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“That’s what I was thinking, too. I can ask guests in the paddock about what they are wearing, why they chose it, et cetera. Even at Collings Motors sponsor galas. I could ask drivers to show me their wardrobes and what they like to wear off the track, too. Things like that.”

“You could get sponsorship deals like Isla,” Mason says, taking another bite.

“Maybe,” I say, thinking on it.

“Or use that Collings name. I bet you could get stuff from designers to use for shoots with drivers, if you wanted to do a ‘Dress the Driver’ type feature.”

DRESS THE DRIVER.

“That’s brilliant!” I say, typing quickly into my phone. “I would love to do a ‘Dress the Driver’ feature!”

“Here’s what I think. You can do me first as your demo. You could run it, then take the clip to designers to get some clothing. You could plan out local designers—like American for Cota, for example. Or Austin-based, if you can find that.”

“You’re brilliant, Mason!” I say as I continue to type.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I do have ideas. I’ve been thinking about it this morning.”

I pause and look at him. “You have?”

“Not when driving, of course.”

I chuckle. “No, that would be bad.”

“But yeah, I was thinking about it as I was getting ready. I think you could do something really cool with this idea.”

Hope fills me. It’s one thing if I think it’s a good idea, but it’s another thing when a driver—not with the last name Collings—likes the concept I came up with and thinks it has merit. Yes, Isla’s approval means something, of course it does. But she’s my friend, so there’s going to be a natural bias towards me, too.

Mason doesn’t have that.

“Thank you for saying that. It gives me hope I’m onto something that could help shape my career.”

“What is your ideal career?”

“Can I be honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“Everything I did at uni was to prepare for a social media career with Collings Motors,” I confess. “I knew I couldn’t come in straightaway for a job unless I applied for an open position, so I might have to wait for my chance.”

Mason studies me carefully. “You could leverage your family to create a position for you.”

I shake my head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. I would only accept that if a position truly needed to be created. I’m not playing the nepo-baby card.”

“Commendable,” he says, pausing to take another bite of his lunch.

“So I thought about what I wanted over summer break and was inspired by Isla to take matters into my own hands. That’s what she did. And I think that’s what I need to do, too. Carve out my own career in this space. Or at least do it as a hobby so I can keep my skills sharp.”

Suddenly, “Imperial March” from Star Wars goes off on Mason’s phone.

“Sorry,” he says, grabbing it. “That’s my mum. I need to send her a quick message because I forgot to respond to the one yesterday.”

I laugh as he reads his phone screen. “Your mum has that alert tone?”

A playful grin—the same one that helped start this stupid crush—lights up his face. “Well, it suits her. If I don’t respond, she blasts social media and tells me what a wanker I am for not getting back to her.” He begins texting.

“When’s the last time you talked to her?” I ask.

Mason pauses typing and thinks. “A couple of days ago. I probably should have told her I arrived in Zandvoort. But it’s not like she couldn’t see me walk into the paddock on TV or see me on the drivers’ press conference yesterday. In fact, I know she did because she got mad that I pulled that Aero out of my pocket and began eating it on TV.”