Chapter 11 Mixed Signals in the Paddock

Chapter 11 Mixed Signals in the Paddock


The morning sky over Catalunya was pale and calm, but the Bandini paddock was already alive with noise. Mechanics rolled tires to the far end of the garage; electric screwdrivers whirred, throttles fired, engines roared to life.

I stood just outside the paddock, clipboard in hand, headset hanging loose around my neck. In front of me, Yevena sat cross-legged on an aluminum crate, face buried in a tablet full of charts and numbers. Bandini’s followers were up eighteen percent in a week, engagement had doubled. All thanks to one name.

“If this algorithm were a person, I’d buy it a bottle of vintage wine,” she muttered, half in awe, half in frustration.

“If this algorithm were a person, I’d make it stay late to edit Reels,” I replied flatly.

She snorted. “Rafael’s doing an interview with Sky F1. He just said—and I quote—‘Bandini’s PR team has a brilliant sense of narrative.’”

I turned. “He actually said that?”

“Yeah. With the face of someone who just saved a puppy from a burning building.”

I rolled my eyes and flipped a page on my clipboard. “Please tell me we have next week’s content plan locked.”

“Not yet,” she said lightly. “But I have an idea: a segment called Alex vs. Rafael. A weekly content battle—crazy challenges, rapid-fire Q&A, sim racing but with a twist. Like wearing heavy helmets or answering trap questions mid-lap.”

“Good.” I scribbled a note. “That’ll help tone Rafael’s image down a bit—make him look more approachable.”

“And Alex will look more playful. He’s been too… German lately.”

I laughed under my breath. “He’s Swiss, Yevena.”

“Swiss is just polite German.”

We stared at each other for a beat, then burst out laughing. A tiny pocket of relief.

I looked back toward the paddock, where Rafael stood with a Sky F1 presenter. Microphone in hand, posture confident. The camera caught him from a side angle, and the man knew exactly which angle worked.

“And of course,” he was saying in that clean, Italian-accented English, “I wouldn’t be this good without the support of my tech team—and our PR, who somehow turn every crisis into opportunity.”

Naturally, he tossed compliments like grenades wrapped in gold ribbon.

Yevena nudged me. “See? You should start wearing eyeliner every day. He notices.”

“I’m PR, not a Miss Universe contestant,” I muttered. Still, my neck felt uncomfortably warm.

From a distance, Rafael’s eyes flicked toward us. Just for a second. But it was enough to make a junior media assistant spin around and pretend to inspect a tripod. That man was danger made flesh—skin, bone, and a one-sided smile.

“Anyway,” Yevena said, snapping me back to reality, “we need more behind-the-scenes footage. I want a day-in-the-life series for both drivers.”

I nodded, jotting notes. “Alex likes mornings—we can start with his workout. Rafael gets the glam angle: espresso breakfast, carrying his helmet, checking data. Candid but scripted.”

“Pair content too. They’re ‘volunteering’ to go to a classic car museum next week—for TikTok.”

I froze. “Museum? TikTok?”

“I know. The irony.”

Before I could reply, my phone buzzed. The Team Core WhatsApp group was exploding. Rafael’s lap time yesterday had officially broken last year’s simulator record—even his old team, Neon Apex, hadn’t touched that.

I looked up at the paddock ceiling, as if the universe might grant me five minutes of peace. But no. I was PR.

Keeper of the narrative. Guardian of the reputation. And now, the reluctant content manager making sure two international drivers looked fun, fresh, and not like walking liabilities on camera.

“Okay,” I said. “This week, Alex teaches Rafael Spanish. Rafael teaches Alex how to reply to sponsor emails. Interactive. Cringe. Viral.”

“Perfect.” Yevena typed fast.

“And by the weekend, they do a challenge—drink the world’s bitterest espresso without flinching.”

“God bless caffeine.”

We clinked our water bottles.

From the paddock monitor, I saw Rafael finishing his interview. His walk was casual but precise, his hand lifting briefly in a wave before he unzipped the top half of his race suit.

Chest. Muscle. Morning light. PR disaster level one—if it weren’t me watching.

Yevena raised her tablet. “I’ll make two Reels. One for Instagram. One for… personal restraint.”

I didn’t answer. My focus shifted to Rafael as he approached the garage—and us. That neutral-pretending-to-be-neutral expression, as if he didn’t know exactly how viral he already was. He knew.

He always knew.

“Vicky,” he said easily, voice rough and smooth all at once, the kind that made your pulse forget itself. “Lunch later—you busy?”

I looked at him, deadpan. “Only if lunch happens in the server room. Bad signal, eighteen degrees.”

He chuckled. “I can bring a heater.”

And I could bring a sign that said Do not approach if carrying lethal charisma.

But of course, I just gave a small nod. PR always knows when silence saves the most.

Because Rafael De Luca Ricciardi wasn’t just a star.
He was a storm wearing a racing suit.

:::
Rafael stopped just two steps away from me, zipped-down suit hanging at his waist, Bandini fireproofs clinging to a body sculpted by gods—or at least by eight hours a day in a simulator and three more in the gym.

His hair was still slightly messy under the headset he just peeled off. His mouth—annoyingly symmetrical—curled into the kind of smirk that had probably launched a thousand DMs. Most of them regrettable.

“So,” he said. “Lunch?”

I raised a brow, not even trying to look impressed. “Why? You’re out of mirrors to flirt with?”

Behind me, Yevena fake-coughed. Loudly. It sounded suspiciously like “sexual tension.” I ignored her.

Rafael tilted his head, unbothered. “I was thinking pasta. Al fresco. A little sun, some wine—”

“You’re still in a fireproof suit.”

“And you still look like you haven’t slept since pre-season started,” he shot back, eyes flicking to the bags under mine. “At least let me buy you a coffee.”

I snorted. “You buying coffee is the biggest PR stunt of all.”

He leaned closer. Not inappropriate. Not technically. But close enough that I could smell the ridiculous blend of clean sweat, soap, and whatever cologne screamed money and sin at the same time.

“I can be generous,” he murmured.

“And I can be immune.”
That was a lie.

He knew it.

I knew he knew it.

“Besides,” I added, stepping back, “I don’t do lunch with clients who almost cost me a brand deal with your offhand joke about vodka and Russian lingerie.”

His smile widened. “You laughed.”

“I laughed after I screamed into a pillow.”

He chuckled—deep and rich, like the sound of an engine shifting into gear on a perfect apex. I hated that I remembered that sound from eight years ago. I hated even more that part of me still liked it.

Behind us, Alex strolled in, licking gelato like he had no idea we were mid-verbal fencing.

“Are we flirting or fighting?” he asked, looking between us. “Because I left my popcorn at the sim room.”

“Neither,” I replied, flipping my clipboard closed. “Just managing the ego budget for the month.”

Alex pointed at Rafael. “His is overdue.”

“And yours is in crypto,” I said.

Yevena wheezed beside me.

“Okay,” Alex grinned. “I deserved that.”

Rafael’s gaze never left mine. “Think about lunch.”

“I’d rather think about world peace.”

He winked. “You might find both on the same menu.”

I turned, walking away before my face gave away how stupidly fast my heart was beating.

Behind me, I heard Yevena say to Alex, “How is she not in love with him?”

And Alex, ever the smartass, answered, “She is. That’s the problem.”

I didn’t correct him.

I just kept walking.

Because I had content calendars to finish, press releases to polish, and a thousand reasons not to look back.

But my hands? My hands were still trembling—just a little.

Not from fear.

From memory.

And from the stupid, infuriating truth:

Rafael De Luca Ricciardi was not just a headline.

He was history.

Mine.

And I was dangerously close to repeating it.