It had been the last turn of the “track,” one that curved sharply around a record store and into the free stretch of road along the coastline. The tracks at F1 circuits are made of a special kind of material, made to withstand the high temperatures from the tyres and cars racing over them—but ordinary roads are not.

The asphalt slips and slides at such temperatures, even if only a little bit—and it makes all the difference in the way a driver determines a braking strategy. Jay, clearly not having had accounted entirely for the possibility, made the slightest miscalculation about his braking time and distance at that particular corner.

And that miscalculation was all you needed to keep your lead over him.

He'd crossed the finish line just after you. And he knows he should be proud of himself, because he had a whole new car—this one not as graceful as a car in the Formula races would be—that he went headfirst into racing with, having zero prep and practice with it.

He should be proud of himself because he still came in at P2 to the crowd's rambunctious screams, echoing in his ears just as loud as the cheers at the Miami International Autodrome had.

But, fuck, all he feels is dread and more dread, as the realisation of what he'd just done came to a halt into the street of his thoughts, just as the Eclipse does in the middle of the crowd.

Not only had he just lost to you of all people, to pour salt over the already festering wound, he'd also put his career into jeopardy. All because he couldn't fucking keep his annoyance to himself. He exhales softly, leaning back into the seat and watches the familiar way you celebrate with the crowd. Clearly, this wasn't your first rodeo, and probably not your last, either—but he's pretty sure he might as well kiss goodbye to his dreams of being a World Champion and racing to his heart's content.

He lets his hands stay rigidly on the steering wheel at a ten-and-two, his knuckles white and the leather under his fingers warm from the death grip he'd had on it the entire time. Closing his eyes, he lets himself get another agonising five seconds alone, before he pulls the door open and steps out.

People scream louder the moment his feet touch the asphalt again, and he resists the urge to cover his ears. Shutting the door behind him, Jay makes his way over to where you're standing next to Marcus, who's holding up a thick stack of notes and grinning wide. “P2, man. Zero prep and practice,” he pats Jay's shoulder, braces glinting under the low lights of the street lamps. “You sure you've never done this before?”

“I'm sure I'd know if I've done this before.” Jay gives him a silent nod, and winces internally as he catches sight of you and your godforsaken smirk again. “So,” you drawl lazily, crossing your arms over your chest as you lean against the door of your car. “P1 goes to P2. Pretty good for a rookie like you, I'd say.”

Jay's jaw flexes at the backhanded compliment, and he fights the urge to snap back. Stop, he pinches his arm discreetly, you've already done enough damage, Jay. Don't let her get to you. “Congratulations,” he says, giving you a small nod of his head. “You… drove well. First is still first.”

He notices the way your posture straightens, and the way you narrow your eyes at him as your energy shifts subtly. He doesn't look back at you again, his gaze roaming over the crowd and the way their all holding up their phones to film and cheer, as Marcus leads the charge enthusiastically.

Yeah, he's pretty sure he's fucked.

He sighs, rolling his shoulders as he takes in the atmosphere once again—neon lights, a titillated crowd that can be both his redemption and death, and the sound of the sea water crashing the shore—because if this is his last race, he might as well enjoy it properly.

When he meets your eyes again, he's surprised to see that your expression is completely blank. There's no trace of that condescending smirk or the sardonic roll of your eyes that only seemed to be directed at him. Instead, what he finds is quiet recognition, before it too disappears with the pass of the wind, and you're grinning devilishly once more.

Jay watches you make your way over to him, and subtly shifts his stance to stand parallel to the car, eyes following every movement you make with quiet, burning intensity. “Say, Park,” you purr, coming to a stop right in front of him. There's a look on your face that he recognises as pure trouble as you twirl a lock of your hair around your finger, and his brain screams for him to get away. Yet, as if drawn to the asphalt by the earth's gravity, his feet remain firm in their place, and you finally lean in, erasing the last of the distance between the two of you.

“Couldn't help but notice that you're in a bit of trouble,” you glance towards the phones that are still filming, before your eyes come back to rest on him again. “A bit of an unfortunate occurrence, I must say.” Jay swallows the lump firmly sitting lodged in his throat with great difficulty, and shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the way they tremble just the slightest—whether from anger or anxiety, he's not sure now—because the way you're looking at him makes him feel like revealing even the smallest vulnerability will have you pouncing on it.

“I'm aware,” he glances down at you, shuffling to stand straighter. “I suppose there's nothing much that I can do about it.” He watches you study him for a bit longer, before you tap your fingers against the glass of the Eclipse's windows. “You're surprisingly accepting of a lot of things,” you quip, and he barely stops himself from rolling his eyes at the answer. “I'd rather accept the obvious facts and move on, rather than to stay back and argue for a fight I know I'd lose. One step back doesn't mean it shuts the door. It could also be the path to another one too.”

“Surprisingly philosophical too,” the amused lilt to your voice is hard to miss, but your grin grows wider as you lean in close enough that he can smell your perfume again. “But what if I told you…. that I could fix your little ah, issue, here?”

He raises a brow at that, before his gaze narrows in distrust. In this corner of the world, nothing came for free. Especially if it came from someone who was born into wealth and had just about everything she could ever want. He knows he should be careful, but hell, if the thought isn't tempting. He's always been one to adapt to new environments quickly—and in the brief time he's spent here, he's understood that you've got at least some amount of sway amongst the crowd and crew here.

So he bites the bullet, and goes for it. “What's your condition?” Your eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads on your face again—and he catches that there's hints of relief mixed with the predatory nature of it—but he ignores it in favour of staring you down again.

“Go out on a date with me.”

Jay blinks as the words register in his mind. “What?”

You roll your eyes, tapping your foot impatiently against the ground. “I know you heard me right the first time, Park.”

You're absolutely correct—he did hear you right the first time, but the proposition itself seemed so… ridiculous to him, that he couldn't believe it and doubted his own ears about what he'd heard.

But one look at you, and he understood you were serious about it. A winner was the one who set the conditions, and he knew that better than anyone else. Tonight, you'd won fair and square against him, and this was the condition you'd set for him. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he did enjoy the race. Sure, it was illegal and he's absolutely wrong for liking it, but it was the same thrill and adrenaline that he felt as he does when he's driving his Red Bull.

And fuck, if it means he could continue to race, he'd uncap the bottle and drink the poison himself.

“Ah, seriously. If you don't want to, just say it, you asshole—” You're just about to turn away from him, when Jay’s arm snakes around your waist and pulls you close to his body.

The wide-eyed look you have is enough to have satisfaction settling back into his bones, and this time, it's Jay's turn to smirk devilishly, the warmth of his skin unmistakable against your own, as he leans in to whisper into your ear while the crowd screams louder at the sight of the two of you.

“Tell me when and where, and I'll show up, sweetheart.”

Then he's letting go of you with a wink, and you stare at him, flabbergasted, before bursting out into loud laughter, clutching your stomach. Jay grins, leaning back against the car, much more relaxed now.

Yeah, he's sure of it all. The chalice of poison rests in his hands, and he knows that he'll be the one drinking it in the end anyway, but he's pretty sure he can stall the inevitable for a bit longer, if—no, for when—he flips some tiles to his own advantage.

A game needs two players, after all.

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