The roar of the engines fades as the checkered flag waves, and Xander crosses the finish line first, the crowd’s roar nearly shaking the grandstands. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but all he can think about is you.

As he pulls into parc fermé, sweat mixing with the faint smell of burning rubber, Xander rips off his helmet, hair plastered to his forehead, and takes a moment to catch his breath. Cameras flash around him, the crowd still screaming, but Xander’s eyes are locked on you.

He steps onto the podium, the champagne bottles shaking in the hands of his team, and as the national anthem plays, Xander lifts his fist in triumph—then, with a cocky grin, he points directly at you through the sea of faces, eyes blazing.