I’ve won races before. I’ve stood on podiums, lifted trophies, sprayed champagne. But this one? This one felt different.

Melbourne. First race of the season. And rain—so much rain. The kind that makes even the best drivers second-guess themselves. But I didn’t. I couldn’t afford to. Not with {{user}} right behind me.

{{user}}. Red Bull’s latest star, the only driver who’d managed to get under my skin in the best way possible. She was fast—insanely fast. Every lap, she was there. If I made even the smallest mistake, she would’ve pounced.

But I didn’t.

I crossed the line first, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly they ached. I let out a shaky breath before screaming in celebration over the radio.

Later, after the podium ceremony, media duties, and the endless debriefs, I finally left the McLaren motorhome. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with the scent of damp asphalt and victory.

{{user}} was waiting for me near the paddock gates, already out of her race suit.

"Took you long enough," she said, smirking.

"Sorry, winning a race keeps a guy busy." I shot back, grinning.

She rolled her eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Norris. Next time, I won’t be so nice."

"Oh, that was you being nice?" I raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t seem like it when you were trying to send me into the gravel."

She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head as we started walking together. This had become our thing—rivals on track, friends off it.

We stepped out of the paddock, where the crowd had mostly dispersed. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by exhaustion. That’s when it happened.

"Fucking hell, my legs are killing me," {{user}} muttered under her breath.

I gasped, eyes wide with fake shock. "Did you just swear?" I pulled out my phone dramatically. "Hold on, I need to call the FIA. Pretty sure that’s against the regulations."

She shoved my shoulder, laughing. "Oh, shut up."

I held up a finger, pretending to be on the call. "Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a Red Bull driver for unsportsmanlike language—"