Julien is just a single red drop in the sea of Ferraro that surrounds the tall podium. He proudly sings the Italian anthem along with the rest of the local crowd who packs tightly together on the track.
It truly is a religious experience.
Rafael scans the massive audience as he mouths along. He gazes up across the grandstands, over the track runners with their giant Ferraro flags, and towards pit lane where the team gathers.
When he locks eyes with Julien, Rafael stumbles in his song. He smiles and Julien’s heart skips a beat.
Stupid thing doesn’t know any better.
After the team dinner, Julien boards the boring bus heading back to the hotel. His limbs ache too much to attempt to go clubbing with the party crew. What he needs is a hot shower and a cold pillow, not a liquor-fueled PR nightmare.
He plops into a window seat and leans against the cool glass. Rafael really was brilliant today.
Maybe in a Red Boar, Julien could dance with him, too. He could challenge him for the win, for the championship.
He’d have to spend more time with Adam Stone, though. That doesn’t sound exactly appetizing.
A heavy body falls into the free seat and Julien double-takes. Even in the low light of the bus, he can recognize Rafael’s profile. “What are you doing here?”
“Why? Is this seat taken?”
“No.” Not the seat, thebus. “You didn’t want to go to the club? You’re the man they’re celebrating.”
“There’s something better for me at the hotel.” Rafael is a notable addition to the bus crew, so every team member who shuffles down the aisle regards him with surprise or a congratulatory pat to the shoulder.
“And you didn’t want to take the SUV back?”
A corner of his plush lip turns up. “There’s something better for me here.”
Once everyone is seated, the bus jolts to a start and they roll forward. Rafael looks around with a fiendish glee—the excitement of experiencing something new—while everyone else turns to their phones.
It’s been a long day, but Julien watches the man with fondness. The way his skin catches the passing streetlights and glows, the cut of his cheekbones, his full eyelashes.
It’s cruel for anyone to be so beautiful. Even more so when they’re off-limits.
Rafael leans closer under the guise of looking out the window, and Julien pushes himself further back into his seat to make room for him.
“So… what do you say?” Rafael continues to watch the world roll by, but it sounds like the question is directed towards Julien.
“To what?”
“Is there something better for me at the hotel? Or on this bus?” He turns, and a bump in the road bounces them closer together, their faces only a hairsbreadth apart.
Julien sucks in a breath as he hastily pushes the man away. “Not on the bus.” Not in front of their coworkers and friends.
“So, at the hotel?”
Julien’s face burns. Hopefully the dark of the night hides it. “Do you remember my conditions involving…that?”
“Hard to forget.”
“And?” Despite the pull drawing them closer and closer together, Julien can’t back down. He has to stand his ground—has to be sure his partner respects him in all aspects.
“If I trust you with my racing, then something like this is nothing.”
The red-clad team makes quite an entrance for the busy hotel lobby, but the patrons turn feral when they realize Rafael is amongst them.
By the time Rafael and Julien fight through the throngs of fans, security has reserved a private elevator for the two of them. The doors are heavy and shut out the fanatical screeching when Julien and Rafael turn to each other expectedly.
