I’m not used to publish one shots or stories but here we go. (Sorry if it is a shit)
First Race, First Mistakes
Jerez was sightly warm. His first race in the big leagues, sixth wasn’t that bad for a rookie. Casey was walking away from all the press when a mechanic approached him and only said “tonight there’s a party in the rooftop of an hotel, you can come” and disappeared.
He thought about it for a long minute, he wasn’t so sure if going was a good idea, fighting with Adriana again would be worse but the fight he had over the phone earlier that weekend continued replaying in his head, the screams of her saying that he preferred a bike more than her.
Night, he arrived to the hotel —someone gave him the location—. The rooftop was full of people he seen on the grid, riders, mechanics, grid girls, some team principals that shouldn’t be there but still. The music was too loud and somehow he ended up talking in a strange round of people—Dani, Nicky, Colin and him—, he accepted the drinks they started giving to him and drank them like it was water. He told himself he was just being sociable. He wanted to know these guys away from the pit wall – the way they laughed, the way they swore in four different languages, the stupid in-jokes that had been running since 125cc days.
Valentino Rossi was there, of course. Impossible to miss. Yellow cap backwards, easy grin, moving through the room like he owned every inch of it. Valentino joined for a little to the really strange circle that Casey was, making too much eye contact with him, more than necessary.
The night blurred after the third – or was it fourth? – round of shots. Someone started a drinking game involving flag-to-flag rules. Someone else tried to teach Casey how to swear properly in Spanish. At some point the music got louder and the lights got lower and the place started to spin in that warm, forgiving way alcohol sometimes allows.
He didn’t remember leaving.
He didn’t remember the corridor, or the keycard, or whose idea it had been to keep going somewhere quieter.
He remembered heat. Skin. Hands that knew exactly what they were doing. A low laugh against his ear that sounded like victory even when no one was racing. The sharp sting of too much too fast, then the slow melt into something he couldn’t name. He remembered thinking, stupidly, this can’t be happening, right up until it already had.
Dry mouth. Throbbing head. A deep, unfamiliar ache low in his body that made him freeze the second consciousness returned. He was naked. The sheets were tangled around his thighs. There was an arm draped heavily across his waist, a chest pressed to his back, steady breathing stirring the hair at his nape. And worse – the unmistakable feeling of someone still inside him, soft now, but unmistakably there.
Casey’s heart slammed so hard he thought it would crack a rib.
He tried to turn his head. Couldn’t. The arm tightened reflexively, keeping him pinned. His eyes darted sideways across the pillow and there it was: a crumpled yellow cap with the number 46 stitched in black, lying on the nightstand like a signature.
His stomach dropped through the floor.
The man Casey had spent every practice session trying to catch. The man currently curled around him like they’d done this a hundred times.
Casey’s breath came shallow and fast. He didn’t dare move – not because he was scared, exactly, but because moving would make it real. Would force him to decide what came next. Apologise? Pretend he didn’t remember? Run?
Behind him, Vale stirred. A sleepy hum, then the slow drag of hips pulling back just enough to slip free. Casey bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. The arm around his waist loosened, but didn’t let go completely.
A low, gravelly voice murmured against his shoulder, still thick with sleep and amusement.
Valentino didn’t move to get up right away. He just stayed there, chest still warm against Casey’s spine, forearm resting lazy and possessive across his stomach like it belonged. The silence stretched long enough that Casey could hear the distant whine of a vacuum cleaner somewhere down the hotel corridor, the slow tick of the bedside clock.
Finally Vale spoke again, voice rough from sleep and smoke and whatever else they’d done to their throats the night before.
“You’re thinking so loud it’s giving me a headache, Stoner.”
Casey swallowed. His throat felt lined with sandpaper. “I don’t… I don’t remember much.”
A soft huff of laughter against the back of his neck. “You remembered enough at three a.m.”
Heat crawled up Casey’s face so fast it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Vale agreed, sounding almost fond. “We did.”
Casey finally forced himself to twist – carefully, because every muscle protested – until he could at least see part of the other man’s face. Valentino looked wrecked in the best way: hair a disaster, stubble darker than usual, lazy half-smile that said he wasn’t embarrassed at all.
“You always wake up this mood after you get fucked by the reigning champion?” Vale asked, eyebrow raised.
Casey made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half horror. “You’re an arsehole.”
“Sì, but I’m your arsehole this morning.” Vale’s hand slid lower, not quite groping, just… reminding. Casey’s body reacted before his brain could catch up; a small, involuntary twitch that made Vale’s smile widen. “See? Still likes me.”
“Shut up.” Casey shoved at the arm around him, but there wasn’t much strength behind it. He felt raw – physically, emotionally, every way at once. The fight with Adriana felt like it happened in another life. This felt more real than anything had in months.
Vale finally rolled onto his back, stretching like a cat in sunlight, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. The sheet slipped dangerously low. Casey looked away fast.
“So,” Vale said, folding an arm behind his head, “we gonna do the dramatic thing? You storm out, I pretend I don’t remember either, we avoid eye contact in the garage for three races until it’s awkward forever?”
Casey dragged a hand down his face. “I should.”
Vale turned his head. Studied him for a long moment. The cocky grin faded into something quieter, almost careful.
“You’re not the first rookie who got too drunk and curious,” he said. “But you’re the first one who didn’t bolt five seconds after waking up.”
Casey let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“None of us do.” Vale reached over, brushed a thumb along Casey’s jaw – gentle, almost tender. “You want to pretend this never happened, I’ll play along. Door’s right there. No hard feelings. I’ve got a championship to chase and you’ve got a Honda that wants to kill you every lap. Plenty to focus on.”
Casey looked at the door. Then back at Vale – at the faint red mark on his collarbone that Casey was pretty sure he’d put there himself, at the easy confidence that somehow didn’t feel like arrogance right now.
“And if I don’t want to pretend?”
Vale’s eyes darkened. “Then we see what happens when two idiots who live at 300 km/h try to do something slow for once.”
Casey leaned in first – hesitant, testing. Vale met him halfway. The kiss was nothing like the frantic, drunken blur of last night. Slower. Deliberate. Like they were both trying to memorise it in case it vanished when the hangover cleared.
When they separated, Vale murmured against his mouth, “We’re still fucked, you know. On and off the track.”
Casey gave a small, crooked smile – the first real one since he’d woken up.
