2. Marco

CHAPTER 2

MARCO

I had a whole ritual before a big race. It started the night before, in bed by nine. Then the day of the race I'd get up first thing, go for a run or a punishing workout. Most drivers would stretch some or do a light workout, but I'd push myself till my muscles were burning. Only then could I slip into my race-day headspace, focused, relaxed, nerves good and steady, and just enough pain to maintain my edge. If I missed my workout, if I didn't push hard enough, I'd go in jumpy. Adrenaline-drunk. I took stupid risks that didn't pay off, and I ended up second, or worse, wiping out.

After my workout, I'd head for the track. I'd go over my race plan with my engineer, then I'd walk around for a while so I wouldn't get stiff. As I walked, I'd breathe deep, taking in that track smell, rubber and gasoline, exhaust, hot asphalt. By the time it came time to meet with my race team, I'd be in full drive mode, ready to go.

We were through with our briefing, sixty minutes to go, when I got a bad feeling, something not right. I thought it was me at first, just being antsy. Then I spotted my publicist trotting toward me. I scowled at him.

"Glen. You shouldn't be here."

"I know that," he said. "But, man, this is big."

A hard knot of tension clenched in my gut. I didn't need big right now. I needed to focus.

"Can't it wait for after?"

"Not really, no." Glen glanced at his phone, then at something behind me. I kept my eyes locked on his, narrowed with pique. He knew I needed this time to get my head straight. To read a chapter or two of The Crossing or The Road and get myself in that dog-eat-dog mindset. I snorted, impatient.

"Well? What is it?"

"Rafael's here," said Glen.

I stared at him, thrown. I only knew one Rafael, Prince Rafael, and he wasn't here today. He was getting married.

"Did you hear what I said? Rafael's racing."

"That doesn't make sense," I said. "You must've heard wrong. Rafael's in Monaco, at his wedding."

"Yeah, no, he's not." Glen held up his phone. I shoved it away from me.

"Don't do that. Just tell me."

"He's with his team right now going over his drive plan. Everyone's saying he's a last-minute entry."

I shook my head. "That doesn't make sense. He can't just— He couldn't— They wouldn't let him."

"They wouldn't let you , but Rafael's a prince. Maybe he pulled a string or two. Maybe?—"

"Dio cane! "

Glen pursed his lips. "No need for that language."

I bit my tongue on a worse curse, the kind that stripped paint. This wasn't Glen's fault. It was Rafael's. What the hell was he doing here the day of his wedding? Had he rushed through the ceremony and hopped on a plane? Was this his honeymoon, horning in on my race? What would his bride think?

"I hate to dump this on you, but you'd have found out either way. I thought it'd be better coming from me."

Better! What would be better would be il principe buzzing off. Flying off to some island far, far away. Staying there forever by his smug self, with his smug curls and his smug mustache.

"You can beat him," said Glen. "You've done it before."

I bristled. I knew I could beat him. But I'd built today's strategy without him in mind. Without leaving room for his unpredictable driving. He wasn't dangerous , exactly, but he came close. He pulled stunts most wouldn't. Put on a show. Like it was a game to him, not a living.

"Get out of here," I said, more gruff than intended. Glen sketched a salute and went marching away. I was too amped to read now, so I jogged in place. It didn't help. My nerves were jangling. My whole ritual was blown, my workout, my plan. Rafael, what the hell. The day of his wedding?

I pulled out my own phone. Thumbed it awake. A storm of notifications flooded my screen. Socials were exploding — had Rafael fled his wedding? Someone had papped him at the airport in Nice, or someone who looked like him, and gossip was flying. He'd jilted his bride, or they'd eloped. She was waiting for him in some beachside villa. He had a mistress. Three mistresses. Six. A mistress in every port, and his bride had found out. It didn't seem to have broken yet that he'd wound up here. I thought about tweeting I know where he is , ruining his day like he'd ruined mine. But I didn't need to stoop to his level. I'd race him and beat him and that would be that. Whatever drama he'd brought with him was none of my business.

The last step of my ritual came right at the end: getting into my car, I'd pat it like a dog. Pat-pat on its hood, and I'd get inside. It was like I was saying we're in this together. You don't stall, I won't scratch you. Pat-pat. Let's go. I had my hand raised to do that when he called out.

"Hey."

I jerked back mid-pat, but didn't turn around. My crew was buzzing around, adjusting my mirrors. I caught Rafael's reflection and our eyes locked.

"Damn it," I said.

One of my engineers looked up. "What?"

"Nothing. Not you." I got in my car. It wasn't till far too late that it hit me: the pat. I was cruising through the warmup lap, trying to get my head straight, when it struck me, my ritual. I'd missed the main part. Everything else, I could go with the flow, the gym on a rainy day, a run in sunshine. A few jumping jacks if I lost my book. But the pat was a constant, since my first race. I'd always done that, never missed once. Not till today, thanks to Rafael. I could see him behind me in my rearview mirror, creeping up my tailpipe. Plotting his win. I bared my teeth at him, though he couldn't see me.

The race heated up. Swung into high gear. I bit the flesh of my cheek for that edge of pain, but Rafael had jolted me out of my groove. I couldn't find it again, however I tried. The harder I pushed myself, the harder it got, my frustration mounting as our contest played out. My instincts were off, and my intuition. I couldn't tell if it was a close race, or if Rafael was fucking with me. It felt like he was, the way he'd slipstream me, roaring up behind me and then falling back.

There came a stretch mid-race where I could've had him. Where the track stretched before me was all I could see, and I forgot Rafael and forgot everything. I was in my element, king of the road. Everything my car did, I felt in my body, every twitch of my wheels, every surge of my engine. No one could touch me or even come close. They weren't like I was, one with the race.

Then Rafael shot past me out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere, but I didn't see it. He'd been on my ass a while, riding my slipstream, then whoosh round the curve, he squirted past me. He cut in ahead of me, our positions reversed, and my road-trance shattered in a red blast of rage. I screamed down the straight, fury-fixated, my hate-sharpened gaze trained on Rafael's tailpipe. He slowed a touch, teasing, forcing me to slow with him.

"Fuck! Rafael!"

He sailed round the curve. I gripped the wheel tight. If I didn't calm down, I wouldn't just lose to him. I'd lose my edge entirely. Fall back to last place. I sucked air through my teeth, forced myself to unclench.

Don't focus on his ass. It's you and the road.

He was leading, then I was, then we were neck and neck. I wanted to ram him. Force him off the track. Kill us both in a fireball to show him his place.

Focus, I growled, but it was too late. The last lap was on us and I couldn't pass him. It was like he was seeing two moves ahead, making his car wide. Blocking my pass. I hollered into my helmet — Move. Fucking move! I felt like a rage-addled kid on my Xbox, screaming at Luigi in Mario Kart. And then it was over, and I had lost, and Rafael was shaking out his helmet-crushed curls. Posing like he was in a shampoo commercial. I didn't mean to sneer at him, but I did, and he caught me. His face lit up like all his Christmases just came at once, and my sore-losing spite was the cherry on top. He held out his hand to me.

"Marco. Good race."

"Yeah, great. Congrats." I shook his hand tight-jawed, resisting the urge to crush it. Somehow, I managed a half-sincere smile. Flowers rained down around us, tossed from the stands. A messy bloom smacked me full on the cheek. I felt something scratch me — a thorn? The urge to punch something rose hot in my chest. Meanwhile, Rafael stood in a soft fall of petals.

"We'll be seeing a lot more of each other," he said with a wink.

I looked away from him. "How do you figure?"

"I've decided to?—"

"Asshole!" A howl of pure outrage rose from the stands. Something red, wet, and pulpy splashed up my legs. Rafael jumped back and avoided the mess. He chuckled lightly. "I'd say that was for me, but aren't tomatoes Italian? You do anything lately to piss off the crowd?"

"Tomatoes are Mexican. That's closer to Spanish."

"And yet, it's on you."

Another tomato came flying, another shout. Something about cowards running out on their brides. I laughed, loud and gleeful. I couldn't help it. So he'd run out, had he? Scampered off scared?

"So that's how you got so fast, running away. You scared of women, or just of commitment?"

Rafael's lips tightened. "You watch your tongue."

"Or what, you'll hit me? Or just run away?"

He clenched his fists, and I thought he might deck me. Then a camera swung in, and a fuzzy boom mic. We both turned our smiles on, but Rafael leaned close.

"Talk all you want," he hissed. "But I'll always be faster. You can have your wisecracks. I'll take the prize."

"This time," I grunted, out the side of my mouth. If Rafael heard me, he gave no sign. He was in press mode, beaming for the fans. I flicked my chin at him and a camera flashed, catching me in my moment of schoolyard defiance.