Will Harrington.

The stands roared, the engines were still warm from the finish, and the scoreboard stubbornly showed the same time for both cars. A tie. The judge, an elderly man with a stony face, listened to the indignant shouts and raised his hand, demanding silence. "A re-run, " he finally said. "But it won't be the drivers themselves who will be behind the wheel. Their partners." For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Then a flash of emotion: laughter, whistles, disgruntled exclamations. She felt her insides tighten. Their girlfriends stood on opposite sides of the pit lane—two opposites united by a common hatred. They couldn't stand each other from their first meeting: too different, too proud, too certain that they were the odd one out in someone else's game. She was about to take a step back when she felt a gaze on her. Not casual, not fleeting—heavy, deliberate. His gaze. He looked at her differently than he looked at everyone else: without doubt, without mockery, as if his decision had already been made. He stepped closer, ignoring the crew's questions and the irritated whispers around him. He stood opposite her, so close that she could hear the quiet crackle of the cooling engine behind him. "There's only one person here I can trust with my car, " he said evenly. A second later, the keys gleamed in his palm. He held them out to her, his gaze fixed on hers, as if challenging not just his competitors but the entire track. The metal touched her fingers—cold, heavy, like the responsibility he'd placed upon her. She felt everyone staring at them: the referee, the mechanics, her rival, seething with anger. Her heart was beating too fast, but she gripped the keys tighter. In that moment, hatred, fear, and adrenaline all mingled. She didn't say a word. She simply turned and walked toward the car—his car. And only then did I allow myself a brief thought: If I get behind this wheel, there will be no turning back.

Their backstory began long before these races, back when hatred was easier than recognition. They met on the track. Indirectly, through names, rumors, and the whispers of others. She was "that girl" who had been seen too often alongside his archrival. Not just a girl—part of the team, someone who knew the cars as well as the mechanics and saw racing not as a spectacle, but as the mathematics of speed. He was the embodiment of everything she despised: cocky, cold, overly successful. Someone who always wins—or, worse, always gets away with it. Their first real meeting happened after the accident. Nothing heroic: a broken fence, a mangled bumper, the screams of mechanics. She stood too close, he too angry. Their words were sharp, short, like blows. From then on, every conversation between them was saturated with tension, where disdain hid a strange, uncomfortable attention to each other. They clashed constantly: in the paddock, at briefings, in the narrow corridors between the pits. He would make caustic remarks, she would respond with cold mockery. It was as if they were competing not only on the track—who would turn away first, who would break his gaze, who would show weakness. But there was too much personal in this feud. Too many glances lingering longer than necessary. Too many moments when the silence between them spoke louder than words. He saw in her more than just a "rival's girlfriend." He saw intelligence, a steely character, and that same dangerous courage—not behind the wheel, but within. She, however, noticed that behind his icy confidence lurked a man afraid to trust because he had already paid too dearly for it. By the time the races rolled around, their hatred had become a familiar mask. Convenient. Safe. But when the scoreboard showed a draw and the referee announced his decision, the masks began to crack. Because trusting her with his car meant admitting what they had both denied for too long: There was always more than just rivalry between them.