C> "And it's lights out and away we go!"

Alessandro pressed down on the gas pedal, lurching his car forward.

Dakota watched on from the pit lane, holding her breath as 20 cars sped towards turn 1.

C> "Leclerc has a full lead going into the first turn! Moreno and Gasly are scrapping away behind Hamilton and Verstappen."

Dakota smiled to herself when she saw that Alessandro had gained 3 places at the start. He was now in P5, right behind Gasly.

"How long do you think Leclerc will last in first place?" Mark asked

"Ha. Well I'd say 5 laps," Dakota replied, fiddling with the settings in the car.

Everyone knew this year's Ferrari was lowkey shit.

She could hear the chatter on the radio as the teams discussed various strategies and potential pit windows. Glancing over at Mark, she quietly changed the channel on her headset to the McLaren radio.

E> "Lando, manage the tires. Graining on the Front left."

L> "Copy."

Slowly, the lap count increased one at a time. It was a 51 lap race and they were almost halfway done.

A> "How are the tires?"

E> "Try to do some Lift and Coast please, Alé. Save the fuel for when you need it."

A> "Copy. Is this pace ok?"

E> "Good for now."

"Do you reckon I'll fall asleep before we get halfway through?" Dakota asked, letting out a yawn.

"Probably. Doesn't seem to be too exciting right now," Mark replied, scrolling through his twitter.

"Clearly," she replied, rolling her eyes. He was addicted to his devices.

"Hey, don't start n- oh fuck me," he muttered as Dakota scrambled to put the car into drive.

Someone had just crashed outside the pitlane, right in front of them.

"Did you see who it was?" Dakota asked, speeding out of the pits.

"No, but I think it's an Aston Martin."

"It's Lance."

"How- what happened?" Mark muttered.

"Dunno, it seemed pretty sudden," Dakota replied.

Mark gradually went quiet, noticing the look of concentration on Dakota's face. Her eyes glanced to the mirrors every few seconds, Max's Redbull weaving behind her.

C> "D'you know what? It's been a while since I've heard the drivers complain about the safety car being slow.

M> "I reckon it's because Dakota Sanchez has quite the handle on that car."

C> : "Right, so this accident is apparently caused by tire failure. Left rear tire failure."

M> "Oh and that will be critical for the rest of the field that has yet to pit. The two McLarens and the Alpines will be looking at their tire strategy."

"Back to the pits," Mark speaks up as the order from race control came through.

The brakes were steaming hot on the safety car by the time they came to a stop.

Meanwhile, Alessandro was starting to become worried.

A> "How are my tires?"

E> "All okay. Keep pushing."

A> "Keep monitoring the pressures."

E> "Just drive."

He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from talking back. The metallic taste of blood coated his mouth.

But he couldn't lose focus. If the car was unstable, he would have mere milliseconds to take notice of it.

He drove for another 5 laps, his eyes constantly drifting to his two front tires.

A> "Should we box this lap?"

E> "Negative, stay out."

"Lance is ok?" Dakota asked.

"Yeah, just a bit winded. He'll be sore tomorrow."

"No doubt, that was a big whack," she muttered. Dakota eyed the McLaren pitwall as she sat in the car.

It seemed as if Alessandro's engineer, Dave, and the lead strategist were having a disagreement about something. Both of them leaned towards each other, both shaking their heads.

She tore her eyes away from them as Mark pulled up the live stream.

"Mind tuning into McLaren's radio?"

"Don't have to ask me twice. Anything for lover boy," Mark smirked.

"Oh shut it."

He raised his hand in surrender, switching the radio channels.

L> "Has everyone pitted?"

E> "Negative, looks like a few of the backmarkers and Sandro haven't pitted."

L> "Yeah the tire situation looks a bit sketchy. Best to pit him soon."

E> "Right on, Lando. We're keeping an eye out."

Lando was concerned for his teammate. He knew Alessandro had pitted a long time ago and that his tires would start to wear out.

Soon, Alessandro's voice came over the radio.

A> "Check pressures?"

E> "Alessandro, just drive. Stop being paranoid."

A> "Has Lando pitted?"

E> "Yes, he has."

A>"Am I go-"

E>"Gap to Perez 4.6."

"Damn, his engineer seems like a prick," Mark muttered.

"Right? He has a right to be worried. So is everyone else. And why have they pitted Lando and not him?"

"Dunno," Mark shrugged.

He was about to turn off the radio when a more urgent tone replaced his engineers exasperated one.

E> "Slow puncture. Slow puncture. Box now."

A> "I fucking told you!"

"You've got to be kidding me," Dakota said in disbelief.

They both stared at the onboard, only to be snapped out of their trance when Crofty started yelling.

C> "Oh and it's Max Verstappen! Max Verstappen on the main straight! He was leading, and now he's out of this race! His teammate, Sergio Perez is now leading from Hamilton."

Max's voice came through the radio channel as Mark tuned into RedBull's broadcast.

"Fucking tire! Fuck!" he groaned in frustration, tossing the detachable steering wheel out of the car. He got out, rounding the back of the car to give the rear tire a nice little kick.

"I think that hurt him more than the car," Dakota muttered.

"You think?" Mark chuckled. "Another tire failure."

"Again? What the heck?" Dakota exclaimed.

"Yeah, looks like Pirelli got it wrong," Mark grimaced, glancing at his tablet with the tracker.

"Race control says red flag, back to the pit lane," Mark grimaced.

18 cars lined up in a row in the pit lane as Lance's car was cleared from the track.

"Well, there goes Max's lead in the championship," Dakota frowned, watching the cars line up.

"And it gets handed right to Lewis," Mark cheered, earning a glare from the brunette.

The shiny number 15 on the papaya colored car caught her attention.

Her eyes followed the McLaren until it came to a stop. Alessandro got out, fiddling with the strap under his helmet.

A disturbed look on his face told her he wasn't very happy at the moment. His jaw ticked, his brows furrowed as he spoke to his engineer.

His hands moved haphazardly, his body language indicating he was clearly agitated.

"Well, he doesn't look too happy."

"Clearly not."

Alessandro yanked off his balaclava, anger rushing through his veins. He wanted to smack some brains into his engineer who was as stupid as a dog chasing its own tail.

"Where's Ivan?" he asked, wanting to speak with his strategist.

"In the back, now listen-" Dave began.

"No you listen. I said I wanted to box and there was an open window, why didn't you let me come in?"

"You don't see what I see on the data screens."

"Yeah and I could've almost had a tire failure just now! Good thing it was a slow puncture and not a full burst! If it weren't for the red flag, I would've been like Lance or Max."

"That red flag really saved him," Mark spoke up, watching the two in a heated discussion.

"It really did. At least he's P5 right now," she replied.

They spend almost an hour under the red flag. Everyone with damage was allowed to do repairs and tires could be changed. That was crucial for Alessandro, or he would've had a tire failure as well due to his engineer's lack of awareness.

Dakota, not having anything else to do, got out to get a stretch break.

She lingered about outside the McLaren garage, trying to snag a convo with the Italian.

He finally stepped away from his engineer, running a hand through his hair.

"Hey," she spoke up, taking a seat beside him on the kerb.

"Hey," he replied, his voice tense.

Alessandro couldn't focus on a single thing. His mind was spinning with millions of thoughts and he felt like he was going to be sick.

Glancing over at Dakota, he noticed her holding out his water bottle.

"Thanks."

"Pretty crazy race, huh?"

"Mhm."

Dakota shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

Why did I choose to do this?

"Right, well. Good luck on the restart, you're P4 so, uh, close enough."

She didn't wait for a response, standing up and disappearing before Alessandro could formulate a response.

"Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes. He didn't mean to come off so apathetic.

"Wait!" he called, making Dakota stop in her tracks.

Slowly she made her way back to him.

"Sorry, I'm just," a frustrated sigh left his lips as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Hey, I get it. No need to apologize. You have a lot on your mind right now," she offered him a smile.

"This is officially the worst race I've ever done," he muttered.

"There's only two laps remaining. All you have to do is one overtake and you're on the podium."

"You say that like it's easy," he muttered.

"Weren't you the king of overtakes in F2?"

"How do you know about that?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

He took in her flushed cheeks, slight lines imprinted on her face from her helmet. Her long brown hair was neatly tied into two boxer brads. Her long lashes made her brown doe eyes stand out.

She was beautiful.

"Heard from a friend of a friend," she shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Oh really? What else have you heard?" he asked, relaxing a bit as he leaned back against the pitwall.

"Hmmm, that's a secret."

Alessandro raised a brow at her, his green eyes flickering between hers.

"Sandro!" a voice called, breaking their stare-off.

"Restart in 7 minutes!"

"Coming!"

"Well, two more laps to go," he sighed, undoing the arms of his race suit from around his waist.

"I mean, two laps is enough to make overtakes. But only if you're good," Dakota shrugged, pretending to busy herself in tying her shoes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alessandro asked, frowning as he looked down at her.

"Nothing, just stating a fact," she replied innocently, knowing all too well her words would irk him.

Alessandro scowled at her, knowing she was just trying to irritate him.

"Good luck!" she called as he walked back towards his car.

Turning slightly, he gave her a thumbs up, a smile lingering on his lips.

No matter how much she annoyed him, her words had lit a fire inside him. He was getting that podium. This was the closest he'd ever been, and not even a shitty car was going to stop him from getting P3. He was so sure of it.

Dakota all but ran back to the safety car where Mark was waiting for her. A concentrated look on his face as he listened to race controls directions over the earpiece in his ear.

"Race restarts at quarter past 6," he informed as they hopped back in the car.

Race restarts after a red flag were usually chaotic. The drivers had to scramble to get back into racing mode after a long break.

As the cars stood on the grid, smoke began to rise from the breaks on Hamiltons' Mercedes.

The lights went out and the cars launched towards the first turn.

But nobody expected a rare error from the 7 time world champion in the Mercedes.

"No fucking way! No way! Holy shit!"

"Ah mate, he done fucked up," Mark groaned, running a hand down his face.

"Did he just forget the brake pedal existed?"

"No clue, that was so bizarre."

"Holy shit, Alessandro's P4!"

Alessandro had expected the start to be chaotic. He was in fourth with the Sergio, Lewis, and surprisingly, Sebstian, in front of him. He anticipated the front two to pull away and he would be left to battle Seb for third. But what he didn't expect was to see the black Mercedes go zooming straight off the track.

His heart skipped a beat. There was only 2 laps remaining and he had just been gifted a place.

P4.

A podium. His first ever in Formula One. Just one car away. One overtake away.

He felt like he was in a dream when he spotted the pit-board with his name: MOR P4+1:47.

Alessandro had one more lap left and he had to make it count.

He fought so damn hard. Every corner and every apex, he made it as perfect as he could. Pierre was still over a second ahead of him, meaning Alessandro had no DRS speed advantage.

With every passing turn, his frustration grew.

As the front running cars entered sector 3, there was nothing he could do.

He would have to settle for P4.

Even when the chequered flag was waved, he couldn't believe it. He had been so sure. So sure that a podium was easily achievable. But it wasn't enough. He drove his cooldown lap in a daze.

Alessandro flinched as the radio channel came to life.

E> "That's P4. Congrats on your highest finish."