I'm not even back from the hotel's in-house salon for two minutes when there's a knock at my door. It turns out to be a porter with a rolling rack full of luggage.

"May I, señorita?" He motions inside with a friendly smile.

I step aside and let him make the delivery, eyeing the stuff he unloads. Celia had promised to take care of my wardrobe for the fundraiser dinner, but the Balenciaga logo on the garment bags and boxes the man is stacking on the bed means my agent not only shot for the stars, but also that she'd delivered the freaking moon.

"Gracias," I say, barely able to keep from jumping up and down before I shut the door. Running back to the bed, I unzip the topmost bag and gasp.

Bruh, I'm dead. The black, satin gown is sleeveless with a subtle boat-neck cut. The front of the full skirt is short—falling just above my knees, I'm guessing—but the hem becomes longer as it wraps around the back. At its lowest point, the shiny fabric would probably just about brush the floor, even if paired with heels.

Oh my god. Shoes!

I drop the dress on the bed and grab a shoe-sized box. Yanking off the lid so fast it falls to the floor, I find a pair of bright yellow, strappy heels. I hug them to my chest and spin around. Celia is a genius. Black and yellow are Cadmium Racing colors. She pulled off the outfit without having me look like a bumblebee.

Conscious of the time and the need to keep my fancy up-do and makeup intact, I take a super-fast shower. Afterward, I quickly touch-up both and get dressed. Besides the gown and shoes, Celia also sent a pair of matching yellow drop earrings, as well as a black and white wool jacket. Looking at the finished product in the full-length mirror, I have to admit I'm gonna slay tonight. Snapping a pic of my reflection, I send it to my agent along with an emoji blowing a kiss. Dad would probably want to see a picture too, but he can wait until the party's over. He's not used to seeing me in much else other than sweats or leathers. There's no need for him to worry about how dope his little girl looks when he's on the opposite side of the world.

My phone rings as I'm putting on the coat. "I'm heading to the elevator now," I say, seeing Nigel's name pop up on caller ID. In a few minutes, I join up with him and Nicola—the team manager in black tie and the press officer in a long-sleeved, silver cocktail dress—in the lobby.

"About damned time." Nigel sticks his hands in his pockets and nods toward the door. "Let's get going."

"Don't we need to wait for Seb?" I look around, but apart from a couple checking in at the reception desk, the modern lobby of our boutique hotel is empty.

"He's already gone ahead," Nigel says, ushering us toward the exit.

I glance over my shoulder. "Didn't you say you wanted us to all go together?"

"Did I? I don't recall, but Seb's a big boy. I'm sure he can make it there on his own."

I kind of want to ask why that assumption doesn't apply to me or Nicola, but the revolving door only has space for one person at a time. When we're all together again on the other side, there's a waiting taxi ready to take us across town, so I drop it. Whatever. It's just a car ride, and this way, at least we're not cramped with three in the back seat of this tiny, European car.

Traffic is heavy, and judging by how often Nigel checks his watch, I suspect we're going to be late. It turns out, I'm right. Only a couple of nicely dressed guests are still getting out of their cars when we get to the venue, and even inside the ballroom, almost everyone is seated.

The decorations for the charity gala are totally extra. I can imagine a really lux wedding in here with the dim lights, white and gold color scheme, and huge floral centerpieces on the eight-person tables. There's a stage with a live band on one end of the massive room, and crystal chandeliers hang over a small dance floor.

We're handed champagne flutes from silver platters—hello, liberal European alcohol laws—and hostesses show us to our seats as music plays in the background. Nicola ends up next to Seb two tables over. He glances back at me while pulling her chair out, but otherwise I only get a good look at the oddly symmetrical back of his head. The perfectly formed edges at the nape of his neck—leaving a clean, smooth line between the dark blonde hair and flawless, sun-kissed skin—make me briefly wonder if he also dropped by the salon for a trim this afternoon. 

Left with Nigel at table nine, we have just enough time to make quick introductions before the waiters reach us with the first course. There's a mix of industry insiders, as well as regular guests. Across from me are Peter—a tire sales rep—and Sabine—who writes for a German sports blog. There are also two pairs of deep-pocketed racing fans who paid for the privilege of getting up-close and personal with us.

"I was hoping we'd get you," the British man with a buzz cut (probably to hide his obvious bald spot) says with a self-satisfied smirk as we shake hands, but I doubt the table assignment had anything to do with luck. More like an extra-large upfront donation. But raising money for the hospital we visited yesterday is the goal, so the least I can do is humor him.

"The pleasure is all mine," I say with a smile.

It turns out Mr. Enthusiasm is a management consultant from York called Tim, and he's joined by his structural engineer friend Cyrus. The other couple at our table is Elana and Leon, who own a chain of local grocery stores. All four are huge racing fans and will be at all of the weekend's events.

I'm starving, and luckily, the food that's finally being served looks fantastic. We start with gazpacho soup topped with basil-infused croutons and edible flowers while representatives from the hospital's fundraising team and the racing federation officially welcome everyone. The tuxedo-wearing men on stage also highlight some of the many things up for bid in the silent auction that's running during dinner and explain the technical stuff about bidding online using our smartphones. Signed helmets, limited edition team memorabilia, or exclusive all-access passes are all up for grabs to whoever is willing to part with the most cash in the next few hours.

I'm guessing there are about three hundred people here tonight, but only about half look to be from teams, sponsors, and the press. There are still a lot of unfamiliar faces, but everyone is perfection in their sharpest suits and most glamorous dresses. It's like prom for motorsports. Except here, the booze flows freely and the average age is likely over forty.

"How does the international series compare to your American one?" Elana asks as we start on the Iberian cured ham and tomato-rubbed tapas toast.

Until now, the conversation has mostly centered on general topics: how night races under floodlights like those in Qatar affect decisions for bike setup or whether the rumor about the addition of a venue in Russia on next year's racing calendar has any merit. I'm so much better at talking about either of those than about myself.

"It's hard to really say after just one race," I say after dabbing my lips with the linen napkin. Knowing my boss is in the chair next to me doesn't exactly make answering easier. I reach for my glass and continue. "The track at Phillip Island was obviously on point, and the size of the crowds is way bigger than what I'm used to. But honestly, I was just so turnt by the chance to ride for Cadmium, everything else is basically a blur."

They nod and smile. Relieved that I didn't eff this one up, I take a sip of water. By the time the sea bass ceviche is served, the questions are becoming more personal again.

"So have any of the boys caught your fancy?" Sabine swirls her red wine before finishing it off. "Lots of eye candy, I think is how you would say it."

The paddock is like a giant bowl of Halloween-worthy sweets, but I'm not going to admit noticing. My hands freeze mid-air before I lower my cutlery with deliberate slowness. Taking a deep breath, I look the journalist in the eyes. "That's kind of inappropriate, don't you think?"

"Is it?" Sabine places her glass on the table and picks up her napkin. Wiping her lips, she smiles. "I hope I have not offended you. I suppose we Germans are much more straightforward with these things than you Americans."

I get the sudden urge to hike up my skirt and throw myself across the table to wipe that conceited look off her face with that damned napkin, but Nigel beats me to a response.

"Coming from someone married to a Berliner, I couldn't agree more," he says with a laugh. "Now, someone please ask me what happened at the hole-in-the-wall bar in Kuala Lumpur we may or may not have visited after Seb's victory in Sepang because I'm dying to tell that story!"

I guess she doesn't find this new topic as interesting because Sabine has already turned to find a waiter for a refill of vino. Meanwhile, Tim leans forward. "Spill, mate," he says, encouraging Nigel to go on, which he happily does.

I skip the saffron seasoned razor clams to save room for the noodle-based Catalan paella while my team manager recounts an evening filled with several cultural misunderstandings, lots of alcohol, and even partial nudity. The identity of the crewmember who literally lost his pants remains a mystery, but my money's on scooter-guy Derek. He's just young enough (and American enough) to do something so funny and stupid.

We're at a point where I think it would be impossible to top Nigel's stories, but Peter—the tire man from Utrecht who's a chemical engineer by training and a rubber technician by profession—proves me wrong. As their glasses are refilled with Catalan's best wines, Leon and Cyrus join in. By the time we finish the to-die-for chocolate-filled fritters and move on to the even more amazing soft, unsalted cheese with honey and walnuts, the whole table knows what Tagalog words to avoid using in Manila unless you wanted to be arrested for prostitution, how a mathematical miscalculation almost caused one of England's oldest abbeys to collapse during a recent renovation, and which Barcelona butcher once sold rat meat while calling it rabbit. We're having the post-meal coffee when a bunch of buzzing and beeping sounds go off. It's the text messages announcing the auction's winners.

"Bloody ace!" Tim exclaims, checking the screen on his iPhone.

"You got something good?" Nigel asks.

"I didn't want to get my hopes up, but yeah." He tilts the device to display the confirmation. "Someone was driving up the price until the last minute, but I won out. Cost me five grand, but it's for the kids, ain't it?"

"Paddock access with Cadmium?" Nigel nods. "Good stuff. I guess we'll be seeing more of you this weekend."

Tim is grinning and practically bouncing in his seat from joy. "Sure will!"

I'm happy he won the prize, but I really hope he doesn't end up being an over-eager creeper. Race weekends are non-stop work for the entire team both on and off the track, and while I get that most fans are a bit star-struck for the rare opportunity to mingle, riders also aren't trained show-monkeys.

"Congratulations. I'm sure you'll have an awesome time," I say, getting to my feet. "Excuse me. I need to get some air."

Everyone knows this is just polite code for going to pee, but my plan to leave the ballroom isn't as simple to actually accomplish. With dinner over, guests are moving between tables or worse yet, standing around and talking. There aren't too many paths to the exit, so no matter which way I go I keep getting stopped.

Umpteen handshakes, pictures, and autographs later, I'm just feet from the door. When I finish chatting with a gentleman from Tokyo and his hilarious preteen kid who has the lamest jokes I've ever heard, I turn and nearly collide with Seb.