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every now and then on the racetrack speakers—“Nichols will take his first victory at Monza!” or “What a race for Jacob Nichols!”—without

a specific face attached. We never really overlapped in the racing world. I was already in single-seaters when he started

now and then, out of interest, but even so, Jacob was just another driver in a car. Utterly uninteresting, until one Friday

at the Austrian Grand Prix.

It was the last race weekend before the summer break, and it was supposed to be FP1—the first free practice session for Formula

1—but it was pouring buckets outside. Rain was bouncing six inches off the ground and the wind was howling through the grandstands.

Even the most dedicated fans had left the stands an hour ago, and it seemed inevitable practice would be canceled.

F2 qualifying was scheduled to take place after FP1, but there was little chance that would be happening.

Still, no one could leave until things were officially called off, and the stewards were taking an age to decide.

Everyone was bored and waiting, and almost all the reporters and interviewers had packed up their gear or moved inside.

I was too restless to wait in my room. I did some weights with my trainer, Brian—an obnoxious, sleazy fellow I’d unhappily

inherited from the previous Harper driver—and then ditched him in the cafeteria. I don’t think he noticed, honestly. He was

too busy bragging about his gluten-free diet to one of Harper’s race engineers.

I put my headphones on, loaded up my usual pre-race playlist, and began wandering aimlessly, going over the track in my mind.

I’d only been in F1 three years—two decent years with Torrent, a midfield team, then this year with Harper Racing, the second

best team in the league. The car was a hell of a lot faster, and I was running third in the championship. Halfway through

the season, the championship was still theoretically in my sights. Every time I thought about it, I felt this little shiver

of excitement. Winning an F1 championship was all I had ever wanted. And with rain forecast on and off all weekend, the Austrian

race was anyone’s game.

Secretly, though, I thought it was mine. Rain is the great equalizer of F1, a chance for drivers in objectively slower cars

to snag a surprise podium or race win. I’d gotten my own first win for Torrent in a wet race three years earlier. For years,

I’d made a point of practicing on rainy days. Not just in my F1 car, but in street cars, rally cars, anything with four wheels

I could get my hands on. I’d torn up a few cars in the process, but after a while I got the hang of it. I knew in my gut,

if it rained this weekend, I could win.

I bit down hard on my lip and forced myself to recite the track again. I passed a few people, mostly bored employees on their cell phones, but for the most part I was alone. Then I took a left turn and walked right into the middle of a TV interview.

It was for a smaller network I’d never heard of, and the interviewer was a dark-haired woman with a nervous smile. Her eyes

lit up when she saw me, and the cameraman swiveled my way.

“Travis Keeping!” The reporter beamed at me. “Join us for a word?”

I reluctantly took off my headphones. Harper’s press team had rules about impromptu media—“Don’t talk to anyone without us”

was their mantra—but the camera was already rolling and the reporter looked desperately hopeful. Still, I hesitated a moment,

until the driver she was interviewing shot me a crooked, white-toothed grin.

I’ll admit, I felt it like a lightning strike. It’s stupid and cheesy and was in no way reciprocated—Jacob told me later he

initially thought I was a dick—but that’s how it felt for me. He was just... god. He was every fantasy I’d never let myself

have, wrapped up in dirty blond hair and gray eyes and strong forearms. I still remember the shirt he was wearing, soft gray

cotton with his F2 team’s logo printed in black.

In the five seconds it took me to (1) imagine stripping the shirt off his back, (2) realize what I’d just thought about another

driver, and (3) freak the hell out about it, the reporter came up with her first question.

“If you’re just joining us now,” she said to the camera, “I’m here with Formula 2 driver Jacob Nichols and Formula 1 driver

Travis Keeping, both of whom are waiting impatiently, I imagine, for the rain to stop.” She smiled at us. “Boys, what do you

think about this weather?”

“It’s nuts out there,” Jacob said, with another slanted grin. “Shame they won’t let us race in it.”

He was standing so close to me that I could smell his shampoo, something dark and earthy and masculine. My brain was going

completely haywire at that point, but fortunately I was already known for being quiet in interviews.

“Yeah,” I said.

The reporter nodded like I’d said something profound. “The weather’s supposed to clear up a bit tomorrow, but the forecast

still calls for showers on and off. This would be the first wet race of your season, Travis. How do you feel about that?”

I cleared my throat. “Not bad.”

There was a beat of silence while they waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, Jacob raised a single eyebrow. That’s probably

about the time he was thinking I was a dick.

The reporter, though, bless her, was not so easily beaten. Her cheeks were a little flushed from nerves, but she swallowed

hard and changed tack.

“Tell you what,” she said, with newfound vigor. “We’ve got a few minutes to kill—why don’t we do a rapid-fire quiz?” Without

giving us time to answer, she barreled on. “I’ll say two things, you pick one. No hesitating, just say the first answer that

comes to mind. Got it?”

Jacob smiled encouragingly at her, a bright, confident smile that I felt deep in my stomach. “Go for it,” he said.

The reporter took a breath and launched in. “Early bird or night owl?”

“Night owl,” Jacob said, at the same time that I grunted, “Early.”

“Beach or mountains?”

“Mountains,” I answered, while Jacob said, “Beach.”

“Rap or techno?”

“Neither,” I said, at the same time that Jacob said, “Both.”

The reporter laughed. “It’s a good thing this isn’t the newlywed game, or you two would be headed for divorce!”

Jacob’s laugh was warm and infectious. One corner of my mouth turned up, entirely without my permission.

“Tea or coffee?” the reporter continued.

“Coffee,” we answered together, and I was rewarded with a flash of Jacob’s smile.

“Cat or dog?”

“Dog,” we both said.

The reporter chuckled. “Alright, maybe you’ll stave off divorce for a little while. Last one—rain or shine?”

“Rain,” I answered automatically, while Jacob said, “Shine.”

The reporter grinned. “We’ll call it a rocky relationship, then, shall we?”

“We have our ups and downs,” Jacob deadpanned, squeezing my shoulder. I felt the warmth of his fingertips through the thin

cotton of my shirt, and for a moment I honestly couldn’t breathe.

“Thanks so much, boys,” the reporter said. “We’ll leave you to it.”

The camera turned off and she shook both of our hands and thanked us for playing along. “It’s my first week,” she admitted.

“Sorry if I was rubbish.”

“No, you were great,” Jacob said, and a pleased flush spread up her neck. She thanked us again and then headed off with her

cameraman in tow. Jacob and I were left alone in the narrow, white-walled hallway. He could’ve just walked off, but instead

he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. His smile was sharp and confident, and his eyes danced as he looked

me up and down.

“You’re really good at interviews,” he said.

Warmth crept up my neck. I reckon I was just as flushed as the reporter. I cleared my throat, my mind completely blank. Later, I would think of something to say, but I was never someone who could be clever in the moment.

“Right,” I managed.

I felt his laugh as a warm shiver down my spine. “It helps that you’ve got such a great smile,” he said. “Really puts people

at ease.”

My mouth twitched up reluctantly. It was true, I wasn’t known for being particularly friendly. It wasn’t that I was trying

to be rude, I just always felt... out of place, I suppose. Uncomfortable. The only place I didn’t feel like that was inside

a race car. In the real world, with people, I was rubbish. Luckily, it seemed to have translated into a “strong, silent type”

sort of image in the media.

Right now, though, I wasn’t feeling particularly strong. Jacob was grinning at me, and I felt like he could see everything,

from the flush on my neck to the unsteadiness in my hands. Not just that he could see it, but that he knew the root cause.

“What are you listening to?” he asked, nodding at my abandoned phone. Without waiting for me to answer, he took my phone out

of my hand. He pressed the home button, then raised a surprised eyebrow as the home screen popped up. “You don’t have a passcode?”

I shrugged. I’d never needed one. I didn’t have any social media, despite the Harper press team’s longstanding campaign to

convince me to set some up. The only texts in my phone were work-related.

I waited for Jacob to open my music, but instead he blinked up at me. “Did you just get this phone?”

I cleared my throat again. “It’s a few years old.”

“Your background is the default home screen,” he said slowly.

Color was spreading farther up my face. I felt off-balance, nettled and pleased by his attention. “So?”

“So you must have one picture you can put as your background.” He tapped the Photos icon and then stared at me in horror. “You’ve never taken a single picture on your phone? Are you a robot?”

I grabbed my phone back, my heart twitching nervously as my fingers brushed his. “I don’t use it much.”

He barked out an incredulous laugh. “You fucking weirdo.” He snatched the phone back. “Let’s see if your music has a personality,

at least.”

He looked down at my phone again, and I leaned closer under the slim pretense of looking at the screen. My eyes traced the