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CHAPTER ELEVEN

QATAR GRAND PRIX | THURSDAY | MEDIA DAY

"Media center in fifteen." Ona falls into step beside Reece as they exit the fitness center after his morning workout. "Then setup meeting with Asuka, lunch, and Claudia has some one-on-ones in the afternoon."

The Qatar International Circuit's gleaming facilities might look like a mirage rising from the desert, but there's nothing illusory about the buzz in the paddock.

Fortunately, Ona towers over most of the personnel they pass, her six-foot frame and athletic build creating a natural buffer zone around Reece.

She's more than just his physio — she's physical trainer, nutritionist, focus coach, and personal assistant rolled into one formidable package.

Today, he's particularly grateful for the way people step aside when she approaches. Ona commands respect.

The last thing he wants right now is casual paddock conversation, because each step toward the media center feels like moving deeper into enemy territory.

His phone buzzes with a message from Claudia.

Media center at capacity. Entertainment outlets crashed the party. Brace yourself.

Just what he needs. Sports journalists at least care about lap times and overtakes. Entertainment vultures are only here for gossip.

Fuck.

Ona glances at the same message on her phone. "Mm. This will be unpleasant." Her dry humor helps. Always.

Reece steels himself as he approaches the doors of the circuit's media center. Inside, the crowd is three times its normal size, camera equipment and people crammed into every available space.

The largest conference room hums with anticipation as Reece seeks Claudia.

Ona takes a position by the side entrance, arms crossed, gaze roaming.

The space is crowded beyond capacity — journalists from motorsport publications sharing space with entertainment reporters who don’t know downforce from DRS.

"They're here for the soap opera, not the sport." Claudia scrolls through her tablet and shakes her head. "We've received sixty-three additional interview requests since yesterday. All wanting exclusive access to 'F1's newlywed driver and his bride.'"

Reece adjusts his Nitro cap. "Thanks for running interference."

"That's my job." She looks up at him, eyes sharp behind designer glasses. "Coy and the owners believe your private life is your business. I agree.” She gestures toward the crowd. “Those piranhas don’t.”

"What's the strategy?"

"Shut it down. Hard." She straightens his team jacket and picks off a tiny piece of lint. "Then redirect to track talk. If they persist, you're authorized to walk. We've already sold out of hospitality packages for the remainder of the season. They need us more than we need them."

Reece nods. He appreciates the team's protective stance.

She checks her watch. "Let's go."

The press conference setup is standard — a long table, PNW Nitro backdrop, microphones, and water bottles.

What isn't standard is the crowd. Usually, these technical briefings attract dedicated motorsport journalists who care about tire compounds and aerodynamic adjustments.

Today, the center is standing-room only, bristling with cameras and reporters who look like they'd be more at home on a red carpet than a racetrack.

Claudia taps a microphone. "Good morning. We'll begin today's press briefing for PNW Nitro Racing with drivers Reece Pritchard and Petra Hayter."

A flutter of excitement passes through the room at Reece's name.

Claudia picks up on it immediately. "First, to address the elephant in the room. No questions about our drivers' personal lives will be answered today. I know that's a disappointment, but PNW Nitro respects their drivers' privacy. We ask that you do the same. Thank you."

A reporter raises his hand. "How are we supposed to get information about this development?"

"The same way everyone else does, Jonathan." Claudia doesn’t miss a beat. "Consult the online rumor mill."

Laughter ripples through the room. Reece doesn’t react, aware of cameras capturing his every micro-expression.

"Now, our drivers will take questions about the upcoming race and technical considerations for the Qatar circuit."

A journalist from MotoMouth raises his hand. "Question for Reece. With Sutton's penalty from Vegas carrying over, does that change your approach to qualifying?"

Reece leans toward his microphone. "Absolutely.

Lynch starting five places back opens opportunities for us, no question.

Overtaking's difficult here, as we all know, so we're focusing on maximizing straight-line speed while preserving enough downforce for the complex middle sector. Finding that balance will be critical."

A woman from Gran Premio Directo raises her hand. "Petra, you've been consistently strong here. Do you see Qatar as a track that suits your driving style?"

Petra leans forward. "Every track suits my driving style if I'm quick enough." That gets her a few laughs. "But seriously, the technical sections here reward precision over raw power. That plays to our car's strengths this weekend."

"Reece, do you agree with that assessment?"

He nods. "Petra's right about the technical nature of the circuit. We've made some setup adjustments that should help us be competitive in both qualifying and the race. The key will be tire management as the track temps evolve."

The press conference continues with similar technical questions, the motorsport journalists making the most of their time. Reece begins to hope they might actually get through without incident.

Then a voice calls out from the back: "Reece, is it true you married a stripper only six hours after you met her?"

The room goes quiet.

Reece identifies the source as a reporter from Inside Formula . It’s one of Graham's media properties.

Bloody typical.

His father can't ignore an opportunity to stir up shit. Drama equals clicks and clicks equal money.

Claudia stands. "As I stated at the beginning?—"

The reporter barrels on. "With respect, F1 fans are invested in drivers' lives. There are photographs circulating of what appears to be a wedding ceremony in Las Vegas. Can you confirm or deny?—"

Reece says, "My wife is a professional dancer, choreographer, and dance teacher. Let's be clear about that. And my personal life isn’t up for discussion. We're here to talk about racing."

Petra leans into her mic. "Fascinating how none of you asked about my personal life when I split with my boyfriend last month." She flashes a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Is it because I'm a woman, or because my relationship wasn’t good fodder for sleazy headlines? Sorry about that. Both."

The room erupts with follow-up questions and uncomfortable laughter.

Through the sea of raised hands and shouted queries, Reece spots a familiar face at the back of the room.

Junior Betterton stands by the door with a recording device, arms folded over a crew shirt from Graham's production company.

Wanker looks enormously pleased with himself.

Claudia steps forward. "That concludes today's press briefing. Technical information packets are available on the media server. Thank you."

She motions for the drivers to follow her. As Reece stands, another voice calls out.

"Was it love at first sight, Reece, or did your new wife read the bank statements first?"

Reece pauses, finding the reporter who spoke.

It’s someone he doesn’t recognize. The room falls quiet as he holds the guy’s gaze.

"If you think Maiken needed a bank statement to say yes, that's absolutely a reflection of your values, not hers.

One hundred percent. Pretty disappointing question, honestly. "

Petra places a hand on his arm. "Let's get out of here before I tell them where to shove their microphones."

He follows her through the door, ignoring the shouted questions that trail after.

In the hallway, Claudia’s already on her phone. "Yes, we need to restrict both reporters’ access. Their questions violated our clearly stated boundaries." She catches his eye. "Sorry about that, Reece. I should’ve seen it coming when I spotted Graham's people registering for credentials."

"Not your fault. Bloody typical of them, though."

"Your response was good. Dignified but sharp. I can work with that."

Petra rolls her eyes. "Those bloody wankers. Absolute rubbish, asking about someone's spouse that way. Proper out of order. None of their fucking business."

As Reece turns to leave, Claudia adds, "Oh, and Reece? Be careful leaving the paddock. DBJ’s been hanging around with a camera crew, trying to get reaction footage for that show of Graham's. I suspect you'll feature prominently in this week's episode."

He nods. He needs to talk to Maiken. The thought of her seeing Graham's edited version of events makes his stomach churn.

He pulls out his phone as he walks, resolving to get ahead of whatever narrative his fucking father is creating. This isn't just about him anymore. He owes Maiken more than having her introduced to his world through Graham's distorted lens, twisted by his family’s dysfunction.

He starts typing:

Hey, about today?—

Then stops.

No. Not over text.

She deserves a real conversation. Face to face. Sober and honest. He locks his phone, shoving it back into his pocket, and lengthens his stride. He’s not going to let Graham Pritchard be the one to define this marriage. Not for her. Not for him.

Not ever.