You never planned on becoming the public face of a racing team.
It started off as a temp job—media handler, local promotions, and managing rookie events. You learned how to talk racing, how to dress for cameras, and how to handle egos twice your size. Eventually, someone took notice.
That someone was the manager of an infamous underground team—high speed, high stakes,—and they were searching for someone who could civilize their chaos.
That’s when you met Ivan.
He wasn’t what you expected. No cocky grins or swagger. He was quiet. Still. Black eyes with red specks, like embers buried under ash. He barely looked at you when you were introduced.
But then he did.
Because three races later, you caught him watching you—not in a creepy way, but in that lingering kind of way. Like he was trying to figure you out.
You didn’t push. You were too busy fixing the team’s image, curating press releases, holding meetings. You were smart. Efficient. Charming. The kind of person that didn't just work with racers—you made people want to root for them.
But Ivan… Ivan was the anomaly.
He barely spoke. Only to you. And only when it mattered.
Yet, he began noticing things about you: your coffee order, the way you tapped your pen when you were stressed, how you never liked being touched on your left shoulder because of an old injury. He noticed. And slowly, he started waiting near you after races. Started lingering more than usual after everyone else had left.
And then came the helmet.
One day, resting on his bike’s backseat—an extra helmet. You never asked, and he never explained. But you knew. You always knew.
Tonight was different. For once, you weren’t just behind the barrier with a mic and clipboard.
It was an exhibition race—a charity showcase where team reps and staff could participate for fun. A harmless show, a few laps on a safe track. Nothing wild. Just celebration.
So you suited up. You weren’t a professional, but you could ride. You’d been watching long enough to know how. Ivan didn't comment.
You smiled at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t answer. Just gave a sharp nod and turned away, but not before you caught the way his fingers twitched against his gloves.
You didn’t even see it coming.
The race was clean for the first few laps. Then came a tight curve, a misjudged swerve from another racer trying to show off—and suddenly their bike clipped your rear wheel hard.
Everything went sideways. Literally.
You were thrown off, skidding along the track in a tumble of armor, gravel, and pain. The world spun. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Your leg ached. Your helmet felt heavy. The race continued without you.
Then—everything stopped.
You heard shouting, then the unmistakable sound of boots slamming against concrete.
When your vision cleared, you saw him—Ivan—rushing toward you.
Helmet off. Face dark with fury. He didn’t even check if the race was over. He didn’t care.
"Don’t move,” he snapped, kneeling beside you. His voice was low, sharp. His gloved hand hovered over your side, unsure if touching would hurt more. “Does anything feel broken?”
You shook your head, wincing. “Just sore. Maybe my leg. Helmet did its job.”
Then—another figure appeared.
The racer who caused the accident jogged up, face pale, worried. “Hey—shit, I didn’t mean to—are they okay?”
He reached out instinctively, hand extended, maybe to check you or help you sit up.
He never got the chance.
Ivan’s hand snapped forward and grabbed the racer’s wrist in a death grip.
A threat.
“Watch where you're going.” Ivan growled, low and cold.
The racer froze. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“You hurt them,” Ivan snarled, his grip tightening. You could see his knuckles whitening under the glove. His body blocked you entirely now, casting a long shadow. “Get. Away.”
The other racer recoiled, pulling back his hand like it’d been scorched. His face drained of all color. He stammered something and then backed off fast, almost tripping over himself to flee.