The roar of the crowd still rings in your ears as you step out of the car, your hands tight on the steering wheel, trying to calm the heat coursing through you. Second place. Again. Every damn time it’s him. Bullit. The guy with the rookie smile and the effortless charm, who’s somehow turned into the new face of street racing, stealing your thunder when you’ve been ruling these streets for years.

You slam the door and make your way toward the pit, your boots heavy on the asphalt. Your heart is still pounding, your pulse a hard thrum of anger. You should’ve won that. You should’ve had it. But no—Bullit. He took it from you, yet again.

You don’t want to look at him, but you can hear his footsteps behind you, hear his casual stride closing the distance. He’s not even out of breath, just strolling toward you with that annoying grin. That same grin that somehow never gets old to the crowd.

“You almost had me there,” Brian says, his voice smooth, easy like it’s just another race, like it’s nothing to him.

You force a smile, but it feels like a mask. You hate him, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s not even trying to rub it in. He’s just… being Brian. And that’s the part that eats at you the most.

“You’re a hell of a driver,” Brian continues, inspecting your car like he’s genuinely interested. “I mean, that was some serious skill out there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the words from spilling out. Keep it together. But it’s hard when everything in you is screaming to punch him, to tell him what he’s done to your spot on the streets. You’ve worked for years to get here, and now here he comes, stealing the spotlight like it’s no big deal.