I stood beside my car, helmet tucked under one arm, rain misting my sleeves. The air was heavy, thick with tension and exhaust. This was no longer about clean lines and split-second precision—it was about survival, instinct, guts. I preferred it that way.
Then I saw him.
Moretti.
Pole position, standing just ahead of me, his race suit damp across the shoulders. The Hawthorn green and gold seemed to glow against the grey. He turned and caught sight of me, flashing that lazy, infuriating grin like we were about to play a friendly match in the park.
“Hope you packed your floaties,” he called, loud enough to cut through the rain.
I didn’t smile. “Hope you packed your humility.”
He strolled a little closer, boots splashing through shallow puddles. “Tense this afternoon, Volkov. Trouble sleeping?”
My pulse kicked harder. “No trouble.”
His smirk twitched. “Sure. But if you need help blowing off steam—”
I stepped in. Not close enough to make a scene, but close enough that he’d feel it. “Stay the hell out of my business. On and off the track.”
Luca’s eyes sharpened, just for a second. Then the grin returned. “Relax. We’re just racing. Unless you're worried about something.”
The call to helmets came through the speakers like a whip crack.
We both turned. I handed my helmet to Mac, who did a last wipe of the visor before passing it back. Rain still fell, steady and light. I climbed into the cockpit, water dripping from the edge of the halo.
I didn’t know if Moretti was trying to provoke me or if I was reading too much into his words. Either way, I was done listening.
It was a wet race.
A hard race.
And I was ready to fight.
The formation lap was cautious from all quarters, but my energy was dialled up higher than normal. I was itching to put my foot down and challenge Moretti for every point.
The lights went out and we surged forward into the rising storm.
Spray hit my visor instantly, thick and blinding. The roar of engines reverberated through my body as we barrelled toward Turn One, a mass of machines cutting through water-slicked asphalt. Grip was scarce. Instinct took over. I kept to the inside, braking late, narrowly avoiding a kiss of carbon fibre from Jax’s front wing.
By the end of lap three, the field had started to settle. I was running second, right behind Moretti, who was already weaving a little too much in the braking zones. Typical. He always danced on the edge of legality like it was a personal challenge.
“He’s scrubbing heat,” Mac warned in my ear. “Don’t get sucked into his rhythm. You’re faster in sector two. Take the long game.”
“Copy.”
But my patience was thin.
We swapped places twice by lap seven. Once when I nailed the exit of Turn Eight and caught him on the straight, and again when he boxed me out into Turn Eleven with that smug little swerve of his.
Lap nine. I was glued to his gearbox, close enough to see the flick of his helmet when he checked his mirrors. I stayed there. Made him feel it.
“Aleks, cool your head,” Mac said. “You’ve got time. Don’t cook your tyres.”
I gritted my teeth. My gloves were damp inside. The adrenaline was making me twitchy. My thoughts slipped. Elena, laughing on that balcony. Her head tipping toward his. The way he looked at her like he owned her.
Lap twelve. Sector one was clean, but I ran wide on the wet kerb in Turn Six. The car twitched and I had to fight it back.
“Too deep,” Mac barked. “That could’ve been it. Pull it back.”
