Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

Honestly, for the amount of drama we went through, the race was surprisingly good. Chaotic, but good.

We had rain, yellow flags, countless pit stops, a penalty, last-minute strategy changes... but somehow, we still pulled off a P2. That was more than we could've hoped for.

By the time the checkered flag waved, I was standing on the pit wall, soaked in rain and adrenaline, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear the radios anymore. When Charles crossed the line in second, I felt my knees nearly give out.

Not because P2 was perfect-far from it. But because it meant that all those hours, all that scrambling after Matteo's little stunt, hadn't been for nothing. We'd saved it. We'd salvaged the weekend.

------

The restaurant was buzzing. A post-race dinner, semi-formal, half-chaotic-exactly what you'd expect from a group of overworked engineers, exhausted drivers, and team staff who'd survived a rain-soaked race weekend and somehow made it to the podium.

Charles had my hand loosely in his, occasionally brushing his thumb over my knuckles as we greeted people. There were a few other drivers at the table-Carlos, obviously, Lando, Pierre, even Oscar-and a mix of Ferrari crew scattered across the long table. Everyone was laughing, eating, half-drunk already, and that was before the starters were even cleared.

I'd barely sat down when Carlos leaned toward me with that smirk that always meant trouble.

"I have a challenge for you."

I narrowed my eyes. "That's never a comforting sentence."

"If you manage to do it," he continued, completely ignoring my skepticism, "I'll give you whatever you want. Anything. You name it, I'll make it happen."

That got my attention. I tilted my head. "Anything?"

"Anything. One wish. Zero limitations. No negotiations."

I raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "What's the catch?"

Carlos looked like he was trying not to burst out laughing. "You'll find out soon. But you can't say no once we start."

Charles, oblivious, was pouring us both wine, humming something under his breath, completely at ease.

I glanced back at Carlos. "Alright. Deal."

He grinned and clapped his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen-she agreed."

A few people cheered. I immediately regretted everything.

Within minutes, napkins were being passed around. Pens appeared. Everyone at the table-except Charles-was scribbling and laughing and whispering like they were back in high school passing notes during class.

"What the hell are you all doing?" I asked.

Carlos smirked. "We're writing your speech."

"My what?"

"Your speech. You're going to stand up, toward the end of dinner, and deliver it. From memory. No reading. You get one chance. And Charles can't know it's part of a game."

I blinked. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Carlos said, dead serious and grinning like a maniac.

"And what's in this speech?"

"That's the fun part. You don't get to see it until we hand it to you. You get ten minutes to memorize it. Then-boom-performance time."

I looked around the table. Everyone looked way too excited about this. Lando was nearly crying from laughter, and Pierre kept saying, "Make it more dramatic. We need full telenovela vibes."