“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
I know exactly what it means.
“I bet he’d trade getting first if it meant getting you.”
I roll my eyes and ignore his teasing.
Rome and I haven’t been alone or had a conversation that didn’t involve the rest of the team since the hospital. Even in our group text, it’s been cordial. Like, when I congratulated him on the last race and he sent a simplethank youin response.
I hate it.
Just like I tell myself I hate when I catch him staring at me from across the room, only to love it deep down.
It’s the same contradiction everywhere I see him.
I always search for his car when I pull into Vanstone’s parking lot, and butterflies fill me when it’s there. If his hand brushes mine during Sunday dinner, I crave the rush of heat that follows.
It’s hard to remember all the drama that occurred from before. There’s still an investigation being conducted against Pierce Racing, and Rome is still on probation. Yet it seems like years ago that he was softly skimming my cheek with his finger as I fell asleep in his bed.
And right now, as he pulls up to the number one spot and climbs out of his car, I can’t help but dash over to him with the rest of the Vanstone team. I linger in the back as Van and the others jump on top of him with the crowd roaring in the background.
After the truth surfaced about Pierce Racing, the fans seemed to have fallen even more in love with Rome and our Vanstone team. There’s a sea of teal and purple in the crowd, all of whom are on their feet, cheering for him beside us.
Beck walks over and hugs him, both of them sweaty. My brother leans close to his ear and says something over the cheers.
Rome’s blue eyes fly over to mine, and the smile on my face disappears.
He caught me.
His eyebrows dip for a split second.
My heart stops.
Beck is mid-conversation with him, but Rome isn’t paying attention. He takes a step toward me and stops.
When I stay in place, he takes another one.
And then another.
Until he’s inches from me.
A swallow moves against his neck the same time a bead of sweat drips down the side of his cheek.
I exhale, but it comes out shaky.
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine, and everything around me disappears. “I thought winning would make me feel whole again,” he admits.
A sadness moves through me. “It doesn’t?”
His head moves back and forth slowly. “Not unless I get to share it with you.”
There are thousands of eyes on us, yet all I see are his.
“I’ll keep winning,” he says, “just for a chance to feel your arms around my neck, celebrating with me.”
Rome.
Gia shouts his name for an interview, and when I say nothing, he turns away.
