Saturday, October 19 – Rome, Italy

I rub my eyes against the bright October sun as it streams through the Uber's window. This getting off the plane/train/automobile and heading straight to work nonsense is getting really old, really fast. And Nicola's a straight up liar. Not even staying at The Savoy or eating at The Ledbury can make up for having to go the press circuit alone. Questions of "Are you and Seb Bianchi dating?" or "Is your relationship going to interfere with his chance at winning another championship?" were annoying, but easy enough to blow off with a simple 'no comment.' The ones asking about Seb's kissing skills (yeah, I kind of want to know, too) or how I managed to snag such a player (hey, what if he did the snagging?) actually made me want to punch the interviewers in the face.

Then again, Seb may have had it worse. He was the one caught adjusting his pants outside my hotel room in that picture all over the tabloids and retweeted ad nauseum. If I ever find out who's responsible for starting the lie—which I've been ordered not to deny until the Cadmium team can come up with a solid rebuttal—I'll get them back somehow for sure. Glue in a shampoo bottle, hot sauce in room service ketchup, and bogus housekeeping requests all come to mind, but then I remember I'm not twelve any more.

But thank god it really is just a lie. Actually, thank Seb. He knew us getting together was a bad idea. So now he's handsome and smart. Why does every new thing I learn about him have to make me like him more? Even his hometown is gorgeous.

It's Saturday morning and traffic on Rome's downtown streets is sparse, but that just lets me see these old buildings better. There's more history in one block of this place than all of America combined, and I'd love to be able to soak it in. But our ride doesn't stop until we get to the city's flagship Ducati store.

Those people who weren't on the streets on our way here? Yeah, well they're apparently all queued in line for the fan event that's starting at ten, which is—I check my watch—in five minutes.

I have to hand it to Nicola. That woman is nothing if not punctual.

"We have a strict schedule, so let's get a move on," she says, jumping out from the seat beside me and heading to the trunk to grab her things.

I resist the urge to tell the press officer where to shove her 'shed-dule.' I like British accents as much as the next girl, but somehow that particular word never sat right, no matter how many times I've heard it in the Queen's English. I've made it through five days without once commenting on Nicola's cringe worthy pronunciation of it, but it's really hard not to reveal that hearing it that way makes me want to poke my eardrums with a sharp stick.

By the time I climb out of the back seat, Nicola is out of direct earshot, trudging toward the store with her carry-on and waving people out of her way.

I collect my bag and smile at people in the queue as I pass until they begin to recognize me. When they call me by name and pull out their cell phones to snap pictures, I lower my gaze and quicken my pace.

"Holy crap," I mutter after stopping at the entrance door beside Nicola. This is a really big group to go through in just three hours, especially after having come directly from the airport. But while being the center of attention was never my thing, meet-and-greets are part of the job.

"Don't be too flattered. Not everyone is here for you. We have the PrixMoto and the 2Prix Ducati guys here today, too," she says before knocking on the glass. A sign is still turned to 'Chiuso,' but an employee in a red shirt unlocks it for us.

I don't bother to tell her that's not what I meant. Honestly, I should just ignore every off-the-cuff thing Nicola says. It would be better for both of us.

Inside the store, long tables with red tablecloths are set up on the showroom floor. Behind them, brand new Ducatis—naked monster bikes, enduro touring bikes, and super performance sports bikes—stand in neat rows, dazzling in mostly red, black and silver color schemes under the halogen lights. The space on the other side is for apparel, safety gear, and accessories. I take a deep breath. The air smells of leather and rubber. I'm in two-wheeled heaven.

"Give me your things," Nicola instructs, already reaching for my carry-on. "Say hello or whatnot, go to the loo—I'll find you a shirt in a sec so you can change—and then take that spot over there so we can start on time. You know all the guys, right?"

I look for the others, but Nicola leaves with our bags away before I can answer. Know is not quite the word I'd use. We officially all met in Sepang, and we may have even exchanged a few words here and there during race weekends in the paddock. They were nice enough, but apart from Seb, that had been the limit to my interaction with them until now.

The two PrixMoto riders are closest by the sales counter, chatting with store employees. In their premier class, success takes a hell of a lot of skill and even more experience. Most of the guys in the category are in their late twenties, having worked their way up through the lower levels. As I stand around like a potato, Andrea Moretti—an outlier at the ripe age of thirty-five and a true legend with six championships under his belt—approaches me.

"Ciao, Lauren," he says with a huge smile before kissing me on both cheeks. His teammate Tommaso Del Duca is right behind him to do the same, lightly grazing the sides of my face with his stubble.

"It is good to see you again," Tommaso says, widening his stance and sticking his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

"You, too. Exciting week coming up, right? Racing in front of your home crowds and all?" I ask, genuinely envious. I still have to wait three weeks to return to Laguna Seca.

"For sure." Andrea crosses his arms and nods. "It will be a good weekend for us. Fans in Mugello are like nowhere else."

"You are doing well at Cadmium?" Tommaso asks, tucking a lock of his chin-length, brown hair behind his ear, but his eyes dart to something (or possibly someone) over my shoulder.

"It's been an amazing experience," I say, tempted to take a peek at the distraction. When I'm handed a shirt still in its plastic wrapper from behind, I get the chance to turn.

"Oh, thanks," I mumble to Nicola and follow her with my eyes as she heads to the signing tables. There, the 2Prix riders are talking with my teammate and his best friend.

I wonder what—if anything—Seb has shared with Nando about last Sunday night. He doesn't seem like the kiss-and-tell type (then again, there was no kissing involved), but the two of them are really close. Did he tell Nando the truth or let him believe what was in the news? And was Tommaso looking at Seb when he asked how I'm doing with the team? If that's just another thinly veiled way of asking about our supposed relationship, I'm going to be pissed. I earned my spot at Cadmium Racing without Seb Bianchi, and I sure as hell won't end up known for what I allegedly do off track because of him.

"Excuse me," I say. "I have to go change."

I return a few minutes later wearing the crisp, short-sleeved button-down shirt over my capris. The others are already seated, ready to sign the stacks of glossy promotional posters piled on the tables in front of them. I have to squeeze between chairs and the display bikes to get to my spot next to Seb, but introductions aren't over.

Elia Giacona, a 2Prix rider who currently lead his category's standings, jumps up from his seat. "I think maybe you forget about us," he teases with a smile, leaning in for the requisite set of air kisses.

I bend down to tap my cheek against his while puckering my lips. With jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, Elia is both dark and handsome, but he's definitely lacking in the tall part of the equation, being at least three inches shorter than me even in sneakers.

"Apologies, gentlemen, but some of us woke up in another country today so our commute may have been a bit longer than yours," I say, straightening up and moving along.

"Are you getting used to the insanity of WRRF yet?" Elia's teammate—and the only other American riding for the Italian brand alongside the four locals—Ryan Ansel is next in line. Touching my upper arm, he also kisses me on both cheeks, obviously having gotten into the habit thanks to his Mediterranean peers.

"Do you ever get used to it?" I reply with a smile before shuffling along.

Seb is the only one left until I can get to my chair. I wonder if he'll either do the fake kissy-kissy like everyone else or ignore me. He stays seated as I go around him, so I'm not expecting him to turn once I sit down.

"Hi," he says, and everything about that night I've been trying to forget all week rushes my brain.

The ease of conversation even about personal stuff in the bar. The warmth of his body as he supported me in the elevator. The conflicted way he looked at me with those cool, blue eyes.

It's the same way he's looking at me now, and my face flushes.

"Hey," I mutter back, unnecessarily straightening a stack of posters in front of me.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He has no right to have this effect on me. And of course it had to happen in front of everyone. If they hadn't believed the tabloids before, this will definitely confirm the stories. To an outsider, only an idiot who's fooling around with her teammate would act like a spaz around him in public.

Luckily, I don't have time to dwell on this because the doors open and the fans pour in. We sign posters, shake hands, and take pictures for the next three hours with just a few, quick breaks. By the end, my hand is cramping so bad I can't even recognize my own signature any more, but I still enjoy every minute. It's especially cool to see so many girls in line, some waiting just to see me. (Suck that, Nicola.) One even brought a little Lego motorcycle with a pink figure in the seat to show off. Things with Seb also get less weird after he has to help translate a few times for me.

"Grazie mille," I say in my limited Italian to an older man who'd just told me—with Seb's assistance—that me being in the series had changed his mind about female riders and how he's looking forward to watching me race this weekend. "Tell him that I really appreciate the support, and I'll do my best in representing my team and brand."

Seb nods and rattles off the translation, the lyrical language easily rolling off his tongue. Even if I'd never fully understand most of it, I'd gladly listen to him speak Italian all day, every day.

"In bocca al lupo." The man gives me a thumbs-up before moving along.

"He say 'good luck,'" Seb says, using a silver colored permanent marker to sign another poster of himself with the same picture as the one in the pit box.

I pick up a bottled water before unscrewing the top. "I thought that was buona fortuna." I've heard the phrase before and with a mostly Italian crew, simple sayings are starting to stick with me.

After taking a selfie with a kid, Seb turns to me again. "They are both correct. In bocca al lupo is more informal. Literally means 'go into the wolf's mouth.'"

"That is hella savage." I imagine how something like that could have originated. Some guy centuries—or even millennia—ago had probably battled a wolf and won; escaping bloodied and bruised from the jaws of the beast.

Compared to that, I have it easy. The only thing I'm battling today is fatigue and hunger; the 4:00 am wake-up call and skimpy ham sandwich on the flight just aren't holding up. And by the looks of the line that's still stretching out the entrance, we can forget about ending on time.

My stomach growls, and I sip the water. Nope, this won't be enough to keep me going.