Bruno's arm is stretched across my waist when I wake up.

I breathe in the faint odor of alcohol and sex still clinging to the air from last night. I'm careful not to disturb him as I slip out from under the sheets. His hotel is nicer than ours, which isn't a surprise since he's one of the top drivers in the sport. Not that I'm complaining about our rooms.

A splash of icy water on my face rouses me awake. My muscles are tender, but I'm not about to ask the man outside to help massage the pain out, so I settle for taking a hot shower. Spotting an empty condom packet in the trash brings a sigh of relief.

By the time I exit the bathroom wearing some of Bruno's casual clothes, he's already sitting up in bed and flipping through the room service menu.

He glances over as I emerge with a cloud of steam trailing behind me and a plush white towel wrapped around my head. "Breakfast?"

"This is preventing my getaway."

"I'm a little offended you'd think I'd kick you out."

"I wasn't assuming anything. I tend not to stay long."

Bruno glances back down at the menu. "Just offering. Won't be offended if you leave."

Deciding I am better off accepting his offer than retreating back to my hotel on an empty stomach, I toss the towel onto an armchair and jump back onto the bed. The scent of his body wash dominates the room, helping camouflage the reminders of last night.

While we wait for our food, Bruno busies himself with picking up around the hotel room in preparation for leaving this afternoon. With only a handful of races left, one of which is next weekend, he has no time to relax. I, on the other hand, don't leave until tomorrow evening so I recline on the bed.

"What's left on the calendar?" I ask.

A dirty shirt flies across the room and lands perfectly inside the suitcase. "Mexico. Then Brazil and Abu Dhabi for the finale."

"How optimistic are you?"

"I'm optimistic in myself. The rest is all—" he waves his hand, "—nonsense and out of my control."

"Care to elaborate?"

        "Questionable stewards' decisions. Problems with the car. Team members not pulling their weight."

"Seems like you're placing a lot of that blame on other people."

"I know where my mistakes are and aren't."

Deciding this isn't a bear I want to poke, I rest my cheek against the palm of my hand. "What's your favorite track?"

"Monza," he replies quickly. "Forza's favorite track. It's fast."

"I think Bash might have told me once his favorite is Monaco. You know, besides here."

"He would."

"And?"

"I'm not sharing any of them with Bash's girl."

"I'm my own person, thank you very much." I roll my eyes. "But, believe it or not, Bash and I don't spend a lot of time talking about F1 or other drivers' opinions."

"It's hard to overtake in Monaco and that's the fun part of racing." It's an easy way out, but the explanation will suffice. "But that's funny."

"Why?"

"All he ever talks about with us is F1." Bruno briefly adjourns to the bathrooms to collect his items. "He doesn't share what he does off the track except to a few of the guys."

"Maybe he just doesn't feel like sharing anything with you," I joke, but his words must hold some truth to them. I haven't seen any of Brendon's interviews, aside from the F1 videos he's featured in alongside the rest of the grid, but it doesn't surprise me. While we've spent time together, our night out in Melbourne is the first time he opened up. "Maybe I'm reading too much into it but it doesn't seem like you two like each other that much."

I know I'm not as far as Brendon is concerned. He straight up told me Bruno isn't his favorite person to be around. But it's harder to tell if the feelings are mutual or if it's just Bruno's less-than-sunny disposition.

He walks out of the bathroom. "It's a boring story."

"I'm easily amused."

Bruno is conflicted. We might have seen each other naked but we're not friends and I'm better off asking the person I'm actually friends with about it.

"This stays between us," he warns. "Even though you could probably find it online if you looked hard enough."

"I don't spend time on the internet." I brush him off, propping myself up on my elbows. "And I'd never betray your secrets, especially when you don't seem like the type to share them often."

"What gives you that impression?"

"The big fuck you sign on your forehead."

Bruno shifts. "Windsor approached me a couple years ago about making a switch over to their team. Things were looking good, especially since 2020 was a good season for me, but talks fell through when they realized Bash was having a better one so they promoted him from their B team."

It's hard to react because Brendon fits in at Windsor, but I understand his disappointment at missing out on joining the top team, even if Forza isn't lacking. As he pointed out last night, being best of the rest isn't winning. It's easy to see how the title, as rewarding as it might be in its own right, feels like a consolation prize.

I nibble on my bottom lip, mulling over how to respond. "It's not really Bash's fault, though. Would've been a shame for him to pass up an opportunity like that."

"I'm not blaming him," Bruno replies. "It makes sense to grab someone who started off in their junior program. But it doesn't make it easier to see him doing better than me. And I'm older so my years left in the sport are limited."

"You've won one championship, if I'm not mistaken. Maybe comparing yourself to someone who's not far off from being a rookie isn't the best way to look at your progress."

"Easier said than done."

"Fair," I concede. Talking as an outsider lacks perspective. Then again, Bruno is sharing this with me as a result of our sexcapade hangover. He's not looking for advice so I don't beat myself up about not being able to provide any. "I'm even more confused about why you were at their party now."

"Maybe it worked out in the end." Bruno leans back against the headboard and picks up his phone, ignoring my second comment.

"Why's that?"

"Idris is a beast of a driver and hard to drive alongside. Good luck to anyone that wants to fight him for the title."

...

"You never told me how good he was."

I take a sip of my chocolate shake. "I don't fuck and tell."

"That bad?"

"Not at all."

On the flight back home, Seira and I sat next to each other and she'd told me about how she spent the night with Rix Tsui. The two of us booked appointments to get tested as soon as we had time and are due to receive our results any minute now.

"At least we have a couple weeks of rest after the new year," she continues. "Aside from that profile they're doing."

Marty booked us an interview spread with a fashion magazines doing a piece on our rise due to come out later this year. Notably, not long before Grammy nominations will be announced. If we want our next album to be up for consideration, we need to drop it in the first half of the year.

"Yeah," I sigh, placing the empty box onto the dash. "We're cutting it close to the deadline next year."

"Tell that to Rami," she replies with some bite. "He's the perfectionist that can't let those lines go."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting things to be perfect," I say in his defense. The impossible pursuit of perfection is the nature of  any creative outlet. "Sometimes he needs a nudge."

Seira rolls her eyes and takes another bite. "That's an understatement."

"Don't trash his creative process when he's not here to defend himself."

"Fine." She waves me off with a flick of her wrist. "Did Mav let us know when he's able to come into the studio?"

"Not yet. He's going to stop by next week for the show so we can ask him about it then."

While Seira finishes up breakfast, I punch out a text to Kingston Maverick, a DJ we met while contributing to the soundtrack of a movie called Work, Wife. He goes by his stage name Maverick, though I prefer to call him Mav.

I almost send my text to his actual number when I remember he called me from a random one the other day to ask about bringing a friend with him to our Vegas show. Apparently, he had some collision with a flight attendant down in Brisbane while on his way to Tokyo—why he booked a layover in Australia instead of flying straight there from New York is beyond me, but I don't waste my time questioning Maverick's decisions—and they mistakenly switched phones.

He's a brilliant musician, no doubt, but in the time I've known him, he's found himself in some questionable predicaments.

[ STEVIE ]

hey, dork. where are you at right now?

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Glasgow. Can't sleep.

[ STEVIE ]

just wanted to check if you're still on for next week. jenny needs to send some info before you get to the venue.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Assuming I don't miss my flight, yes.

[ STEVIE ]

Try not to be hungover or you'll miss your "not-date"

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

It isn't a date—

[ STEVIE ]

I totally believe you.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

I swear, if you do anything weird

[ STEVIE ]

Why would I do anything weird?

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Do I really need to elaborate?

[ STEVIE ]

Fair point. But seeing as I'm getting you backstage for free maybe let me have a little fun. Especially since *barfs* Maver is going to be there. Ruining my new year like the butt he is.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

You'd actually make me pay to see your show?

[ STEVIE ]

the bills don't pay themselves.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

I doubt your bank account is lacking.

[ STEVIE ]

men don't get in for free. end of discussion.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Fine. But speaking of Maver, look what I made the other day.

[ STEVIE ]

alsknalskfna i'm crying

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Thank you for appreciating my art.

[ STEVIE ]

maybe lauren will finally dump his ass if i show her this

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Please don't tell me she's still with him...

[ STEVIE ]

i would've invited you to the party i'd have thrown if she wasn't.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

True. I should know better.

[ STEVIE ]

i think my test results just came in. i gotta go but i'll see you next week.

[ STEVIE ]

oh and seira wanted to ask you something so don't forget to see her before you leave.

[ NOT MAV'S PHONE ]

Will do. See you in Vegas.

[ STEVIE ]

don't miss your flight!!

"Another day of being STD-free," I announce before dropping my phone onto my lap. "How about you?"

"Clean! Thank fuck." Seira tosses a crumpled-up napkin into my box on the dash and moves to unbuckle her seat belt. "I need to pee but we can leave after."

While she heads inside In-N-Out, I pull up Twitter because, despite what I told Bruno the other week, I am a little gluttonous for self-inflicted pain. After replying to a few of MARS members' tweets, my thumb accidentally slides across the screen, pulling up the trending tab.

The Formula One World Championship finale was this past weekend and, to no one's surprise, Idris Johnson remains on top of the world. His face has been plastered all over social media since he sealed his win, taking his rightful place at the top to extend his record-breaking number of championship wins. It's hard not to root for someone like him, equally as graceful in defeat as he is in triumph.

Unfortunately, that means Brendon has to settle for second place. It's not a bad place to be, but I'm sure being so close to victory makes the shortcomings bitter. It hasn't stopped him from celebrating with the rest of his team, who also successfully claimed their Constructors' Championship title at the Brazil race.

Deciding to chance that he's still stateside after seeing him post an Instagram story the other day in New York, I pull up his contact and lift the phone to my ear as it rings.

Just when I think it's going to voicemail, he answers. "Hey, Stevie."

"How's New York?" I ask. "My friend is there. I saw pictures of the snow."

"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a fan of snow," he laughs.

"Trade places with me. I've never seen falling snow."

"Funny." He pauses. "Wait, you haven't?"

"Believe it or not, we don't get much snow in Hawaii."

Brendon clicks his tongue. "We could take a spontaneous trip to Vancouver. The snow should be fluffy this time of year."

"Tempting, but we have a show in Vegas for New Year's so we're heading out soon."

"Really?" He perks up. "I was planning on heading back to Australia for the new year but Vegas sounds fun."

"That wasn't me inviting you," I say before I can stop myself. Thinking it over now, I'd thought about the show before I called him, so maybe I was going to end up offering him to come to see us. "But if you want to come, you can. I've already got another friend coming to the show."

"I like how you keep mentioning we're friends now."

"Keep it up and it won't stay that way any longer." Pausing, I debate bringing it up but end up doing it anyway. "You had an amazing season, Brendon. Next year will be your year. I know it."

He doesn't reply for a few seconds and I check the screen to make sure he's still on the line. When he finally answers, his voice is softer.

"Thanks, Stevie," he replies. "I can't complain about second place."

"Maybe not, but you can feel disappointed in being that close. It doesn't make you a bad person."

"How do you know exactly the right thing to say?"

I shrug even though he can't see. "Getting nominated for a Grammy with your first album is fun. Sitting there with a camera staring at your face while you lose isn't fun."

He sucks in a breath. "Yeah, that's rough."

"But you use that as fuel to bring a bigger fight in the next round," I continue on a lighter note with more conviction, hoping the sentiment rings true for us. Winning might not be everything, but getting rewarded for hard work isn't something I will ever shy away from. "And you'll get there."

"What I'm hearing is you guys will win Album of the Year next year."

I laugh, "Here's to dreaming."