Izzy stands by her car, helmet resting on the hood, her racing jumper unzipped and tied around her waist, revealing the white t-shirt with our team’s logo stretched across her chest. Her design. I remember the late nights we spent sketching logos and tweaking color schemes for our dads’ teams, back when things between us weren’t so damn tense.
Now? Now, all I feel is friction. Heat. A pull toward her I can’t shake, no matter how hard I pretend otherwise.
I approach her before I even realize my feet are moving. The way she’s standing, spine straight, confidence radiating off her after that solid race, has my chest tightening. I’ve always known she could handle herself on the track, but watching her dominate out there does something to me. Pride. Lust. Maybe even something deeper I don’t want to name.
Without thinking, I step behind her and rest my hands on her shoulders. She tenses for a split second, then relaxes under my touch. My thumbs press into the knots, massaging the tight muscles. When she lets out a soft sigh, I feel it like a spark straight to my bloodstream.
“That was some great racing,” I murmur, my lips dangerously close to her ear.
A shiver runs through her, and I feel it beneath my palms, the way she trembles slightly. It’s subtle, but I know I have an effect on her. I always have. The problem? She fights it. Fights me.
“Thanks,” she breathes, voice soft.
She closes her eyes, savoring the moment, and I want to believe this is it. That I’ve finally broken through that wall she keeps putting up between us. But then, like always, she recovers. She shifts to look at me, those sharp green eyes full of something unreadable. Something cautious. She scans my face like she’s searching for proof that this isn’t some game to me.
Then, her lips part, and just like that, the moment is gone. “Hey, X, eyes up here. I’m not some track bunny who’s an easy lay.”
Shit. I swallow hard, caught, my eyes snapping back up to meet hers. Busted. I wasn’t even trying to check her out this time. Okay, maybe a little, but can she blame me? I am a man, and she looks good. Always has.
“Trust me, I know,” I manage, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be.
She rolls her eyes dramatically before setting her helmet down, her expression unreadable again. “Is there something you want?”
Yeah. You.I don’t say it, though. Because I know how that conversation will go. Izzy hates the way I live my life, the way I take what I want without hesitation. She acts like it’s some kind of flaw, like I’m reckless with everything, including her. She doesn’t see that I’ve been careful when it comes to her. That I hold back. That every girl I’ve been with has been a distraction. Because she’s the one I actually want. And that scares the hell out of me.
The teasing smirk fades from my face. “Nah, I wanted to tell you, you did good tonight.”
Her jaw tightens, like she was expecting some cocky remark instead. “Thanks,” she mutters, then turns on her heel and walks away.
I watch her go, frustration boiling under my skin. This isn’t how things used to be. We used to be inseparable. We’d race through the pits as kids, dreaming about making it big one day. She was my best friend before things got complicated. Before I started wanting her in ways I shouldn’t. And now? Now, she acts like I’m another guy she has to compete with on the track. Like she doesn’t feel this thing between us the same way I do. I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling hard, before following after her.
I find her near her dad, Austin Jones, a legend in his own right. He’s got an air filter in his hand, clearly getting ready for his race. They’re talking, laughing, and for a second, I watch. Izzy’s different around him. Softer. She lets him in. She used to let me in, too.
I force my feet to move, stepping up beside them. Izzy notices me first, and I don’t miss the way her breath catches before she schools her features into something neutral.
Austin clears his throat, giving me a knowing look. He’s always been like a second dad to me, but I can’t tell if he sees me as someone worthy of his daughter.
“So,” I start, breaking the tension, “you ready for your race?”
Izzy blinks like she wasn’t expecting me to address her. “Yeah,” she says, then clears her throat. “Yes. I’m ready. Let’s go kick some ass.”
Austin raises an eyebrow. “Mouth, young lady.”
Izzy sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs before climbing into his Late Model UMP. I watch as she presses two fingers to her lips, then places them over her heart. A silent good luck. Austin mirrors the gesture before rolling away toward the lineup. Their tradition. The kind of thing I wish I had with Izzy.
I stand beside Izzy, our arms brushing, her scent, a mix of engine grease, vanilla, and something uniquely her, wrapping around me.
I lean in enough that she can hear me over the rumble of the engines. “Are you going to ignore me all night?”
Her gaze stays locked on the track, her posture stiff. “I’m not ignoring you, X. I’m giving you space so the track bunnies can swoop in and grab your attention.”
My stomach twists at the bitterness in her voice. It’s not the first time she’s thrown my reputation in my face, but this time, it stings more than I expect it to. I glance at her, trying to read her, but she’s got her walls up. Always guarded. Always bracing for me to disappoint her.
“Ouch,” I say, forcing a smirk even though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I guess I deserve that.”
She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but the tension in her shoulders tells me otherwise. “When I see the same thing week after week, it gets harder and harder to watch.”
I hate the idea of her watching. Not because I don’t want her to see who I am, but because I don’t want her thinking I’d ever treat her like one of those random girls.
