YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. YOU HAVE A CAR. YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. IT'S A PHYSICAL CAR. YOU'RE A REGULAR GUY. IT'LL GO TO PRE-SEASON TESTING. YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. YOU CAN MAKE A PRESS STATEMENT. YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. YOU CAN PASS CRASH TESTS. YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. THE CAR ISN'T HAUNTED. YOU'RE A REGULAR TEAM. GROVE IS A REAL PLACE.
This is an incredibly deep and troubling piece on a litigation battle at the heart of Williams. I can't even reduce it to a few key points, it really speaks to every possible issue in the sport, from the multiple kinds of discrimination at play to the role of dark money.
This is the kind of reporting I want on F1 and I can only imagine how hard it has been to put together and get past a team of (British!) media lawyers
Special report: Allegations of sexism, racism and expenses fiddling are flying across US courts, drawing in leading figures in motor racing
genuinely feel sorry for people who are sleeping on galex. all these unnecessary ships, and those guys will never be seen together outside of the paddock.. meanwhile alex albon and george russell are out here living their own rom com
꩜summary: an argument means he says some things he doesn't mean. he's never gotten that cruel before though.
꩜pairing: carlos sainz x fem! fiancé reader
꩜a/n: kinda toxic relationship but like not really but like also so be aware :D
You two didn’t fight. It just… wasn’t like that. You argued. Calmly. Softly. Gently. He didn’t shout. You didn’t scream. Neither of you ever walked off without having the issue resolved.
It had never been like this. Just one slip of the tongue about him not being there for the important things, like your promotion, or Laura’s graduation, or those nights when you just needed your boyfriend a bit more than the other nights. That, and the mention of your new friend, Jamie, you knew him from work. He off-handedly got you a bunch of flowers for your promotion, just doing something nice. Carlos didn’t like it. You fought him on it, telling him he shouldn’t care since he’s never here. It wasn’t meant to be as snarky as it came out, you were just frustrated, you just wanted Carlos back for yourself, not constantly working or thinking about how he himself could improve the car. Carlos was tough, sure. Tough on himself, tough on Williams, tough on James. He was the kind of tough that didn’t really disappear, even in his gentlest moments. But he wasn’t tough on you. He was softer around the edges, reining it in so you wouldn’t run away. His voice was less gruff. His eyes were less hardened. He didn’t want to give you a reason to leave him, well, more than the ones you already had.
Tonight he was angry. The kind of anger that silences a room and makes everywhere his own. The kind of anger that puts you on edge for a few days, even if it’s passed. The apartment didn’t feel big enough, didn’t feel like a shared space, it felt suffocating as you sat on the couch, Carlos shouting his head off at you, screaming that you were inconsiderate, that you were trying to make him angry, that you weren’t thinking. “So what do you want me to do, huh?” he barked, his voice loud. You were sure the neighbours were confused. “Do you think I am just going to relax this whole season?! Williams is a place for learning- for growth. I cannot grow if I’m not putting in the work!” His voice was cutting through the tension in the air. He stared at you with pleading eyes, begging for an answer.
“I’m not asking you to stop racing Carlos, I’m asking you to spend some more of your free time with me-” you held your ground. You weren't being unreasonable. You wanted your boyfriend to be your boyfriend for more than 5 minutes a day. He sighed and spun on his heels, facing the other direction, head in his hands. “I’m sorry I said what I said about the Jamie thigh-”
He spun around again, wide eyes meeting yours. “So it’s a thing now? It’s a ‘Jamie thing’ now?” he demanded. “Dios mío, Y/n he’s a co-worker, he’s not in love with you,” he scoffed and you felt yourself recoil. What did that mean? ‘He’s not in love with you’ is he insinuating he’d have no reason to be in love with me? That I’m unlovable? That there’s no way anyone else would date me? You thought to yourself, emotion building in your chest. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. “He shouldn’t be giving my girlfriend flowers-”
“It was a nice thing to do!” you argued, your voice rising to meet his, as you stood from the couch. You couldn’t take this bullshit anymore, this ridiculous disrespect when both of you knew he was in the wrong. “I got promoted! 8 people sent me flowers and none of them were my boyfriend! How do you think that makes me feel, Carlos? Do you think it makes me feel cared for? Appreciated? Like you’re proud of me? Well, it doesn’t. It makes me feel like you don’t even care that I have a life outside of being your perfect little WAG.”
He rolled his eyes, his fists clenching. “You know I wanted to do something with you in person-”
“When was that going to happen?” you spat. “Winter break? Come on Carlos, just admit you knew nothing about it until I brought the flowers home, and you only started caring then. This isn’t about Jamie, or what my promotion is, it’s about you feeling like putting our relationship on the backburner isn’t a problem. I’m not asking for flowers or dates every week. I’m asking you to take an interest in my life again, and if you feel like you can;’t do that, then I don’t really know what we’re doing here,” you shrugged, the first of a few tears falling. “I can handle myself most of the time, I just need help sometimes. I need you-”
He scoffed. “Can you handle yourself? You’re crying to me about a fucking promotion and wanting to be congratulated on it.”
He realised he crossed a line. He saw the way your face hardened. He saw how you stiffened. You crossed your arms, willing yourself not to cry. Your voice was soft and fleeting. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.”
Then the silence. The suffocating, intoxicating, charged silence that made you want to run out of your own home and never come back. You couldn’t believe him. You knew he was stressed, but this was beyond stress. This was him being cruel. He had no right to speak to you like that. You could tell he wasn’t even listening to your side of the story and of course you hadn’t told him about the flowers because you knew how he’d react. You just didn’t think it’d be this bad. You didn’t think he’d belittle and dominish you so much. You didn’t think he’d cared so little. You turned your back on him, walking into your shared bedroom, needing time to think. You didn’t see it, but he reached out for you, but he stopped before he grabbed you, not knowing what to say.
The lock clicked into place and you finally let yourself break down, your hand flying over your mouth to stop yourself from sobbing. You tried to suck in a steadying breath, but all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and the weight of his words still pushed against your chest. You stared at the blue walls, your arms wrapped around yourself like it might somehow hold you together from falling apart. Your throat burned from the tears falling down your face, but you made no effort to grab the bottle of water on your bedside table, not when you knew Carlos had made it for you that morning. Fuck, how could so much change in one stupid fucking morning?
This was uncharted territory. He could be sharp, frustrating, downright rude sometimes, but he wasn’t cruel, not to you. He could fight people on track like it didn’t matter if they lived or died, but he’d always hop out of that car with a soft kiss for you. Even in the beginning of your relationship, when it consisted of heavy and wanting glances where you cautiously tiptoed around each other, to something tangible, something steady, something real- Carlos had always been there for you. Maybe not physically, but he was there. He’d always text at the right times, call just when you needed him, say the right thing, always. He was passionate, sure. Sometimes he got it wrong, but he was never cruel. He never wanted you to feel like you needed to hide from him.
You pressed your back up against the door, trying desperately to will the tears away, will that sinking feeling in your chest away, make everything alright again, forget today and all the horrible things he said. You couldn’t. You knew it wasn’t totally fair to pin all the blame on him. This fight wasn’t just about Jamie. It wasn’t just about him not giving you enough attention. It was both of you realising that if you didn’t work on it, your relationship was bound to break apart.
And that scared the shit out of you.
Carlos was protective, he always had been. But he was never possessive. He didn’t ask you to change. He didn’t ask you to not have guy friends. He didn’t feel intimidated by your male co-workers. Then Jamie rolled up with his bouquet of your favourite flowers, and he felt threatened. Then he panicked that he felt threatened, and he took it out on you. At first it was sweet, quiet mumbled in Spanish about how he shouldn’t be doing that knowing you have a boyfriend at home. Somewhere between then and now, it turned into a screaming match where Carlos insulted your very being.
You let out a shaky breath, your mind rushing at a thousand miles an hour. The diamond ring on your finger weighed down your hand. You felt it more than you ever had before. Every negative thought your brain could muster brought itself to the surface as you looked over it. He gave it to you just to shut you up. He hates you. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t care that you’re pulling away. He doesn’t care about you. You groaned, pouting as you looked at it. It was so beautiful. A proposal down by the harbour. Private. Small. Gentle. Carlos in front of you, tears in his eyes, asking you to choose him, because he already chose you. You sighed.
Ding!
Your calendar app sent you a notification.
Carlos and Y/n’s Engagement Celebration Dinner!
You scoffed at your phone, wiping your eyes. Worst timing ever.
Meanwhile, Carlos stood in the living room, going over every horrible thing he’d said. He ran his hands through his hair repeatedly, something he did when he needed to think- or when he was pissed off. He knew you were upset, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the way your eyes welled up with tears when he said what he did. He also knew his reaction was totally out of line, he was pushing you too hard without having a real reason, and the guilt of that settled in his stomach like an ulcer he couldn’t get rid of. This was the first time he’d directed everything at you. He was wrong, he knew that. But that anger persisted, burning in his chest like a fire that just wouldn't go out. He wasn’t angry with you, he was mad at the situation. Hell, he wasn’t even mad at the situation- he was fucking terrified he was on the brink of losing you. He was more terrified that that argument might’ve been the last nail in the coffin.
He ran a hand through his hair again, scoffing out a heavy sigh as he walked out to the balcony, dropping down onto the chair he’d sat not 8 hours ago, having breakfast with you. He kept replaying it, over and over again, like a corner he couldn’t get quiet right, or a chicane he’d fucked up one too many times. His words were sharp. Cutting. Cruel.
He contemplated trying to talk to you again. Trying to apologise, admit he was scared of losing you. But even he knew you needed space. His jaw and fists clenched as he stayed put on the balcony, watching over the roads he knew so well, wishing he’d done so many things differently.
Ding!
He opened his phone as fast as he could, hoping it was a message from you. It wasn’t.
Carlos and Y/n’s Engagement Celebration Dinner!
Fuck’s sake. He swiped a hand over his face and groaned. Of course he picked a fight on the one day you two needed to be a happy couple.
You stepped out of the bedroom wearing a long white dress, something simple and plain. Just silk. Your hair up. A bag in hand.
You were breathtaking. He stared. He’d gone with a white linen shirt and some white trousers, not really knowing what to wear since he had assumed you would’ve guided him. You didn’t. You also didn’t look up at him. The various keys stayed on the counter, untouched. If you left it any later, you’d be late to your own reservation.
He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold you, promise you he didn’t mean anything he said, and apologise. You sat on the bench beside the door, lacing up your heels like they’d offended you in some way. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He didn’t want to. Your movements were sharp, jerky, and your mouth was set in a flat line. You looked up at him, your mouth opening like you had something to say. It closed again. You weren't sure if it was frustration or guilt, or anger written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in twists. “Which car do you want to take?” he asked, clearing his throat. He wanted this to be about you, about the way you two loved each other, about how good the good times were, even in the midst of a bad time.
“Whatever you want, Carlos,” your voice was airy, lacking of its usual conviction. He gulped. You walked out the front door without so much as a glance over your shoulder. He cringed.
The Monaco air seemed much too cold for May. Sharp, like it was taking after your argument,the universe working to remind you of just how shit you already felt. Carlos locked the door behind the two of you, and you didn’t wait up for him so that you could take his hand. He didn’t open your car door. He just sat into his own seat, hands gripping the wheel so hard they turned white. He placed the keys into the ignition without so much as a look your way. The radio switched on, filling the strained silence between the two of you.
The drive loomed over your head like a cruel punishment. You couldn’t cancel on everyone now. You couldn’t drive separately. You couldn't blow up. You just had to stay calm. That became increasingly difficult as you felt the emotions of the day overcome you, no matter how hard you tried to regulate yourself, the tears just kept burning your throat, that anxiety never left the place in your chest where it had settled over an hour ago. You focused your gaze out the window, watching as the streets of Monaco whipped by. You weren’t really paying attention to it, just trying to count and calm yourself down and your mind whizzed, focused on everything he did, and didn’t say.
He’d been louder than usual. Harsher. Crueler. His mouth worked before his brain could realise the hurt he was causing. Like he couldn’t stop it. But you knew he could’ve, if he really tried. You knew him. He had to control everything at 300 miles an hour, so he could definitely stop himself from saying the shittiest things he could think of to you.
But he didn’t. Knowing that hurt more.
The silence was deafening, growing unbearable. You just kept telling yourself you weren’t going to break, then thought about those times you promised yourself you’d never make yourself smaller for a man, all those times Carlos promised you that you’d never have to. You spared him a glance. Gone was that sweet boy who was too shy to speak to you the first time. His jaw was clenched. His eyes stayed on the road. His shoulders were hunched like he was trying to hide himself. But you saw past that. You saw the way his expression didn’t reach his eyes. The way his shoulder sagged. The way he was tired in a way he’d never admit. Drained. Emotionally drained.
You didn’t realise you were crying until the tear slipped down your face. Thank god you’d decided to pack your makeup bag just in case this very scenario occurred. You brushed it away quickly, knowing he hadn’t seen it. He couldn’t look your way. That just made your cry harder. More tears falling down, that sick feeling in your stomach, that weight on your chest, that burn in your throat.
You sniffled as you watched the countryside whip past you, hues of pinks and purples painting the sky. You pretended that small ache in your heart wasn’t a call for comfort, for reassurance, for him, but you knew it was. You wanted him to turn to you and apologise. Promise you he loved you. Promise he’d do anything to not lose you. But you didn’t want to have to be the one to reach out. You wanted him to. You wanted him to care.
Your hands were trembling in your lap. You hadn’t noticed. He did.
He pulled over the car on the side of the road, not caring that his Ferrari 812 Competizione was in the dirt on a countryside road. You barely noticed you’d stopped. “Cariño,” his voice was soft, gentle. He reached over. He held your hands like they were the most fragile thing on the planet.
You broke, tears falling. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, loud in the silence of the car. “I just miss you.”
He let out a heavy sigh, he squeezed your hands before he let them go, opening his door and rounding the front of the car. He was at your side before you could ever ask what he was doing.
“Come here,” He opened your door, the cool air rushing in as he offered a hand out to you. His tone was soft. So soft. So much softer than before. You took his hand without thinking much about it.
He pulled you into his arms. His chest was warm and solid. Grounding. He squeezed you like you’d run away if he didn’t, and maybe you would. It made you feel safer. Cared for. Like someone was there for you.
“I’m sorry Cariño,” he huffed out against your ear, you pretended not to notice the way his voice broke. “I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry too-” you tried, but he shushed you.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he shook his head as you let out yet another shaky breath. “I was a dick, and I was just scared of losing you. You’re just too nice to me, aren’t you?” he cooed, his thumb brushed against the side of your face as he looked down at your face. Your mascara was smudged. Tear lines down your face. He felt the splotchy heat on your chest and it pulled at his heart strings. “We’re going to be okay?”
You sighed, closing your eyes as your emotions took over again. You leaned your forehead against his chest. “What did you mean?” you whispered.
“What do you mean, my love?” he asked, a hand smoothing down your back.
“He’s just your co-worker, he’s not in love with you,” you repeated. “As if no one would ever love me?” you let out a sad chuckle. “I just want to know what you mean.”
He let out a shaky breath, internally kicking himself for saying such ridiculous things. He wanted to smack himself. “No my love,” he shook his head, your small sniffles twisting his heart strings as he tried to not let his emotion overtake his senses. “No. You’re wonderful and I was being stupid. Please don’t believe anything I said. You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you. You’re a genius. YOu deserve to be celebrated, and I’m sorry I couldn’t see that.”
You nodded against his chest. “Yeah, you are stupid,” you agreed, a sad smile on your lips. He chuckled against your hair. “We’re going to be okay?” you asked.
“I’m going to fight for you everyday,” he said it like it was a promise. An inevitable. A truth. You both felt that release of anxiety, though guilt lingered. You’d be alright. You’d fight for each other. You’d do what it takes to make it work. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment. Instead of pulling back completely, his lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek. His hands circled your waist, his breath on your cheek. You sniffled again, realising how much of a mess you must look. He didn’t care. He leaned in closer and your hands tightened on his shirt as he stopped, hesitating. He was dangerously close as an unspoken ache settled between you two. He held himself back as best he could, but all he wanted was to kiss you.
“Carlos,” your voice was just above a whimper, and he only leaned in closer, cradling your face with a hand as his lips found yours. He kissed you like he needed to, passionate but slow. Careful and cautious, like your first. Like he couldn’t get close enough. Like it’d never be enough, no matter how many times he kissed you. You pulled back, breathing out with a small smile on your lips. He could’ve sworn he’d gone to heaven and died when you looked up at him. “We’re going to be okay,” you spoke the words like you meant it, and he felt his stomach twist in the best way.
He smiled. “You’re something else,” he shook his head, his voice low, a depth behind his words you couldn’t name. You chuckled, your cheeks heating. You pressed one last lingering kiss to the edge of his mouth and sent him a small smile.
“We’ll be late,’ you reminded him, stepping back into the car and getting your makeup bag out to start fixing your makeup. He shook his head, chuckling as he slid into the driver’s seat. His hand found your thigh, holding tightly.
It felt like he would never let go. You didn’t want him to.
