💞💞🌬️~ RACING HEARTS SERIES ~🏎️🏎️💨
: { Last on the Grid, First in Their Minds }
===================================
===================================
One more step before the race, the grid formation is underway and our reader is about to don her read gear and show these boys how it’s done. I wonder how they’ll react to her in her full glory?
None— More reader appreciation and flirting!
===================================
If you haven't read the past chapters I suggest reading it to avoid any confusion as it is a direct continuation of the previous chapters here’s a link to the list! :))
===================================
Your motorhome was quieter than most places on the paddock — a little pocket of calm in a storm of roaring engines and adrenaline. But the air inside still felt charged as you started to don your race gear. The crisp scent of new fire-retardant fabric and chemicals lingered faintly, proof that everything you carried into this race was brand-new — including you.
Before slipping on your gloves, you peeked out the small window. A few of the grid boys were hopping out of their own motorhomes, already suited up in their own race gear. The sun washed over them, gleaming off their helmets washing them in a pale yellow glow. You grinned instinctively, warmth blooming in your chest —your hands suddenly scrambling to rush, eager to finally join them on the grid.
You tugged one glove on properly and bit down on the other, hopping on one foot as you forced your race shoes on. You must've looked ridiculous. The moment the straps cinched tight, you bounced upward and spun to face the mirror.
Your suit— a soft elegant baby blue embellish by sleek black panels and crisp white lines— hugged your form just right, sponsor logos scattered over you like badges of honor. You spun as if you were wearing a gown and not layers of fireproof fabric. just a tiny twirl — the kind you'd deny doing if someone walked in. It wasn't a princess dress, but it certainly felt close to one.
Hair fixed. Gloves on. Heart full.
You sprinted toward the door, nearly launching yourself out of your motorhome.
"Don't forget your helmet, dear!" Patricia yelled without looking up from her tablet.
You skidded so hard you almost ate floor as a pre-race snack, muttering a curse as you ran back in. You snatched your helmet off the counter and finally shot out the door for real this time.
Several corners later, you stumbled into your garage with a breathless huff.
Everyone in your Porsche garage turned toward you — engineers, mechanics, data analysts, strategists, your team principal Patricia — all wearing the same bright white 15 stitched across their backs like a shared heartbeat. Every single one of them looked impossibly proud to be carrying your race number.
This wasn't just your first real race — it was your team's first.
People you considered family.
Rough start aside — missing free practice and quali — nothing could dull the fire igniting inside you and the people around you. None of them looked afraid. None of them looked concerned. They looked ready.
You walked down the aisle of your garage, every head turning in unison, each smile growing wider with every step you took.
— everyone offered a few more words of encouragement, as if trying to tuck them into your pockets for later, for the moments you might need them most.
The next few minutes blurred into hands and voices:
A firm handshake from your mechanics.
Bright smiles and thumbs-up from the pit crew.
A congratulatory smack on the back from your strategists.
And a gentle pat on the head from your engineer — "for luck," he claimed before you could swat him away to focus on last minute adjustment and checks, along with a few more one overs with the race data you've gathered over the few months of testing.
Ending the frenzy of last touches, Patricia's arms wrapped around you without warning in a chaotic bear hug, her headset — the one customized with your initials and race number — bonking your forehead.
"Maybe missing free practice and qualifiers was good for us."
You blinked at her, genuinely baffled. "Please explain exactly why you think that, or I'm gonna have to get you checked by doctors."
Your team principal laughed immediately at your expression. "I'm just saying — everything that could have gone wrong on your first Grand Prix already did. What's left to be scared of?"
Your eyes widened. Then you laughed, the tension snapping clean in half. Leave it to Patricia to turn disaster into strategy — and somehow make it comforting. "Fair enough."
She rubbed your shoulders, eye crinkling as she gave you one more squeeze "Make their hearts race," she whispered into your ear, "and show them what you've got."
With a final squeeze and smile, she sent you off like a slingshot.
Heaving out a shallow breath, you stared down at your helmet resting in your hands, taking a few extra seconds to admire its custom design. Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted it, feeling it settle against the crown of your head. You pulled the straps down, the padding enveloping your senses in the best way possible.
Putting on your helmet was always your favorite part of getting ready. It wasn't just a physical shield — it offered a kind of sacred protection, sealing you off from the outside world and letting you slip fully into your own. It was the glue between you and the car, the moment where everything else faded away.
Climbing into the cockpit felt strange — familiar, yet suddenly foreign. Months of testing hadn't prepared you for the crushing weight of this moment: the reality, the pressure, the no-more-second-chances truth of an actual race.
As you settled into your seat, flutters exploded through your stomach.
"Nope. Don't celebrate yet, don't want to jinx it and crash on the formation laugh" you muttered to yourself, a nervous laugh crawling out of your mouth.
Tapping your helmet lightly trying to keep yourself grounded. "You haven't done anything. You're not flying yet."
Your engineers and mechanics were brief with their reminders making sure that the screens of race data in front of you were understood to a point where you could leave in your car confident, they all failed to hide their excitement and behind your helmet all you could do was giggle at their childlike behavior despite being adults much older than you. It was a shared dream after all.
The engine hummed beneath you as you finally drove out of the garage for your installation lap.
After verifying that all of the car's components were working correctly, you made one last pass through the pit lane for a minor brake adjustment before heading out for reconnaissance laps.
You'd hoped the recon laps would do something — anything — to steady your racing heart, but they did little to nothing to calm your nerves. You'd only ever driven this track in the sim, never in real life. Every corner was a surprise. Every straight felt too short. No practice. No quali.
And yet... you were buzzing, jittering with excitement.
It was raw. Unfiltered. Terrifying.
Once parked at the end of the grid, your team rolled the car into its marked box. You hopped out, tugging your helmet and balaclava free just to breathe, chest rising and falling as the weight of the moment finally settled in.
A mechanic tossed you a juice bottle, and you took careful sips as your crew swarmed the car. Engineers leaned in to tinker with the steering wheel making sure that it was race start ready, while mechanics worked the tires with torque wrenches. Heated blankets were draped on, dry ice hissed and steamed through the vents, and the rest of the pre-race grid procedures unfolded around you as you watched them work from the pit wall.
As your hair slipped free from beneath your balaclava and helmet, you turned toward the grid, the cool air brushing your skin like a held breath finally released.
Pole position sat far ahead—Max at the front, composed and commanding, followed by the two McLarens in P2 and P3. Then came Charles, George, Lewis, Kimi, Alonso, Carlos, Alex, Nico, Ollie, Isack, Gabi, Liam, Pierre, Yuki, Lance, Jack, Franco—
And finally, at the very back.
You leaned briefly against the pit wall, sighing to yourself, the weight of the moment settling beneath your ribs. You bit down on one of your gloves to remove it and reached up, gathering your hair into a high ponytail, fingers steady despite the hum of nerves in your chest. Turning back toward your car, you exhaled softly just as the announcement crackled over the speakers:
"All cars now on the grid."
It wasn't long before heads began to turn—slowly at first, then all at once—as the drivers took the opportunity to look down the line, to find you.
Some sighed like they'd been struck.
Gone was the cheeky soft, smiling girl from the parade.
Now you were all sleek gear and adrenaline—the race suit hugging every curve perfectly tailored for this exact moment. Your helmet hung casually from your arm, race shoes clicking against the concrete with a sound too sharp, too confident to ignore.
The light blue of your Porsche race suit stood out beautifully against the open sky, sharp yet soft all at once. The simple act of you biting your glove while tying your hair up felt intimate somehow, the curve of your neck—once hidden—now bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. Sunlight caught your collarbone, your suit cinching at the waist just enough to draw wandering eyes.
You looked like you belonged.
And then you turned to face the rest of the grid.
A small, proud smile softened your lips—not for them, not for the cameras—but for yourself. —just quiet happiness, the kind that came from knowing how far you'd fought to stand here. Passion burned openly in your eyes, bright and unashamed.
They didn't stand a chance.
Gabi looks up first. Leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, visor half-down. For once, his smile slips as his mouth parts.
"Focus, Gabi," he mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut like that might undo the damage. “First race. Do not ruin this by getting distracted.” He turns away, cheeks warm.
Max whistles low. "Didn't think she could look anymore dangerous off track," he says, pretending it's a joke—except his eyes don't leave you. "That should be illegal." He said as he tipped his head towards your direction.
Lando hears him and chuckles following his line of sight, once his eyes Lando on you his jaw tightened, fingers flexed inside his gloves. "This is going to be a very long race," he mutters, already annoyed with how badly he wants to run straight down the grid to you.
Oscar stands by his car, methodical as ever, hands busy with his gloves while his attention is unmistakably elsewhere. He watches you the way he watches the starting lights — patient, focused, impossible to rush. There's no grin, no show of surprise, just a subtle stillness that says you've fully claimed his attention. The corner of his mouth lifts, barely there, like a secret he's keeping to himself. When he finally looks away, it's with the calm acceptance of someone who knows he'll be thinking about you long after the race begins.
Carlos tilts his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. Warm. Appreciative. Dangerous in its sincerity.
"Madre mía," he murmurs, as his eyes flicked to you. "Well... that's distracting," he admits with a sheepish grin, eyes lingering openly now. He straightens, rolling his shoulders like he's resetting himself. "Guess I'll just have to drive faster to get as far away from the unnecessary distraction."
George follows Carlos's line of sight, posture stiffening as his breath hitches despite himself having acclimatized to your presence. His lips part, then press together, composure cracking just enough to be human.
"She looks..." He pauses, searching for a word that won't give him away. "...ready."
Alex laughs quietly beside him, arms folded, eyes bright with admiration.
"That's one way to say unfairly attractive," he teases. "I'm blaming her if I miss my braking points.”
The two of them exchange a look—shared awe, shared trouble, shared thought:
‘Yeah. She's absolutely killing it.’
Ollie is just climbing out of his car when Ocon stops beside him, nodding subtly in your direction.
"You might want to look at her asap."
The Bear laughs loudly. "She can't get more breathtaking than the first time we saw her, mate—"
He turns, sees you, promptly loses his footing, stumbling out of his car as his teammate catches him, wheezing,
The smug grin on the other driver's face says everything.
Moving along the grid we now land at Lance leaning casually against his Aston, helmet under his arm, talking to his engineer mid-sentence when he spots you. The words evaporate. His eyes shine with admiration, unguarded and fierce.
A camera crew weaves through the grid, red light blinking to life on a big camera as an interviewer steps between the cars, microphone already raised.
"So, Isack, Kimi—first race on the Formula One grid," she says brightly. "Big moment. How are the nerves?"
Isack nods a little too quickly. "Yeah—uh—good. Really good. I mean—nerves are, you know, normal. Very normal."
Kimi smiles, ready to save him. "We've worked really hard for this and—"
Just a small shift. A turn of your shoulders. The light catches the blue of your suit again.
Isack's sentence dies halfway through. "I—sorry—what was the question?"
Kimi blinks, gaze flicking past the interviewer before snapping back, cheeks warm. "The nerves," she repeats faintly. "We were talking about the nerves. Which are—uh—manageable. Very manageable."
The interviewer glances between them, amused. "Everything okay?"
Isack laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yeah. Just—uh—there's a lot happening on the grid today."
He clears his throat, eyes betraying him as they wander back to you. "Very... dynamic environment."
Kimi exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Sorry," he admits, composure cracking. "It's just—wow." He winces, realizing she's said it out loud. "I mean—first race. Overwhelming."
The interviewer follows their line of sight and smirks knowingly. "Right. That overwhelming."
Isack straightens, attempting professionalism. "She—" He stops himself, coughs. "The—uh—competition is strong."
Kimi nods far too enthusiastically. "Incredibly strong. Especially—" he pauses, swallows. "Yeah. Especially today."
The interviewer lowers the mic just a fraction, laughing. "Well. Best of luck to both of you."
As the camera light clicks off, Isack lets out a breath. "We are never living that down."
Kimi groans. "I forgot my own name."
And then there's Lewis. Another interviewer standing in-front of him mic uncomfortably close to his mouth "what problems do you think you will face while adjusting to Ferrari?"
He smiles before answering "well I don't quite have an answer for that yet but I'll get back to you when I find out—"
Lewis eyes finally catch you completely forgetting the interviewer standing right infront of him. His smile is slow, knowing, almost indulgent.
"Ah," he hums. "So that's the problem of today."
A slow smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head. "Dangerous," he mutters fondly. "Very dangerous." Nothing but certainty. You're going to be a problem today — for everyone.
The other Ferrari driver was no better. Charles spots you and lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that comes when something beautiful feels deeply inconvenient. His gaze lingers with open affection, eyes warm and a little ruined, He tilts his head, lips curving as he adjusts his gloves, composure intact but thinner than before.
"So," he murmurs, half to himself, half to the universe, "this is how you plan to distract the grid." His eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, bright with something tender and teasing. "Bonne chance to us both..." he adds gently "most especially to me."
And you just stood there at the very back P-Last—calm, radiant, absolutely lethal in light blue.
With the grid walk underway, you assumed you'd be overlooked back here, tucked away at the rear. You rose slightly onto your toes, squinting toward the front, watching interviews unfold—Max and Lando, Lewis and Kimi, Oscar and Alonso, even Yuki and Isack—your heart slowing as you convinced yourself you were safe.
You were mid-squint when your eyes widened in horror—the once-static wall of cameras suddenly breaking into motion, sprinting straight toward you. You instinctively stepped back, turning to flee, only to be stopped by your media manager's firm grip on your shoulders. You glanced back at her just in time to catch her smile—the sharp, dangerous kind that clearly said don't even think about it.
A quiet whimper slipped from you as the microphones and lenses closed in. Media duties was, without question, your least favorite part of racing.
Across the grid, every driver's attention followed the sudden surge of movement. Heads turned in unison, some straining harder than others—Max, Lando, Oscar weaving slightly just to catch a glimpse. What they saw made them soften instantly.
There you were—mortified, trying to hide behind your faintly exasperated media manager, brows knit in worry, teeth biting gently at your bottom lip. Your cheeks bloomed a delicate pink under the attention, only adding to how adorably undone you looked.
The Grid boys watched with mixed reactions. Amusement. Sympathy. Affection. A dangerous amount of fondness.
The media swarm descended like a tide, cameras clicking, microphones thrust forward, voices overlapping in a buzz you couldn't quite follow. Your stomach did somersaults. Okay, breathe. You can do this. You've survived worse... kind of.
Yuki elbowed Pierre, voice low. "Poor thing, huh?"
Pierre's eyes were glued to you. "I'd save her," he muttered, barely audible, "but my media manager would have my head before I even reached her."
Yuki's lips twitched in a smirk. "Yeah, same. Except I might... forget about the manager entirely. She's ridiculously cute. And somehow... impossible not to watch."
Pierre snorted softly. "Mate chill, Your basically vibrating with 'I must rescue her immediately.'"
Yuki's jaw tightened as he stared at you from across the swarm, muttering, "must protecc."
Pierre's expression softened, a hint of awe threading through his annoyance. "Oh to be a knight in shining armor right now."
Meanwhile, Jack and Franco had pushed their way closer to you, pretending to be interviewers with their hands gripping invisible microphones angled like playful weapons.
Jack leaned in, grin wide and teasing. "So... feisty lady from the docks, huh? The one who apparently fights like a hurricane?"
Franco added, mock-serious, brow raised. "And didn't you say — and I quote — 'you better watch your backs, I'm coming for your asses'?"
Your eyes went wide. You leaned toward them instinctively, lowering your voice even as a nervous laugh escaped. "SHH—don't tell them that!"
Then, squaring your shoulders just a fraction, you added quickly, "I mean—I am gonna kick your asses. I stand by it. Just... maybe not now?"
Jack laughed, delighted. "See? She's terrified—and yet she's still threatening us."
Franco beamed. "Honestly, that's the scariest kind."
With Jack and Franco flanking you like chaotic bodyguards, the noise didn't feel quite as crushing. You were still nervous—still very aware of the cameras—but they made it bearable.
Up front, Max, Lando, and Oscar watched.
Max exhaled softly, a low laugh slipping through his helmet as he toyed absently with his gloves. "Almost annoys me she's not closer," he muttered, voice casual, but his eyes never leaving you. "I can't even see her properly from here."
Lando snorted, leaning forward just slightly. "From back here, it's like we don't exist in her world. Simply can't bear the thought of not being close to her." It sounded like a joke but truly it was not.
Oscar, quiet as always, shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched in subtle acknowledgment. "She's in P21," he said evenly, but the words didn't hide the slight edge in his tone. "That's quite far away.."
Max smirked, glancing toward him, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Still makes her interesting, doesn't it? Porsche wouldn't throw someone into an F1 seat this fast if they weren't worth watching. Worth worrying about."
Lando raised a brow, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Mate, unless I'm lapping her, she's not showing up in my mirrors. But I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious how long she'd last if we were wheel-to-wheel."
Max huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head just enough to look at him. "Careful with that confidence," he said lightly. "Because if she ends up overtaking you instead, I'm never letting you hear the end of it."
Lando scoffed. "Yeah, yeah."
Max's smirk deepened. "I'm serious. I'll be laughing all the way to parc fermé."
From beside them, Oscar stayed quiet—but he noticed it. The pause. The certainty beneath Max's teasing. The way Max wasn't joking so much as predicting.
His fingers tightened around his gloves.
Because Max didn't say things like that unless part of him believed they could come true.
The Aussie slowly placed his gloves on, fingers flexing inside them as he thought back to your words from earlier right before the parade. "Your driving intrigues me."
It was a simple phrase, but it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He clenched his jaw slightly, irritation and admiration tangled together in a way he hadn't expected. His chest tightened, mind churning with unspoken questions: how fast, were you, how smart were you, how dangerous were you? And why was he suddenly paying so much attention?
Max's laugh cut through his thoughts, light, teasing, a challenge in his tone. "You're quiet, Oscar. Scared she's going to embarrass you from P21?"
Oscar's eyes flicked back to the track, but for a fraction of a second, a corner of his mouth lifted, betraying him. — letting the thought linger, letting the tension build. "I don't plan on making it easy for her to pass me, even from p21."
As the final notes of the national anthem faded, Lewis leaned in close to you, brushing slightly against your shoulder. "Now that everyone's done standing stiff as boards, let's take a few selfies," he whispered, voice low and warm. "I want to be the first to feature you." He winked.
You blinked, cheeks warming. "Pardon?"
He bent slightly so his head was near yours, lips almost brushing your ear. "You do look wonderful," he murmured, teasing yet sincere. "All nerves and focus aside... you've got this calm, unstoppable energy."
A soft laugh escaped you, and your fingers brushed his as he lifted the phone. "Trust me I'm vibrating from the sheer nerves right now." He angled it just right, catching the sun glinting off the edge of your helmet and the sharp blue of your suit. Peace signs went up instinctively, and he pressed the shutter.
"Hold that," he whispered, smirking. "One more."
You smirked back, teasing. "You're just here for the clout, aren't you?" You joke as if he weren't the 7 world champion title holder between the both of you.
"Maybe a little," he admitted, voice low, eyes sparkling. "But mostly to make sure you get the clout you deserve."
You were quick to pull a goofy pose.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm gonna caption it like, 'Look who's making P21 look dangerous.'"
You rolled your eyes, laughing nervously. "Careful, I Don't want to give them expectations before the race even starts."
Lewis leaned just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "I call it pre-race intimidation. And trust me... it works."
You nodded, heart racing, still grinning. "As long as it doesn't distract me while driving, I suppose I can allow it."
He snapped one last quick selfie, one where he was poking your cheek, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Perfect," he murmured. "Now... go show them what happens when someone underestimates P21."
After the anthem, ten minutes remained until the formation lap.
Balaclava on. Helmet on. Visor down. Each layer pressed against your skin, tight but protective, muffling the outside world while sharpening your focus. The slight scratch of fabric against your jaw, the snug weight around your forehead—it all felt like armor.
Patricia caught your eye from the pit wall, a small nod carrying enough faith to steady your heartbeat. That single look was enough to remind you why you were here, why you had fought to be here.
You slid into your car, the cockpit swallowing you in its familiar embrace. Your hands brushed against the wheel, the familiar textured of its material firm beneath your fingers. Pedals pressed beneath your boots with perfect resistance; the scent of warm rubber and faint oil reminded you of every practice lap, every hour of preparation.
Engineers moved around you with synchronized precision. Tire blankets were peeled back with controlled efficiency, and your head engineer saluted—a small, proud gesture reflected in your visor. You gave a curt nod back, letting the signal pass silently: ready.
The engine roared to life beneath you, a vibration that rattled through your spine, rattled your teeth, pulsed in your fingertips. The growl was alive, electric, almost impatient, and you could feel it resonating with your own racing heartbeat. The car and you became one: two engines of focus and power, coiled and tense.
The tires hummed against the asphalt, tiny ridges catching the heat and pressure. Brakes were firm beneath your boots, ready to react to your touch. Every movement of your hands translated directly to the car's response, every nerve ending alert. The Radio cackles as your head engineers voice greets you.
Patricia's voice joined, calm and grounding through the static.
"Goo to hear, but how are you feeling, dear?”
"Like I'm going to puke," you admitted, letting a nervous laugh escape, tasting the faint metallic tang of adrenaline.
"That means you're doing something right. Now, you want some sappy encouragement my dear?"
You smile softly under your helmet. "… fuck yeah, I thought you’d never ask."
Patricia Chuckles. "You're special. It's time the world sees it.... remember just—.."
"Just... race," you whispered back, tightening your grip on the wheel, feeling the subtle pulse of the engine beneath your palms.
Formation lap ends without a hitch as you guid your car into your grid slot p21, hearing the tiny clicks of the gearbox and the hiss of cooling fluids.
Everything narrowed: breath, engine rumble, heartbeat, the faint vibration of fuel pumping, the warmth of the sun on your gloves. The roar of the crowd became distant thunder, cameras flashed like intermittent lightning, and the scent of hot tires, oil, and asphalt wrapped around you. Every sense was heightened, every nerve taut with anticipation.
A flash of crimson seared into your vision, hot and scalding, demanding every ounce of your focus.
One of the start lights glowed in the distance
The red flare reflected off the edges of your visor, glinting across the sleek curves of the car, sharp and blinding. Then another light followed.
Seconds stretched, unyielding and heavy, each one suspended in a heartbeat that seemed to last forever. Another light was on.
All you could see, all you could feel, was red.
A quiet whisper rose from your throat, barely audible over the engine's growl:
===================================
Authors Note: as I mentioned in the previous chapter, the story is moving quite slowly but I assure you I will try to do a few more time skips so we aren’t just stuck in the first states of her race career! Lemme know your thoughts and comments. Thank you for reading have a nice day :)))
Hope y’all enjoy the next chapter, it’s finally gonna be race timEeeee
PS: bro I just cleaned the fuck outta my room and I’m immensely proud!
Taglist: @lottie810 @malphaspeverii @hlmzsbl @hlydia111 @retiredpieceofshits @prodbysainz @catswag22 @pharmasennapuff @teenagetoadghostwobbler @pacifymebby @b-rly @pinkastri @cl0u-dy @thegothamsiren @miellette @midnigt-leo
(Just comment or message me if you wanna be added to the taglist :))
