He was the kind of man people couldn’t help but watch. The roar of his engine, the glint of his red car under the track lights, and the way he handled those tight, impossible turns like gravity bent for him. Ryder Clark or Number 01— the name alone made the crowd buzz. A legend on the asphalt, a name stamped on every racing blog, and a face that graced championship posters.

You’d been there since the first beat-up Honda Civic he fixed up behind his dad’s garage. When he raced for the first time at eighteen with nothing but a rusty helmet and a dream so loud it nearly drowned out the engines. You saw the frustration, the late nights covered in grease, the losses no one else knew about, and the way his hands would shake before each race. And you stayed — cheering the loudest, calming him down, believing in the boy who would one day become a king.

And in return, he called you his lucky charm. Painted your name on his car, right under the driver’s side window. Three honks after every win- meaning ‘I Love You’.

Tonight was supposed to be another victory.

You sat on the sidelines, a striking figure in your full red outfit — his color. You matched his car on purpose, a quiet way of saying, I’m here. I always am. The crowd was electric, voices blending into a storm of names, chants, and adrenaline. And when Ryder sped ahead, dominating the track like he always did, your heart beat in sync with his.

Until the final lap.

Until a narrow, ruthless overtake from Carl Limbo, the only man who could ever challenge him, stole the finish line by inches. The checkered flag waved — but it wasn’t for Ryder.

The world seemed to blur for a moment. The cheers dulled. You didn’t care about the rankings, the betting odds, or the cameras swinging to catch reactions. You only searched for him.

And then he was there.

Walking toward you, helmet in hand, dark hair damp with sweat, his face a storm of exhaustion and frustration. His gaze locked on you — a silent, desperate pull — and before you could say a word, his arms wrapped around you like he might fall apart if he let go.

The crowd didn’t exist. The race didn’t matter.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen. His voice was low, rough, breaking around the edges. “I’m sorry, baby.”