𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭: 𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒖𝒑 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔 (𝑭𝑪𝟒𝟑 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)
🫵: “AFAB; same-aged ; reserve driver for rbr ; F2 Prema driver ; angst with comfort”
⌛️: november 2024 (rookiesm)
masterlist 
While your feet grew heavier by the minute, it did some good, somehow, when it found you a quiet spot—sandwiched between barricaded areas between the F2 and F3 garages.
You sat on a secluded bench, your body curled into itself, as if trying to shrink away from the weight pressing down on your chest. The world outside this quiet corner of the paddock buzzed with the noise of F1 teams for Free Practice at Lusail Circuit, but here, in this small bubble of solitude, you could allow yourself to feel the disappointment that had been gnawing at you all day.
It was meant to be your year.
Your hands were shaking. You’d fought so hard—too hard, maybe—and yet, no seat. What Kelly said dunked you into cold water, confirming what you feared most: Red Bull had chosen someone else next season.
The day started with more hope. The Red Bull hospitality had been brimming with excitement for Free Practice. Two races left in the Constructors’ Championship, and you’d given the other teams a run for their money with the points you had fought tooth and nail for, subbing in for Max while he juggled being a world champion and a new father.
But today, with Max back, you were benched—playing interviewer for PREMA on Instagram, your F2 home.
Once the cameras stopped rolling and you’ve terrorized enough people on the paddock, you found yourself cooing over the three-month-old baby Verstappen, charming onlookers as the little one giggled at your antics.
“WAG in training, huh?” Kelly joked, resting a hand on the stroller, watching you both with a soft smile.
You stood taller, grin faltering. “What do you mean?” Around you, the crowd began to drift off, pulled back to the thrill of Free Practice.
Kelly smiles, not mirroring hers. “You’re a natural with the camera... and kids love you. They media try to find every flaw with us, you know. But I’m sure you’ll be a fan favorite... watching his races.”
Oh, but you weren’t a WAG. You were a driver.
“Well, I don’t know much about that, since I’ll be behind the wheel,” you replied with a laugh, trying to play it off.
That’s when her expression changed. Something softer. Something sad.
“Oh honey,” she said gently. “I thought you saw the news.”
Your brows furrowed, smile trying not to collapse.
Kelly's face became unreadable. “And… with you… and the Haas boy, I thought... well, I thought you’d be joining us girls this year…”
Your face paled and flushed all at once. Your ears rang. Your vision tunneled. The truth became unbearable.
You didn’t have an F1 seat next year.
Across the room—almost cruelly on cue—Christian Horner walked in. Surrounded by important people with clipboards and the media, he caught sight of you.
But he didn’t hold your gaze. Just like he didn’t hold his promise.
He looked away and left.
Your world tilted. You’d been promised a seat at Zandvoort. Max was there to attest. The stars had finally seemed to align. You’d built your career from the ground up—earned every point, every podium. You weren’t supposed to be clawing for a shot anymore. You were supposed to be there.
But instead, as the press release now confirmed: Y/N L/N—still trying to claw her way into Formula 1.
And so, that’s how your heavy heart found you. Tears threatening to fall, hands trembling as you clutched your phone with the stupid article. You didn’t know what to do. Didn’t even realize you weren’t alone until a voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.
“Oh Prema girl, you found my secret cry spot.”
Your head snapped up, heart skipping. The brown curls. The blue eyes. The teasing smirk on his pouty lips
Franco Colapinto.
Of course it would be him.
Monaco 2022 flashes in your mind.
Somehow, he always had this timing. Like he knew exactly when to show up—whether you wanted him to or not.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice wavers.
“Shouldn’t you be at Free Practice with Alpine?” You swipe quickly at your eyes, embarrassed. But it’s Franco. He’d seen you in all sorts of moments—just not like this.
He gave his signature smirk of his, leaning casually against the fence, tumbler in hand. “Yeah, but they gave it to Jack. Because of that article you’re reading,” he adds with a smirk before sipping.
You blink. Confused.
Franco shrugged trying to maintain his nonchalance. “Turns out, they don’t want me either. You know, despite half a season or whatever. Just the backup.”
Your heart twists in your chest, realizing he was in the same boat you were. You let out a soft laugh, though it felt more like a quiet sob.
“Wait,” she said softly, her eyes scanning his face. “You didn’t get a seat?”
Franco looked at her, the twinkle in his eyes fading for just a second. “Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t.”
The realization hit her like a wave. Franco Colapinto, the charismatic and talented driver, a force in their older F2 days, the guy who had made a name for himself with his passion and fire in Williams mid season—was now just like her. Stuck.
You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. You watch him fiddle with the tumbler.
“Iced yerba,” he says, offering it to you. “Try.”
You hesitated, but not for long. You’d watched enough of his interviews with Alex to know the drill. Taking it in hand, you brought it to your lips and took a cautious sip. The bitterness hits immediately, your face contorting slightly at the unfamiliar taste.
“Yeah, it’s strong,” Franco chuckles, clearly amused.
You handed the tumbler back. “At least you’re up as a reserve,” you muttered, though the words tasted hollow. You didn’t even get a reserve seat— but of course you didn’t want to be a reserve. You didn’t want to be waiting in the wings. You wanted to be racing.
Franco took a sip, his expression softening as he sat down beside you. He didn’t keep the tumbler back, instead resting it on the bench between the both of you, where it sat as a silent testament to your shared disappointment.
"But you and me," he began, his voice light but meaningful, "we’re meant to go fast. Not sit on the sidelines.”
You let out a deep sigh, nodding as you took for another swig of the yerba. The bitterness almost felt comforting now. It was like the taste of failure—a reminder that misery loves company.
“It’s like…” you whispered, hugging your knees to her chest, feeling small. “A slap in the face, you know? After everything I’ve done, after how hard I’ve fought... I had a taste of the top. And now? Now, I take two steps back, and I’m back where I started.” You shook her head in disbelief. “How am I supposed to get out of this?”
Franco leans back, letting the hum of engines echo around you both. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just listens.
“Yeah,” he murmurs eventually. “Feels like it all means nothing when you don't get chosen.”
“Exactly,” you say. Your voice raw. “You just... you wonder if it was all worth it. If you’re just... not enough.”
Franco smiles, and spares a glance at you. “You and me, we’ve got the passion. The heart. The drive. They can’t take that away from us.”
You looked at him then, surprised at how comforting his words were. “How do you do that?” you asked quietly, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. “How do you always know what to say?”
Franco shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the mate,” he joked. “But seriously, you’re more than just a driver. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re not enough.”
You smile—really smile—for the first time all day. “You’re right,” you say, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s next...”
Franco’s gaze softened. “You’ll figure it out. And no matter what you decide, I’ve got your back.”
For a moment, there was a silent understanding between you both, something unspoken but undeniable. Your heart was still heavy, but somehow it didn’t feel as crushing with Franco beside her.
Cheers and claps filled the air— the sound of Free Practice finishing echoed in the distance, Franco stood up, offering you a hand.
“You want me to walk you back?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.
You raised an eyebrow, not quite sure if you was ready to face the pit crews and the chaos again. But his offer was genuine, and there was a comfort in knowing you didn’t have to go through this alone.
“Sure,” you replied, standing up and brushing off the grass from your shirt. You walked side-by-side toward the garages, your heart still heavy but a little less burdened. You didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time today, maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.
As you walk, Franco pulls out his phone. “Hey, realized I don’t have your number.”
He offers it to you, grinning.
“Just in case you need someone to talk to.”
You smiled, tapping you number into his phone before handing it back. You didn’t say it out loud, but you had a feeling there was something here—a spark, a bond forged in the heat of the Doha Sun and in the trenches of disappointment.
For now, it was enough.
𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓
©ｖｉｖａｃｅ－ｆｏｒｍｕｌａｌａ