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First Place, Last Call

F1 Driver!Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs

Warnings: Drinking/bar setting, Flirty banter, Public attention/fame dynamics, Light suggestiveness, Subtle hand touching / knee nudges

Synopsis: When a chance encounter pulls Avery into the world of Formula One’s brightest star, she finds herself swept up in a night of adrenaline, laughter, and quiet moments that feel like more than they should.

Song: “Shut Up and Drive” — Rihanna

Word Count: 1,865

Avery had learned early on that the trackside bar was a different kind of battlefield. The smell of burnt rubber mixed with stale beer clung to the air, a heavy perfume that made her nose wrinkle every time she walked through the swinging doors. The roar of engines was constant — a low growl vibrating through the concrete floor, rattling the wooden bar stools and threading into the chatter of drunk fans and racing enthusiasts crowding the cramped space. It was loud, chaotic, and suffocating in the best and worst ways.

She balanced a tray laden with drinks — cold cans of soda, foamy beers, and a couple of neon green energy drinks she still didn’t understand the appeal of — weaving through a tangle of legs and shouting voices. The sweat on her palms threatened to betray her as she maneuvered around a boisterous group of fans chanting some driver’s name she didn’t care to remember.

She told herself, Just one more hour. Just until the end of qualifying, then she could go home, take a long shower, and try not to think about Formula One until the next race. But fate, apparently, had other plans.

He came in without warning. Not like the rest — not like the other drivers who arrived surrounded by their entourages and flashing cameras. Jameson Winchester Hawthorne stepped inside like the entire bar belonged to him, like every person in the room was waiting for him to make the next move.

Avery’s breath hitched, and she nearly dropped the tray.

The man was everything the tabloids promised — sharp cheekbones, a mop of unruly curls, and eyes so blue they seemed to burn through the smoky air. His racing suit hung loose on his lean frame, unzipped halfway to reveal a white shirt soaked through with sweat and the scent of motor oil. He didn’t have a smile on his face — but when his gaze caught hers, that cocky grin bloomed like a challenge.

Avery jerked her head away, blinking, forcing her fingers to steady the tray. Don’t stare. But then, in the chaos of the crowded bar, her foot caught on a loose floorboard, and the tray tipped.

Drinks spilled. The world went into slow motion. Neon green energy drink sprayed like toxic paint, hitting Jameson’s chest. A warm splash of beer soaked his race suit, and the cans clattered to the floor.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see—”

Jameson stared down at the mess like it was a joke he wasn’t sure whether to laugh at or scowl over. Then he looked up, eyes sparkling with amusement, and laughed — a deep, genuine laugh that surprised her.

“Guess I needed to cool off,” he said, peeling the sticky glass from his chest. His wet fingers glistened in the harsh bar lights as he flicked droplets away without a care.

Avery bent down, grabbing napkins and trying desperately to mop up the damage. “I’m really sorry. I’m usually better than this.”

“Relax,” Jameson said, brushing off her apology with a lazy wave. “It’s not like you’re the first person to drench me.”

She glanced up, heart pounding, and noticed the way he was watching her — not like a celebrity being inconvenienced, but like a man genuinely interested.

“Name’s Jameson,” he said, like she didn’t already know, extending a hand.

“Avery,” she replied, tentatively shaking it.

The contact was electric. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed hers.

Without warning, Jameson smirked. “You’re coming to the race tomorrow.”

Avery’s brow furrowed. He didn’t even know her. “I don’t even— I mean, I’m working.”

“You’re off,” he said simply, voice low and commanding. “And I’m making sure of it.”

She laughed nervously. “That’s not how this works.”

Jameson’s grin widened. “Trust me, Avery. It is.”

The morning air was thick with anticipation and the smell of hot asphalt, sun-baked rubber, and exhaust fumes—a cocktail that made Avery’s pulse quicken with an odd mixture of excitement and nerves.

The grandstands around the circuit had already begun to fill with fans, their cheers and chants carrying faintly over the roar of engines warming up. Flags fluttered in the breeze, racing colors snapping sharply like the heartbeat of the day itself.

Avery stood near the edge of the pit lane, still clutching the oversized team jacket Jameson had pressed into her hands hours earlier. It hung loose on her, but somehow it made her feel like she belonged — a quiet, defiant part of this furious, dangerous world she barely understood.

The grid was a kaleidoscope of color and motion: mechanics darted back and forth, teams huddled around cars that gleamed under the high sun, and drivers adjusted helmets and suits with ritualistic precision. There was a tension here, electric and raw, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Avery’s eyes never left Jameson as he climbed into his cockpit — the sleek black-and-red Hawthorne Racing car, polished to a mirror shine, sat waiting like a wild animal ready to roar. She saw the tight set of his jaw, the focused glint in his eyes as the visor slid down, hiding the fire beneath.

The starter waved the green flag.

Engines ignited into a ferocious crescendo, a sound so loud and alive it shook Avery’s bones. Tires screamed against asphalt as the cars launched forward in a blur of speed and danger.

Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, mirroring the rhythm of the race — a frantic, unrelenting pulse that demanded total attention.

She followed the live screens and the crackling radio updates, but nothing compared to seeing Jameson live. His car was a sleek streak, hugging corners with razor precision, weaving through the pack like a predator. The pit crew worked in perfect choreography, swapping tires and refueling with breathtaking speed during the tense pit stops.

Every time Jameson’s car came into view, Avery caught the fierce intensity etched on his face — the concentration, the raw determination. She watched as he fought for every inch, his hands steady on the wheel despite the immense G-forces pushing against him.

Around her, the crowd’s roar surged and fell like waves — gasps at near misses, cheers at daring overtakes, and a rising crescendo as the laps dwindled.

With just a handful of laps left, Jameson was inching closer to the leader. The tension was unbearable, the atmosphere electric with possibility.

Then, with a move so sudden and perfect it stole her breath, Jameson slingshotted past his rival on the outside of the final corner, the car’s tires screeching against the tarmac.

The grandstands exploded.

Avery’s hands clenched the fabric of the jacket as the checkered flag waved, the noise of victory engulfing everything.

Jameson emerged from the cockpit, sweat and exhaustion etched across his face, but his eyes searched for her immediately.

He found her, and his smile was a wild, victorious thing — fierce and utterly unguarded.

She gulped, having to fight the urge of biting her lip.

In that moment, with the sun dipping low and the smell of victory thick in the air, Avery realized this wasn’t just a race. It was a glimpse into a world of passion, risk, and raw humanity. And somehow, she was caught in its pull.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Avery’s ears as Jameson led her away from the track’s edge, weaving through the throng of photographers and team members congratulating him. The cool air smelled faintly of sweat and champagne, mixed with the lingering tang of burnt rubber and motor oil.

“You’re coming with us,” Jameson said, his tone firm but not unkind, like it was a favor he was insisting she accept.

Avery blinked, caught off guard. “I—I’m not part of the team.”

He shrugged with that same half-smile that made her heart flutter. “Doesn’t matter. I want you there.”

The bar they ended up in was loud, packed with fans and crew members, the air thick with spilled beer and cigarette smoke. Music thumped through the cracked speakers, a bass line that made the walls vibrate and the glasses on the tables tremble. The team had claimed a whole corner of the place — shots lining the bar top, half the mechanics already shouting over each other about the best overtake of the race.

But Jameson and Avery had peeled away from the chaos, slipping into a booth half-hidden in the back, where the lighting was low and the world felt a little softer. The red vinyl of the seat squeaked as Avery shifted, tucking one knee up, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass.

Jameson leaned in, his elbows braced on the table, a crooked grin playing at his lips. His hair was still damp from the celebratory champagne shower, curls sticking to his forehead in wild directions. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves of his black shirt rolled to his elbows, collar undone just enough that the chain at his throat glinted in the dim light.

“Did you expect this?” he asked, voice low to keep it just between them, as if he couldn’t care less about the noise around them. “The victory, the chaos, the drunken pit crew?”

Avery laughed, the sound surprising herself — light and unguarded. “I didn’t expect any of this. Least of all you dragging me here like I belong.”

“You do,” Jameson said, softer now, like the words carried weight. His knee nudged hers under the table, gentle but deliberate. “You do tonight, at least.”

Around them, bottles clinked, someone spilled a tray of drinks, and the team erupted in another round of laughter at some joke Avery didn’t hear. But in their little booth, it felt quiet, like the rest of the world had been turned down so she could just focus on the way Jameson’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her.

She shook her head, amused. “This isn’t real life. This is some fever dream.”

“Then let’s not wake up yet,” Jameson said, his grin softening, his thumb brushing the rim of his glass but his gaze locked on her, like he’d already decided nothing else mattered tonight.

They talked like that for what felt like hours — about everything and nothing. He asked about her favorite books, and she teased him for being shocked that she read. She made him admit he was terrible at cooking, and he confessed, in a conspiratorial whisper, that he once set fire to a toaster.

At some point, his hand found hers on the table, fingers brushing, not quite holding, just resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Neither of them noticed when the team began to stumble out, voices slurred with drink, too drunk to care about the star driver who’d disappeared into a booth with the girl no one knew.

And for once, Jameson didn’t care about the cameras that might catch them, or the headlines that might follow. All that mattered was the girl across from him, who accidentally drenched him the day previous, laughing quietly in the dim light, making him feel like himself again.

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