Thursday, September 5 – Phillip Island, Australia

My pants are so tight, I can hardly breathe. The wind is also whipping into my face, and if it weren't for the scarf the stylist tied over the hot-rollers on my head, my hair would be a mess. Sitting sidesaddle on a scooter and balancing behind a Cadmium staffer whose name I didn't quite catch, I'm pretty sure this wasn't how I had imagined my first time on the Phillip Island Grand Prix Circuit. Then again, this guy probably thought he'd have a glamorous career in motorsports engineering, but instead has the distinct pleasure of ferrying me around the raceway. So it sucks to be both of us right now, I guess.

Of course I hadn't asked for—nor expected—the royal treatment. I would've much rather preferred to get behind the wheel even of this non-performance machine while my race bike was being unloaded from the shipping containers with the rest of the team's gear. Hell, I would have been happy to review technical specs with my crew or even to use the time working out. But apparently spending the last hour in hair and makeup before squeezing myself into the most uncomfortable pair of jeans known to man is a more suitable use of my talents, at least for today.

"I better be getting paid a shit-ton for this," I yell into my cell phone as we putter into the second corner's hairpin turn at a tragically slow pace.

"Acceleration Denim is a team sponsor, so you're contractually obligated to do a campaign for them," Celia says from halfway around the world where technically, I guess it's still last night. "Nobody enjoys the hassle, but it's a necessary evil," she adds.

Up ahead, a half-dozen or so people are gathered in the middle of the asphalt strip around strategically placed lights and reflectors. In spite of the glaring sun, only a few are lucky enough to enjoy the shade of the nearby awning tent.

"I have no say in it?" I try one more time, looking past the bustle of the photoshoot to admire the ocean just a couple of hundred feet away. Only Tasmania stands between this part of Australia and the South Pole, and it's a hella beautiful spot.

"They pretty much have you by the balls on this, kiddo." Celia goes all Godfather on me.

I sigh, sensing defeat, but my mouth won't stop talking. "And you and Dad agreed to this?" The question is more or less rhetorical because I know they both want the best for me. Celia is also a respected sports agent, so she definitely knows what she's doing. As a former youth rider in her day (she hates it when I refer to her past like that), she only missed going pro because of an epilepsy diagnosis. She has her seizures mostly under control now, but I think managing the careers of her clients lets her vicariously live through us. It's also why she understands my passion for this sport.

"We weren't in much of a position to negotiate, Lauren. Start placing well enough to earn points, make some new fans, and we'll have more leverage next season, if they still want you." She's switched to her stern agent voice usually reserved for the conference room, and I know we're done.

"Yeah. Gotcha." I pout as we pull to a stop. "Listen, I gotta go."

"Call me when you're finished," she says, and I hang up.

Hopping off the scooter, I don't even have time to slip the phone in my back pocket before Nicola is at my side. "I'll take that, thank you." With wide eyes and a huge grin, she's holding her hand out for the device like some sort of telecoms narc. "Can't have it sticking out on camera, you know."

"Right," I mutter as I give it over. "Where should I—?"

"Seb's almost done, so just park yourself in the shade and someone will get your hair sorted. Tommy will shout when he's ready for you." Tapping her clipboard, she motions for me to lean closer. I'm no Amazon, but there's at least a good six-inch height difference between us. "Tommy Miranda is a cracking print photographer. We're chuffed to bits to be working with him," she whispers.

I have no idea what that last part means, but based on her insistence on letting me in on this great secret, I'm guessing it's something good. When she goes away, I grab a bottled water and sit in an empty director's chair under the tent. A woman brushes out my hair while another touches up my makeup. Meanwhile, I get a chance to watch the end of Seb's individual shoot.

Like me, he's wearing the Acceleration Denim brand (duh, it's their ad), but his straight-leg cut looks exponentially more comfy than my skinny jeans. He also gets to wear lace-up boots and a loose, gray button-down shirt, both of which I'd gladly trade for the stiletto and one-shoulder top combo they'd made me put on.

Damn, he's a natural. The way he effortlessly responds to the photographer's directions makes it easy to see this isn't his first ad campaign. Between turning or staying still on command, and smiling or being serious on cue, he could definitely have a career as a model if this racing thing didn't work out. It's no wonder female racing fans are thirsty for Mr. Tall-Tan-and-Ripped, but I have no intention to fall for the act.

That saying about only getting one chance to make a good first impression? Well, Seb Bianchi has either never heard it or he just doesn't care. Because he definitely blew it with me. I may still be jetlagged from the brutal, twenty-hour flight to come Down Under, but I'm salty as hell about that press conference in Malaysia.

Back home, my gender was rarely an issue with regards to my job. I'm blessed that women in motorsports paved the way decades ago so little girls can now see themselves pursuing the sport without reservation. I want to be part of that history, and it's one of the reasons I took the risk to be here. But last week, the American press happily took their European counterparts' lead to make a huge deal (and not in a good way) out of me being the first female rider in the international championship. And it was all thanks to my dumbass new teammate.

"As I say before, I only care about winning, and I do not have time for distractions," he'd said in his broken, but disgustingly charming English as a second language grammar when asked about his feelings regarding having a girl racing for the Cadmium team. Naturally, the media ran with it.

Girl on track will be a distraction, says moto world champion, one particular tweet from a British sports outlet read. The comments on it from the usual dude-bro trolls made me straight up regret even logging into my account that day.

I'm not naïve. I had expected a certain amount of pushback. But I'd hoped they'd at least wait until I actually got on a freaking bike to start with the shade. Apparently that was too much to ask.

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" The mid-thirties looking photographer with shoulder-length black hair and an American accent waves at me.

I slip out of the chair. The stiff leather of my five-inch heels pinches my toes and digs into my ankles as I teeter over.

"Lauren, is it?" Tommy touches my elbow and keeps me moving. "I'm guessing you and Seb already know each other, so let's get to it."

No, I actually don't know him. Apart from an awkward handshake for the cameras after his answer in Sepang, we've had nothing to do with each other. Seb had disappeared, and while I was meeting the rest of the crew, he was off to god only knows where, probably thinking he was above the effort. Judging by the gruff nod he now gives me as I walk up, things aren't going to be too different.

"We'll shoot you guys together first so, Lauren, you stand in front here." Tommy points to a tape mark on the ground. "And Seb, you get behind her, and put your right hand on her hip there." He pauses while we get in place, but isn't satisfied. "A little bit closer. A little more. Okay, that's good," he says only when our bodies are literally touching.

"Now, look over her shoulder," he continues to instruct Seb into position as if I'm nothing more than a prop, quickly turning my fears about this day into a reality. "Then with your left arm, reach across her so that your hand ends up on her right collarbone."

At this rate, I'm expecting to be doing the hokey-pokey any second, but when Seb pulls me closer, his watchband catches in my hair, and I wince.

"Scusa," he whispers the apology, his warm breath grazing my earlobe as an assistant runs over to help untangle us.

"Uhm, no problem," I mumble, realizing it's the first time he's spoken to me directly. It's—dare I admit—sexy? I'm such a sucker for foreign languages, and Italian is one of my favorites. There's really no intelligent way to continue the conversation, so I stand like a fool while my brown locks get freed from his really expensive looking Tissot watch.

He has a nice hand. Blue-tinted veins criss-cross under the sun-kissed skin from the knuckles down to the wrist, while his fingers are long and strong. A perfect amount of blonde hairs cover the area between his cuff and the stainless steel watch, and I get an odd urge to run my finger over them to see if they're just as soft as they look.