Alaric

For a few seconds after the chequered flag fell, I forgot how to breathe.

The roar of the crowd still thundered around the circuit, vibrating through the cockpit and into my bones while fireworks exploded above Bahrain in violent bursts of red and gold. My hands remained locked around the steering wheel even after I crossed the line, fingers trembling slightly beneath the gloves from adrenaline and exhaustion.

Second place.

After two years away from Formula One, I had finished second behind Nico Park. Honestly, I thought I would end the race in P3 behind Kelvin or maybe even further down the grid, but somehow I pushed myself harder than I thought possible and still made it here.

I closed my eyes briefly inside the helmet as I guided the Ferrari through the cooldown lap, trying to steady the chaos inside my chest.

Goodness.

I had forgotten what this felt like after spending two years trying to recover. I was no longer watching races from rehabilitation centres or sitting behind screens pretending I was fine while other drivers lived the life that had been ripped away from me.

I was finally back on the grid again.

The unbearable rush of pushing a car beyond sanity while seventy thousand people screamed your name.

I had missed it so much that it almost made me angry.

While I was lost in my thoughts, my engineer’s voice suddenly came through the radio, filled with excitement.

"That was incredible, Alaric. P2 on your first race back after two years. Incredible drive today."

I swallowed hard before answering quietly.

"Thank you."

That was all I trusted myself to say because the truth was uglier than that. The truth was that I had entered this race terrified. Not because I thought I would lose or crash, but because I was terrified that I would feel nothing at all.

I was terrified that Formula One would no longer mean everything to me after two years away.

Harold used to say confidence was manufactured. That drivers like me needed pressure, discipline, conditioning. Endless routines designed to force perfection out of damaged minds.

For two years, Harold had tried rebuilding me piece by piece after the accident. Even though we barely trained on the track, he still gave me endless lectures about focus and emotional restraint. He understood me better than most people did, and in his own way, he helped me race again.

And maybe some of it helped.

But out there tonight?

None of it mattered.

Because the thing that truly brought me back to life, the thing that made me want to push beyond my limits again, was Nico.

Nico fucking Park.

Maybe it was because I had wanted to race him again so badly. Maybe it was the ridiculous bet. I honestly had no idea anymore, but somehow he dragged something reckless and hungry out of me tonight.

I remembered his voice clearly, along with the arrogant look on his face when he cornered me after the press conference.

"Princess, I won’t lose. But if I do, I’m going to fuck you on your kitchen table."

I heaved out a slow breath as heat crept up the back of my neck despite the exhaustion settling into my body.

Idiot.

Absolute fucking idiot.

And somehow, somewhere between the rage, humiliation, and attraction that I still refused to examine too closely, I had wanted to beat him more than I had wanted air itself.

Not because of the table.

Definitely not because of the table.

But because Nico had looked at me like I was still worthy.

The rest of the world spent two years treating me like a broken former champion desperately clawing his way back onto the grid.

Nico never did.

Even when he mocked me. Even when he irritated me so badly that I wanted to strangle him.

He still looked at me like I belonged beside him at the front.

And maybe that was why I chased him so hard tonight. Because I wanted to prove he was right.

And I did.

We fought each other across that track for lap after lap, and for a moment, I had almost believed I could actually take the win from him.

But I also had to admit something I hated admitting.

Nico Park was incredibly talented.

He was good.

Maybe even better than I was now.

The cooldown lap felt surreal beneath the floodlights. I looked toward the fans standing against the barriers, screaming names and waving massive flags while marshals leaned over the fences applauding us as we passed.

The Ferrari fans were especially unhinged tonight.

I could see them jumping wildly in the grandstands every time my car rolled past, scarlet banners waving beneath the lights while chants of my name echoed through the desert air.

I had almost forgotten what that sounded like.

My chest tightened painfully as the podium gates came into view near parc fermé, where the top three drivers parked after the race.

Nico’s Red Bull rolled ahead of me before slowing into position while Kelvin pulled in beside us several moments later in the Mercedes.

The moment I climbed out of the Ferrari, the noise became deafening.

Camera shutters exploded from every direction while photographers crowded against the barriers. Reporters shouted questions before we had even removed our helmets.

Nico pulled his helmet off first.

His dark hair was damp with sweat, strands sticking slightly against his forehead while that irritating grin spread slowly across his face.

God, he looked insufferably pleased with himself.

The crowd roared louder the moment he turned toward me.

And then the bastard winked at me.

Actually winked.

I stared at him in disbelief before pulling my balaclava off.

Kelvin was saying something to one of the interviewers nearby, but I barely paid attention because my focus remained locked on Nico as he stepped closer, champagne already sprayed across his race suit from the celebration crew waiting near parc fermé.

"You defended well today, princess," he said casually, his voice low enough that the microphones would not catch it.

I scoffed tiredly. "You sound shocked. I am sure you expected me to fall behind eventually."

"Oh, I am shocked," he replied immediately. "You almost looked competent out there."

I rolled my eyes before letting out another scoff.

"You are annoying."

Nico only shrugged lazily.

Then his gaze dropped deliberately from my face to my chest before slowly moving lower until he was openly staring at my crotch.

Heat climbed violently into my throat.

"Do not start," I warned quietly.

"Start what?" He asked innocently.

That expression should have been illegal on him.