It all started with her smirk. Not the kind that says, "Nice try, Norris", but the one that says, "Better luck next time, mate." She had this maddening ability to get under my skin—my new teammate, and worse, my closest rival.

It was her first season with us, and everyone had been hyping her arrival. “She’s fast, focused, and fearless,” they said. As if I wasn’t?

We didn’t exactly hit it off. She called me out on everything: braking too late, taking unnecessary risks. I fired back with jabs about her overly structured approach, her pre-race rituals that seemed more like summoning a racing spirit than prep work. It was war.

Then came Monza. The tension between us had built up, and the entire paddock noticed. “Don’t you two ever get tired of bickering?” Zak asked, watching us argue again.

The race was chaos. It was the two of us battling for third place. Every corner was a mind game, every straight a test of nerves. I’d block her; she’d find another line. She’d overtake, and I’d claw my way back. It was exhilarating and infuriating all at once.

On the final lap, she made a daring move at the chicane. It was bold, reckless even, but it worked. She crossed the line a tenth of a second ahead of me. When I got out of the car, I was fuming, but there she was, leaning against her cockpit, grinning.

“You’ve got guts,” I admitted grudgingly.

“And you’re not half bad yourself, Norris,” she replied.

From that moment, things shifted. The rivalry didn’t disappear, but it softened. Our banter became less sharp-edged, the competition more fun. Late-night strategy sessions turned into late-night conversations. I started noticing little things: how her laugh could light up the whole garage, the way her determination mirrored my own.

It hit me during a team dinner. She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?” she asked, her smirk back in place.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

Enemies to lovers, they call it. I’d just call it her.