I groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “I hate you.”
“No, you don't.” He sat beside me, stretching his legs out with a wince. “Look,Ray, you're going to be around these guys all season. It's natural to get close to some of them. But be careful with Fraser. He's… well, let's just say he's not exactly known for staying out of trouble.”
I scowled. “You act like I don't have self-control.”
“You? Self-control?” He snorted. “Ray, I love you, but you've got the patience of a?—”
“I'm not a goddamn schoolgirl in need of a lecture,” I snapped, cutting him off. “I don't have a crush on him. End of story.”
Silence.
Then my brother arched an eyebrow, smug as hell. “No? Not even a little?”
I threw a throw pillow at him. It hit him in his good shoulder, and he laughed.
I hated him.
That night,I sat on my bed, a book open in my lap, and stared in absolute horror at the poster on my wall.
The worst possible poster.
Of Callum Fraser.
It wasn’t even a conscious choice. I’d been collecting race memorabilia since I was a kid—posters, paddock passes, old press badges, the occasional magazine spread and newspaper clippings. This one was a Vanguard promo from his first championship win. He was twenty-three. Same age as me now. Helmet off, race suit unzipped to his waist, sweat-damp hair falling into his sharp blue eyes like a fucking cinematic shot.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face.
Of course I had a Callum Fraser poster with a fake autograph at the bottom. I had lived and breathed racing my whole life. Posters of champions were normal. They were aspirational.
Right?
This was ridiculous. It wasn’t a crush. It hadneverbeen a crush.
Had I admired him? Sure. Had I watched every post-race interview? Maybe. Had I replayed certain team radio moments because his voice wasdistractinglyattractive? Okay. Fine. Had I saved an embarrassing number of edits and TikToks to a private folder in my phone? Shut up.
But that didn’t mean anything.
Except… maybe it did.
I flopped back onto my pillows, hating myself. Because the truth was, I touched him. At the bar. When I was feeling bold—when I'd let myself forget who he was. I pressed my fingers into his shoulder, just enough to brand the moment into my bloodstream, as if I had any business touching him at all. And then I whispered something ridiculous into his ear—something bold and too-close and entirely unprofessional. Just to see what it felt like. Just to know Icould.
I wasn’tdumb.
I knew how he looked at me.
And for one fleeting second, I had thought—what if?
This was exactly why you should never meet your idols.
Not because they might turn out to be assholes or disappoint you. But because sometimes, your whole damn career plays out in the public eye and you find yourselfviolently attractedto someone you really shouldn’t be. Someone you’ve seen a thousand times before—always from afar—only to end up face-to-face with them in a bar. And suddenly you’re stuck in a sport where you have to be professional and serious and unfazed, and all you can think about is the fact that you’ve absolutely, without a doubt, masturbated to them before.
Fucking hell.
I blew air out of my lips in frustration, glancing at the poster again.
That photo was from four seasons ago. He’d already been in Formula 1 for years by then; one of the youngest drivers in the sport’s history, breaking records left and right. Only a few years older than Étienne and me, yet I was just now making my debut at the same age he was winning his first title. I was older than most rookies nowadays, and with far more eyes on me for the wrong reasons.
While Étienne had entered F1 as a late teen, I’d been stuck in F2. Promoted not long after he left the grid. I waited. I watched from the sidelines while teams took risks on younger, less experienced men. But nowIwas the risk. Luminis's gamble. The woman, the older rookie, the wildcard.
