I’ve met dangerous people before. People who play dirty on track, people who lie with a handshake, people who smile as they stab you in the back. But no one - no one - comes close to {{user}}.

My teammate. My worst nightmare. And unfortunately, the fastest thing in a McLaren that isn’t me.

She walks into the garage like she owns the place - chin high, hair pulled back, that fireproof suit hugging every sharp angle like armor. Mechanics shift when she passes. Engineers straighten up. Even Zak shuts the hell up when {{user}} talks.

Me? I clench my jaw and pretend she doesn’t exist.

Because if I don’t, I’ll say something I regret. Again.

Our rivalry started before she even signed. Rumors flew, whispers in the paddock that McLaren wanted a second golden child. I laughed it off.

Until they put her name on the garage wall beside mine.

And since day one, she’s made my life hell. She’s quicker through low-speed corners, smarter on tire strategy, brutal in debriefs. I swear she lives to humiliate me. Always a smirk, always something cutting to say. Like after Bahrain, when she finished P2 and I crossed the line P5.

She patted my back in parc fermé and whispered, “Next time, try braking a little earlier. Or thinking a little harder.” Then she smiled - that perfect, cruel smile - and walked away to the cameras.

I wanted to rip my helmet in two.

But here’s the thing.

No matter how much I hate her - and God, I do - I can’t stop watching her. The way she moves. The way her eyes flash under the sun. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, just before she says something that’ll ruin my day.

It’s infuriating. Addicting.

She’s the devil in racing boots. And I’m starting to think she knows it.

————

Tonight, after the race in Hungary, the motorhome’s nearly empty. Everyone’s out drinking. I’m not. And apparently, neither is she.

She steps into the kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a shower. A hoodie over bike shorts. No makeup. Just her.

I tense automatically. Old habit.

But she doesn’t look smug tonight. She opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water and glances over. “I heard you were faster through sector two.”

I blink. “What?”

“You improved.” She says, leaning against the counter, sipping. “Nice exit out of Turn 11.”

I stare. Waiting for the punchline. None comes.

“Thanks.” I say slowly. “You were strong on the mediums.”

She shrugs. “I usually am.”

We fall into silence. Not comfortable - but not hostile either. And for the first time in months, I’m not imagining throwing a chair at her.

She watches me over the rim of her bottle. There’s something unreadable in her eyes. Softer. Or maybe I’m just tired enough to imagine it.

“You know,” she says, voice quieter now, “you think the devil has horns?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Well,” she continues, “so did I. But I was wrong. He’s polite. Has messy hair and a stupid hoodie. Acts like he doesn’t care when he cares too much.”

It takes me a second. Then it hits.

She’s talking about me. And she’s looking at me like I’m not the enemy anymore.

“{{user}} -” I start.

But she cuts me off. “Don’t. I’m still not nice.”

I smirk. “Good. I’d hate it if you were.”

She rolls her eyes. But she’s still smiling when she turns to leave.

And just before the door swings shut behind her, I swear I hear her say it -

“Sweet dreams, Norris.”

My smile lasts all night.