A slow smile spreads across his face. “I love to DJ. I love EDM music. But I’m good with an open format, where you mix it up with different kinds of music.”
“Monaco is where you live full-time. So do you DJ there?”
He chuckles. “Occasionally.”
“If you had to pick another F1 driver to spin with you, who would it be?”
“Ooh, interesting question,” he says, running his fingertips along his jaw as he considers it. “Not Caleb. Grandpa is ready to go home when the party starts. I’d end up spinning by myself.”
I chuckle because I can see it. Not that I’ve ever been out with Caleb, but I think it’s because so many people are wanting a piece of him all day—from the media to sponsors to fans to the team—he just wants to be in a space of quiet when his responsibilities are over.
And the last thing my man would want to do would be spinning at a posh club. In fact, I can only picture the scowl on Caleb’s face if he were asked to DJ with Xavier, and I repress a giggle.
“So who would you ask?”
“Andre,” he says, referring to a driver from Portugal. “He has a similar taste in music. That would be mega.”
“What is your favorite racetrack?” I ask, switching gears.
“I actually like this one a lot,” Xavier says. “It’s on an island, which is different, and you have opportunities for overtakes,which I love. On the rare occasion I need one, that is.” He flashes me a knowing, smug smile.
I definitely see why you either love Xavier or hate him, that’s for sure. You either think he’s confident or arrogant and cocksure.
But I like him. Xavier is open about who he is, and what you see is what you get—with no apologies.
“What about the groundhogs here? The track here is notorious for groundhogs appearing during the weekend. And that’s dangerous for both them and the drivers.”
“Oh my God, the groundhogs,” he groans. “I almost hit one during practice last year. It would havecrushedme. I love animals.”
“Would you consider a groundhog tattoo as tribute to the ones who have lost their lives on this track?” I ask.
Ah-ha! I’ve finally caught him off guard with a question. His eyes widen in a “what the hell kind of question isthat?” look. But Xavier recovers quickly. “Solidno,” he says, a low laugh escaping his chest.
“What are your tattoos right now?”
“On my right arm, I have a Spartan warrior on a stormy sea,” he says, extending his forearm, where I can see a sailboat and rough waters. “That meets up with the compass on my hand. I have another Spartan warrior on my left arm, full sleeve, with the shield on my hand.”
“You have a thing for Spartans,” I say.
He chuckles. “They represent the warrior mentality I like. And discipline. I’m very disciplined when it comes to my driving.”
“But you don’t want to represent groundhogs?”
He quirks a brow. “Do you have a thing for groundhogs?”
“No. I have a thing for owls.”
“Why the owl?”
“I like the way they can turn their heads. Two hundred seventy degrees, if you’re interested in specifics. But they can’t turn their eyeballs in their sockets.”
“Really?”
“Nope.”
“You’re full of bizarre information,” Xavier says.
“I like bizarre information. Speaking of that, what is your favorite type of bread?”