The testing wasn’t broadcast. The public could buy tickets to the event, held in the south of France this year, but there was no official race.
Though there wasa race.
Each year, the riders signed a contractsotheirteams wouldn’tbe liable for any injuries.
From watching with my dad, I knew that each race held qualifying. Much like the testing, each rider would go out on the track and try to make the fastest lap every Saturday, the race commencing on Sunday. The fastest held position one, and the slowest held position twenty-four.
To raise the stakes and show how little they cared for the unofficial race, the previous season’s winner was positioned last and the person who had received the fewest points went first on the grid.
The men in the pit box grumbled about it, but the two riders’ grinning at each other told me everything I needed to know.
Testing was nothing to them. The race was everything.
Nixon would be in last place, seeing as he had won the championship last year.Alvwould be in the middle.
“I’ll still catch you,” Nixon laughed as he zipped up the front of his leathers again. He wore a top underneath, not thatI had peaked at all.
“We haven’t been able to talk, MrArmas,” I said to him.
He grunted.
Surprisingly, it wasCristhat came to my rescue. “Go, Nix. She’s here to help you.”
The rider didn’t look at me with gratitude, instead more repulsion, as if he didn’t need my help.
He sighed, heaved himself up and looked around for any distraction. The only one he found was when an assistant passed him an energy drink and a straw. He scoffed at them and laughed, “I need something far stronger for this.”
“Not until after,” Cris scolded.
Nixon only saluted him and walked out one of the doors, cracking open the can. I ran after him.
“It won’t take long,” I promised again, checking I had my bag — and, therefore, precious iPad — still over my shoulder as I followed him down the corridor.
He didn’t respond; he just halted and opened a door, and when I didn’t immediately walk through it, he huffed and gestured me through.
“Oh, thank you.”
Inside was a small meeting room with enough chairs for six people. It didn’t quite cover the distance I’d like from him, but it would have to do.
He sat opposite me and took a long sip of his drink, looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“So, MrArmas,” I started.
He lifted a hand to silence me and his lips twitched into a half-hearted smile. One that took his face from handsome to ravishing. Fuck.
There was so much riding on this man. I felt my whole bodytense at how he stopped me before even getting started, and I hated that it might be fury, might be the need in my bones to be dominated.
“Nix or justArmas,” he corrected. “No one calls meMr.Armas.”
“Right,” I said, shuffling in my seat. “Armas.”
And now I was blushing, again unsure if I was embarrassed or struggling in his presence.
I’d have to keep my distance from this man. The formality of a last name would be needed.
“Do you know your stats?” I asked, regaining myself and pulling out the papers from my bag.
“Stats? I’ve won three of the last four championships. Got a rating of—”
