moi non plus. Mais je suis si heureuse d'être là. Pour toi." Me neither. But I'm so happy to be here. For you.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips once more, lingering, savouring. "C'est le plus beau cadeau," he said, his voice thick with emotion. It's the most beautiful gift.
You traced the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble. "Je n'ai pas pu résister. L'idée de te voir et de t'embrasser… c'était trop fort." I couldn't resist. The idea of seeing you and kissing you… it was too strong.
He chuckled softly, pulling you tighter. "Je suis tellement content que tu n'aies pas résisté." I'm so glad you didn't resist. He kissed the top of your head, then rested his chin there.
"Maintenant, nous avons quelque chose à fêter. Ensemble." Now, we have something to celebrate. Together.
The world outside could clamour for his attention, for interviews, for celebrations. But for now, in this quiet room, with the scent of his victory still clinging to him, it was just the two of you.
His arms were your safe harbour, his presence the greatest prize.
You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The secret journey, the nervous anticipation, the tears of pride – it was all worth it. More than worth it.
Because standing there, on the precipice of his F1 dreams, Isack Hadjar had found his way to his first podium, and you, his unexpected surprise, were right there to share his victory, sealed with a kiss, in the language of your shared love. . . .
