Chapter Text
“How did you find out Ferrari was interested in signing you for next season?”
Alex twists in his sheets, almost dropping his phone on his face. He’s too busy scrambling to find his phone to hear the response, but it doesn’t matter; he’s the one giving it, after all.
The interview version of him is still talking once he’s got his phone facing in the right direction again. “—so I was like ‘fuck yeah, I’m interested’ which I don’t think is a surprise at all, and half an hour later I was on the phone with Zahra.”
Alex grins, thinking back to Nora’s phone call, where she’d threatened to leak his middle school mirror selfies if he didn’t say yes to talking with Zahra. She knew there was a 99.2% chance he’d say yes—she just couldn’t miss an opportunity to threaten him.
The podcast host moves on from the big news of his impending move to Ferrari for next year’s season, now introducing a ‘get to know the driver’ game.
“You have fifteen seconds to answer each of these questions,” she states. “Are you ready?”
Alex-on-the-screen’s grin is charming. “I’m always ready to talk about myself.”
The host looks down at her cue card. “Who got you into driving?”
“Both of my parents. They’re each involved in the racing world in some way. It was basically in my blood,” Alex replies rapidly, before sucking in a breath. “Whew, that’s hard.”
She smiles at him. She’d definitely been flirting with him afterwards; while she was pretty, June would kill him if he hooked up with a media personality. “Next up, what is your proudest moment of your rookie season?”
That had been easy. “Making it on the podium at Spa. It’s always hard when your team’s in the middle of the pack, and it took a lot of chaos for me to make it up there. But it was a dream come true for sure.”
“Unsurprising,” the host replies. Alex has to swipe away an ESPN notification that pops up on his screen as she asks the next question. “Where is your favorite place to race on the F1 calendar?”
“I mean, now Spa is up there,” Alex answers. “But nothing beats Austin and Mexico City. The fact that I get two home races, not just in the countries I’m from, but in the cities where my family has lived? That’s so special.”
The timer graphic in the corner is blinking red by the time Alex is finishing his sentence, but frankly, he hadn’t cared about beating the clock for once. He could talk about his two favorite cities in the entire world for way longer than fifteen seconds.
“Definitely,” the host agrees, flipping to the next card. “When did you start racing?”
Alex smiles, watching the mischievous look take over his face as he answers the question. “As soon as I could walk.”
The host laughs at that, too.
“Why did you choose to represent Mexico instead of the US?” It’s a question he’s gotten repeatedly throughout his rookie season. He’s not the only driver on the grid who’s had to choose which of their nationalities they officially represent; he just hopes that by next season it’s not one of the three questions he’s asked at every interview.
“It was a tough decision, since, coming in, neither country had a driver already representing them on the grid. Though, that’ll change now with Liam joining the grid next year. Ultimately, it came down to the fact that the US already gets so much attention, and I wanted to be an ambassador for México. Plus, it made my abuela very happy.”
Before Alex can hear the host’s quip about grandmothers, a text from Nora appears at the top of his phone screen. He clicks to see what she wants, probably some reminder that he’s not driving for Ferrari yet and they could probably still cancel his contract if he massively fucks up this weekend.
In reality, it’s just: ‘did u hear the news?’
‘cryptic much?’ he replies.
She sends him a link to a Tweet from @espnf1: “Henry Fox, the current runner-up in the driver standings and the son of racing legend Arthur Fox, to leave Windsor. Next year, he will be driving for Ferrari.”
Alex doesn’t even have the time to process before he’s clicking on the link, going directly to Twitter to find out what the fuck is going on.
His official account has a million fucking mentions; he doesn’t even bother glancing at them. It’s one of the many things he pays June to deal with for him. Instead, Alex opens his burner so he can lurk in peace. Or, not peace, given that the app is an absolute flames with the news.
After both a scroll through his carefully-curated timeline and a perusal of the trending topics, Alex finds that the story is actually quite simple. Current World Champion and Ferrari driver, Cash Williams, has decided to retire while he’s still on top.
Alex can appreciate it, honestly. And Cash has always been super friendly and welcoming to him, giving Alex solid advice since his first F1 race. He’s happy for him, really.
Except that Ferrari’s decided to replace him with Henry Fox. Alex’s fucking nemesis.
He honestly doesn’t even know Henry that well, because even though he’s only a year older than Alex, Henry is a fucking F1 Nepo Baby to the extreme, with a racing career so fast-tracked that this year was actually Alex’s first time competing against him.
Still, their limited interactions have been more than enough to tell Alex exactly what type of person Henry is.
Most of the racing paddock is pretty friendly, honestly, given that sometimes they slam into each other at over 200 miles per hour. Alex gets along fine with most of the other drivers on the grid, including his teammate, which isn’t always an easy feat given that your teammate is your most direct comparison and closest competition. In fact, some of the drivers, like Liam Clark, are more like brothers than friends after a few years of living together while they competed in F3 and F2.
Henry, of course, is an exception. He’s aloof and quiet, unless he’s speaking to a reporter with that fake-ass smile plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. Or, if Pez is chatting him up. It kind of makes sense, because Alex is pretty sure Pez could charm a brick wall. But it hurts Alex’s theory that Henry is a robot disguised as a race car driver. So he mostly ignores Henry’s sudden ability to laugh when Pez is around.
Of course, Henry’s general bland demeanor isn’t enough to make Henry top his list of enemies. No, for that, he has another list.
Reasons Henry Fox Can Suck My Dick, A List:
Henry’s the youngest F1 driver ever, but that’s only because his literal grandma owns the team and gave him the seat.
Henry gets way more hype than he deserves just because he’s the only one of Arthur Fox’s kids who can actually get a car around a track. Hell, when he crashes, people find a way to romanticize it because it reminds them of his father.
Henry’s annoyingly competitive for someone who doesn’t even have to be. He has the car. He has the story. He has the fucking fanbase. He doesn't have to be good, too. Everyone would love him anyway.
Last, and most importantly, Henry was an absolute dick when Alex tried to congratulate him on the F2 Championship win. Alex started to make a name for himself, race by race, and Henry always seemed to have a kind smile in interviews. It was enough to make him wonder what it might look like to be an elite driver beside him one day, to share podiums and the post-race press conference couch. At least, it was until he learned the whole “nice guy” thing was just a façade. That illusion had been shattered the second Henry took one look at him, then turned to one of his adoring entourage members and muttered, “Can you get rid of him?”
Alex had barely been in Europe a year, far from his family, and still feeling a bit like a fraud. After that, he had never felt more stupid or lonely in his goddamn life. Fortunately, Raf had discovered Liam soon after and suddenly, he had a friend. But he’d never forgotten how Henry had treated him that day.
“Excellent drive, kid,” Raf, his engineer, says over the radio. “That’s P4.”
“Fuck yeah,” Alex cheers, briefly taking his right hand off of the steering wheel to punch the air. “Who’s ahead of us tomorrow?”
“The Ferraris—”
“Shocking.”
“—and Fox,” Raf finishes, the apprehension audible in his voice as he tells Alex who’ll be lining up alongside him for the final race of the season. Alex rolls his eyes as he pulls his car into the garage. He can see the headline now: “Future Ferrari Teammates Start Sunday Side by Side.”
The worst part is that Alex should be really fucking proud right now. Putting in the fourth-fastest lap in the qualifying session is no easy task for any driver, and lining up on the second row for the race gives him a great shot at the podium. Then, add the fact that top-three finishes have been rare for the team this year.
It’s been a down year for McLaren. They’re solidly ahead of the bottom five teams, but not quite competing with the four teams ahead of them. Alex can’t complain, though, since rookie drivers rarely get to drive for a competitive team; plus, getting to drive for a team as good as Ferrari in just his second year is practically unheard of.
He should be on top of the fucking world right now. He hates that he isn’t. He hates Henry Fox a little bit more for making it impossible for him to smile quite as wide as should when he climbs out of the car to cheers.
Raf catches it, though, when he pulls off his helmet. He just gives Alex a shrug, knowing there’s nothing he can say to make Alex happy with finishing directly behind Henry. They’ll debrief later; right now, Alex has to speak to the hundreds of media members outside of the McLaren garage.
Alex unzips the top of his race suit, shedding the thick, fireproof material that makes the Persian Gulf’s air even warmer. He’s sweated through his thin athletic shirt underneath, but he’s not not going to change. He doesn’t have time, for one, but it’s also not like people will complain—in fact, he’s sure there’ll be plenty of interview photos of him on his fan accounts featuring captions that make June wish she didn’t run his socials.
There’s cameras on him before he even steps into the paddock—media members mingling with VIPs and wealthy fans who’ve paid extra for access to the teams’ offices for the race weekend. He pauses to sign a t-shirt or two, poses for a photo with a young fan before the reporters realize he’s been released to talk to them. That’s all he gets, though, before a reporter from ESPN shoves a mic in his hand.
There’s always a million interviews after qualifying; questions about what went right, or what went wrong, depending on where he finished. For the final race of the season, of course, there’s even more press in the paddock than usual. That’s not even considering the announcement of Henry’s shocking move away from his family team. It all comes to a head in a veritable flood of questions for all twenty drivers.
But for Alex especially. Everyone wants to know how Alex feels about the news regarding his future teammate.
He does his best to be professional. Really. But the press always love a good quote, and they’ll do whatever it takes to elicit a reaction. Alex knows this; June’s trained him well. Still, he’s only human. He doesn’t think he can be blamed for what happens next.
He’s talking to someone from a British media outlet; he can’t remember the reporter’s name, despite having talked to the guy at least twice before. His smarmy grin doesn’t let Alex feel too bad about it, though.
“What are your thoughts on Henry’s quote about being teammates?” the guy asks him, his phone inches from Alex’s mouth, a reminder that everything he says is being recorded.
Alex’s heart thuds in his chest. He ignores it. “What do you mean?”
The reporter’s eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t hear it yet?”
“No. I’ve pretty much been stuck in interviews answering questions about him.”
“Right,” the guy says. “Well, I have the recording on my phone. Hold on, one sec.”
Alex stands there, trying not to lose his goddamn mind imagining what Henry Fox might’ve said about Alex while this middle-aged British dude fiddles with his phone. Is Henry excited? Does he want to get to know Alex? Those are far too generous, probably. Henry more than likely gave a robotic, scripted statement about ‘looking forward to their partnership,’ or something.
“Alright, I’ve got it,” the reporter says, drawing Alex from his thoughts, and back to the crowded media room he’s ended up in after too many interviews to count. The guy holds up his phone to Alex’s ear, and he immediately hears a stranger's voice; no one he recognizes. It must be a different media member.
“Of course, you and your teammate will both be trying to score points for Ferrari, but your teammate is also your biggest competition. How do you feel about your chances against Alex?”
Alex’s stomach clenches as he prepares to hear Henry’s response; that’s not the question he’d expected. Then, the audio on the clip cuts out.
Alex tilts his head. “I can’t hear anything after the question.”
“Damn fat thumb,” the reporter chuckles, drawing the phone away from Alex briefly to tap at the screen, before raising it back up to Alex’s ear. Sound comes through the speakers half a second later.
“I’m not worried about Alex.”
The speaker is unmistakable. That’s Henry, stating for all the world to hear. Alex knows that quote will be all over his social media, if June even lets him have access to it the night before a race. That he doesn’t see Alex as a threat, as a rival. As an equal.
Really, it’s just further confirmation of what Alex already knew. For years, he’s figured that Henry’s thought of Alex as beneath him, if Henry even thought of him at all.
Well, Henry’s not going to be able to ignore him anymore.
Alex clears his throat, ignoring all of the cameras in order to look the report back in the eye. He wants to make sure the smug motherfucker catches every word.
“All I can say is that if Henry’s not worried now, he will be soon. Give two drivers the same machinery—the same beast of a car as Ferrari has this year— and what really sets apart great drivers from good ones is talent and hard work and fucking wanting it. Henry might have the first one, but no one works harder than me.” Alex’s eyes flit to the nearest camera, taking note of the blinking light. He imagines Henry’s standing on the other side of the lens. “No one wants it more than me. Everyone might just be surprised who’s at the top of the driver’s standings after the final race next year.”
His heart’s still running its own race in his chest, and he kind of feels like all of his nerves are rattling across his skin as if he’s still facing race-level G forces. It’s also kind of the best he’s felt since the news first broke. June’s probably going to throw his phone into the Persian Gulf. But that’s a problem for after his shower.
June doesn’t drown him or his phone, but she does give him a fucking earful while he’s lying in bed that night. It’s still not enough to make him regret a single word he’d said.
“—also ‘Ferrari Foes’ is trending on Twitter. And, there’s a series of rumors circulating that Ferrari’s going to be forced to choose between the two of you,” June finishes with a huff.
“Okay, but that’s just a rumor, right?”
“Yes, but you’re missing the point, Alex.”
“The point that I hate Fox and am looking forward to beating him in the Driver’s Championship?” Alex clarifies. It’s probably a good thing that June can’t see the smirk on his face. “I don’t think anyone missed that.”
“Shut up and be serious for exactly one minute,” June snaps. She rarely raises her voice at him, even when he posts a photo on Instagram where he looks like he’s fresh off of a runway, but June looks like she was caught mid-sneeze. He must’ve really pissed her off this time. “Sure, Ferrari might not have actually fired you. Yet. But everyone’s convinced you’re going to start off next year by ramming into Henry—”
“It’s not bumper cars—”
“And,” June continues, ignoring him, “Nora’s already said that some of your sponsors have reached out.”
“—also, why would I wreck my own car? That makes no sense,” Alex finishes. Then, June’s words register with him. “Wait, what about my sponsors?”
“No one’s withdrawn,” June says. “Yet. But you need to be careful. British racing fans may be upset with Henry for leaving, but he’s still more popular than you.”
“Alright,” Alex sighs, a wave of tiredness suddenly washing over him. There’s the lingering physical exhaustion from driving, but a deeper weariness has him running his hand through his curls, pushing them back from his face.
His work’s not finished once he’s stepped out of his race car. Alex has to do interviews and attend events, has to make sure he comes off as charming, friendly, and intelligent. Marketable. Teams need fast drivers. But in the modern era, they also need drivers who bring sponsorships and the right kind of media attention. It’s a part of the job for all of the drivers; it’s even more challenging for the guys who aren’t white, who don’t have a guaranteed seat on a team, who aren’t the sons of multimillionaires.
Alex has a smile and abs that are a social media gold mine. Pairing that with the support of American brands who are eager to partner with an American driver, and he knows that increases his value to a team. There’s more to Ferrari selecting him than his multiple top-five finishes this year. Until he can prove that he belongs on the world’s top team for racing reasons, Alex has to prove his worth off of the racetrack. And that means making nice with his future teammate.
“Alright,” Alex repeats once more over the phone. “I’ll do whatever you need me to, Bug.”
June sighs over the speaker. “Just… Please, think before you speak. And, go out and drive a fast, clean race tomorrow.”
“You got it, Bug.”
All of the madness of the past few days fades away when Alex climbs into his McLaren for the final time. It doesn’t matter that after June hung up last night, he laid in bed, staring at his ceiling for hours. It doesn’t matter that Nora refuses to tell him if he’s damaged his chances of a long-term career with Ferrari. It doesn’t matter that he could feel Henry’s eyes on him as he slid his helmet on moments ago.
All that matters now is the car below him and the track ahead of him.
When the lights go out and the race begins, Alex’s brain can finally just be. Racing requires the entirety of his focus; the slightest miscalculation or misstep can mean crashing into a wall at hundreds of miles an hour.
He’s not sure if that’s what’s happened with Basil when he passes the car that was previously in second now stuck in the wall at turn four, but his brain locks onto what’s most important: ten more laps without any errors and he has a chance to make it onto the final podium of the year.
Alex crosses the finish line half a second ahead of Pez, who had been all over his ass for the last few laps in the much faster Mercedes. His grip on the steering wheel immediately loosens as he crosses the line; holding off the other car had been no easy task.
“That’s P3, chamaco!” Raf shouts over the radio. “What a way to finish your rookie year!”
“Fuck yeah!” Alex replies, settling into his cool down lap. The adrenaline from the race still surges through his body, making his heart feel like it’s going to vibrate straight out of his chest. His brain starts to transition from race-mode, and he realizes he should probably say a few more words. “Thanks, Raf. And thanks to everyone else at McLaren, here and back at the factory. Y’all believed in me before anyone else, and I’m so grateful. You’ll always have a special place in my heart.”
With that, Alex follows the two cars ahead of him down to parc fermé as they break off from everyone else ahead of the post-race celebrations. From the moment he finally parks and gets out of his car, it’s a whirlwind.
First, he’s leaning over the barriers and embracing his engineers and mechanics, everyone who helped his car cross the finish line in third. Even though he’s leaving them for a different team, there aren’t any hard feelings; they understand the opportunity he’s been given. Still, Alex is going to miss them—he’d meant what he’d said, before, about McLaren having a special place in his heart.
Cash, the race winner, comes over and gives Alex a big hug, whispering, “The Scuderia’s in good hands next year,” which reminds him of the future that lies ahead. Then, he’s pulled into the official post-race interview, where he's praising McLaren once again as he simultaneously runs through the damage control talking points June had sent to him overnight, all while Henry very noticeably avoids any kind of interaction with him.
It’s not exactly easy to ignore a fellow podium-finisher after a race, what with photo-ops and interviews and being guided around by race officials, but Henry manages. Excels at it, even. Just like he excels at everything else. Henry simply acts like Alex doesn’t exist, even when Alex makes a crack about an all-Ferrari podium, and later, when he carefully states, “I’m looking forward to working with Henry next year. He pushes me to be a better driver.”
Alex tries not to feel weird about it. He doesn’t like Henry, and Henry doesn’t like him. It makes sense that Henry doesn’t exactly want to strike up a conversation with him, especially when Alex is clearly just making nice for the public. Still, Alex kind of fucking hates the way Henry’s gaze pointedly skips over him, as irrational as it may be. It makes his skin itch.
Eventually, though, it’s time for the actual podium celebration, just the second of Alex’s Formula 1 career. It’s still surreal, waving to the fans as he walks out to loud cheers before stepping onto the lowest of the three steps. Alex searches for Nora and June, easily finding them amongst the crowd at the front of the barricades with wide smiles on both of their faces.
Henry and Cash follow him onto the stage, taking their respective places on the podium before they’re presented with their trophies. Alex shakes the presenter’s hand before hoisting the trophy in the air with his other one, grinning at the answering applause.
Most of Alex’s junior formula trophies are back in Austin, though his F2 Championship trophy and his third place from earlier this year have a home in his Monaco apartment. He hopes that by the end of next year, he’ll have enough to justify purchasing a display case, rather than using them as bookends for his Rick Riordan collection.
The trophy presentation is followed by the Canadian national anthem, because Cash won, and the Italian national anthem, because Cash races for Ferrari. Alex has heard both songs so many times this year that he could probably sing them in his sleep.
After, though, is Alex’s favorite part. Spraying champagne on his colleagues never gets old; it’s even better with Henry as one of Alex’s targets. He’d be lying if he didn’t take a special sort of satisfaction in stepping across the platform in order to reach Henry better, so that the bubbles can hit him right in the face.
In fact, Alex gets so caught up in dousing Henry that he’s not paying attention to what’s directly in front of him. Or, in front of his feet, more specifically.
Alex trips on a sharp, metal object, tumbling forward into Henry’s legs and taking Henry down with him, their bodies strewn across the second podium step. Alex quickly flips off of Henry’s lower half, taking in the scene before him.
Fortunately, neither of the bottles have shattered, though the last of the champagne is still trickling from the large bottles that are now rolling around on the stage. Alex’s eyes shift back to the spot where he tripped, and the source of his fall is immediately obvious: Henry’s second-place trophy, which is now lying in two distinct pieces on the floor below.
Alex closes his eyes and groans. This is definitely not on June’s list of approved PR moves.
The body next to him shifts, and Alex’s eyes flicker open. He watches as Henry’s bright blue eyes take in the scene before them. In that posh-as-fuck accent, Henry mutters, “Fucking Christ.”
Alex hates that he agrees.