A bullshit penaltycost me the podium.
One of my final races, and I finished P-fucking-5.
I stood in the garage afterward, helmet off, sweat dripping down my spine, jaw locked tight as the footage replayed.
“That was not a false start,” I muttered, like saying it enough times might make it true.
Auri finished just ahead of me in P4.
She found me without asking, sliding into my space like she always did—flushed, half-undressed, eyes still bright from the fight. For a split second, all I wanted was to be anywhere but here. Back home. The countryside. Quiet mornings. Her bare feet on stone floors.
She pressed a cold water bottle into my chest, grounding me, lips curling into that maddening, knowing smirk.
“Let it go, mon amour,” she told me softly. “One race doesn’t define you.”
The irony hit hard enough to steal my breath. I glared at her. She just grinned wider, unbothered, unafraid of the consequences. Actually, the consequences are probably what motivated her bratty comments.
Even on the worst days, she pulled me out of my head before I could go too far. I thanked her for it every goddamn day, and yet still I wanted to give her more of me.
So I kissed her—quick and rough—because I’d never stood a chance of resisting her. Because if this really was the end of something, then she was how I wanted to remember it.
Not the penalty.
Not the number.
Just us.
I clinched it.
The fucking World Championship was mine. Number five—and what a way to do it.
I barely heard the anthem. The Strip burned neon-bright beyond the circuit, champagne already spraying, cameras everywhere, but none of it landed. The only thing I saw, felt, or registered was my wife.
P3.
Her third podium in four races.
She climbed the steps beside me, eyes bright, chest heaving, and the pride hit harder than the win ever could. She was up there with me—celebrating my title, standing in the same light—and for not the first time since I’d met the woman, my eyes burned.
I blamed the champagne spray. No one questioned it.
I kissed her senseless in front of the world, forehead pressed to hers, voice rough and wrecked as I breathed, “I fucking did it.”
She laughed against my mouth, hands fisting my race suit like she needed the proof. “I told you, mon champion. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I kept kissing her—hard, grateful, reverent—like it was my first win. Like it was my first championship. Like this wasn’t just the end of something monumental, but the beginning of everything else.
“Auri,” I gasped, chest rattling with emotion as I pulled back to meet her watery hazel gaze. “It hasnevermeant this much to me. And I am honored to have you up here with me.”
Tears fell, and we kissed once more before we were forced to part ways. It was a blur, and I was desperate to get back to her.
When the post-race interviews started, she showed up like she always did when it mattered most—braids undone, hair a wild spill of waves, dressed in a Vanguard shirt with our name across the back and a short black skirt, and red heels that damn near knocked the breath out of me.
She stood just off camera, cheering with the fans while Marco and Kimi flanked her like ceremonial guards.
All of it just to support me.
My wife. My anchor. My loudest believer.
