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“Say it clearly.” “What? That I want you?” We’re supposed to hate each other. That’s the brand. Golden boy vs. ice-cold rival. Straight heartthrob vs. openly gay threat. The media eats it up 📸🔥. But what they don’t see is the elevator silence. The midnight gym stares. The way our bodies react before our brains catch up. He says he’s straight. I say he’s lying. And every time he gets in my space with that reckless grin? I wonder if he wants me to prove him wrong 🫦😫. Chapter 1 [Nico’s POV] *Eleven years ago* The letter in my locker was going to kill me. Not metaphorically. Literally. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape, and every breath felt stolen. Two years of swallowed words, sleepless nights, and careful silences had crystallized into three pages of handwritten confession hidden behind my spare gloves. And today, I was finally going to hand my death sentence. "Your sector two was fucking tragic," Soren said, shouldering me hard enough to send me stumbling. His laugh was infectious—always had been. That was the problem. "You took that chicane like my grandmother drives to church." "At least I know where my braking points are. Yours were somewhere in the Mesozoic era." He barked out another laugh, and the sound hit me like a physical blow. God, I was so fucked. "Bold talk from someone who nearly parked it in the gravel trap." We'd been doing this dance for five years now—the easy banter, the casual touches, the way he'd fall asleep on my shoulder during film reviews like it meant nothing. Like it wasn't slowly killing me. Because Soren Lindqvist was beautiful in the way that ruined people. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, eyes the color of winter storms, perfect full lips and a smile that made me forget how to think in straight lines. Worse than beautiful—he was mine. My amigo, my best friend. My person. The only one who knew that I practiced my victory speeches in Portuguese when I couldn't sleep. He had no fucking clue what he was doing to me. We'd met at twelve at a junior karting academy in Italy where neither of us spoke the language well enough to belong. Soren taught me Swedish curse words, claiming they were compliments. I caught on after the third time I called an instructor a "fucking idiot" thinking I was praising his technique. He performs for everyone—louder, sharper, always angling for the crowd. With me he’s dropping the act. Just himself, irritating and honest and so carelessly real that something in my chest would tighten in a way I'd stopped trying to explain. Two years. Two years since that night on the Formula 4 academy rooftop when he'd said, "You're the only person who really gets me, you know that?" Two years of watching Soren laugh and feeling the ground shift. Two years of replaying accidental touches, analyzing conversations for meaning that probably wasn't there, telling myself amanhã—tomorrow I'd be brave enough. Two years since I'd realized that what I felt wasn't just friendship. It was something volcanic, something that made my skin burn every time he touched me. Tonight, it ended. One way or another. We pushed through the locker room doors, and the familiar chaos hit us—fifteen junior drivers in various states of undress, the air thick with sweat, testosterone, and the particular cruelty of teenage boys sensing weakness. My locker was three down from his. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive his father sent from Sweden. Close enough that when he stripped off his race suit, I had to stare at the floor to keep breathing. "Qualifying's going to be brutal tomorrow," he was saying. "Did you see how Leclerc was taking turn seven? Kid's got ice in his veins." I nodded, not trusting my voice. The letter felt like it was radiating heat through the metal door. The plan was simple. Wait until we're alone. Hand him the envelope. Ask him to read it later. Walk away before my hands start shaking. Simple. I spun my combination lock—muscle memory, three numbers I could dial in my sleep. The door swung open, and I saw my spare gloves sat exactly where I'd left them, but the letter was gone. Cold dread flooded my system, the kind that made your vision go white at the edges. I pawed through my gear with increasing desperation. Racing suit, spare helmet, energy bars my mother had sent from Brazil— "Looking for something, Almeida?" Marco Drexler's voice cut through the noise like a blade. He stood three lockers over, my letter dangling from his fingers like a dead thing. His smile was the stuff of nightmares, all teeth and malicious joy. The room went cemetery quiet—that particular stillness that meant blood was about to hit the water while my world tilted sideways. "Found this little love note tucked away," Marco announced, unfolding the letter with theatrical slowness. "Thought you boys might want to hear what our Brazilian prince has been writing in his spare time." He cleared his throat and began reading in a mocking falsetto. "'I don't know how to say this except to just say it. Every time you touch me—even accidentally—I feel like I'm burning. When we're working on the cars together and your hand brushes mine, I can't breathe properly for the next five minutes.'" Laughter erupted, cruel and cutting, designed to flay skin from bone. No. No, no, no. Those words were private. Sacred. Mine. "'I wanted to tell you then that you're the only person who's ever made me feel like this. Like I'm losing my mind. Like I can't think straight when you're near me.'" Someone made a gagging sound. Another boy whistled low and dirty. My throat closed. This was how I was going to die—not in a race car at 200 kilometers per hour, but standing in a locker room while my secrets were turned into entertainment. "'I've spent two years trying to convince myself this would go away,'" Marco continued, savoring each word like wine. "'But it hasn't. It's only gotten worse, and I don't know if you feel anything like this. Maybe you don't. Maybe this will ruin everything between us.'" The room was breathing as one organism now, fifteen pairs of eyes locked on the unfolding carnage. "'But I can't pretend anymore that I don't want to kiss you. That I don't lie awake thinking about what it would feel like if you wanted me back.'" The silence that followed was deafening. Then someone started laughing—high-pitched, hysterical—and the room erupted. A whistle, voices I couldn't separate through the roaring in my ears, as others joined in until the sound felt like razor wire against my skin. Marco's eyes found Soren in the crowd as my best friend stood frozen, face pale as winter. "Who wants to guess who our little maricón has been dreaming about?" "Bet it's one of the instructors!" someone called out. "No way—it's Rossi," James called out. "He's always staring during briefings." "That's fucking disgusting," Rossi laughed. "Could be any of us," Marcus added. "Better check your beds tonight!" I stood perfectly still, watching my life implode in slow motion. There's a particular discipline in remaining motionless while your world burns—I'd like to say I chose it. But the truth was my body had simply stopped obeying commands. Marco's grin turned predatory. "Catch, Lindqvist. Your love letter." The pages sailed through the air in a perfect arc. Soren caught them reflexively, his eyes dropping to the handwriting he'd know anywhere—we'd passed notes through five years of lectures. I watched him turn slightly away from the group to read and time crystallized, each second felt sharp enough to draw blood. This was it. This has to be. This was where Soren would prove he was who I'd always believed him to be. He'd tell Marco to go fuck himself. He'd look at me with confusion or discomfort or even rejection—anything human. Anything that acknowledged that the person bleeding on this floor was his best friend. Soren read for what felt like hours. I watched his shoulders shift, his face rearrange into something I'd never seen before. Cold and distant. A stranger wearing familiar lovely features. Then he laughed—real laugh—and the sound drove through my chest like a spear. "Jesus Christ…" Soren said, voice carrying to every corner of the suddenly silent room. "Can you actually imagine?" He looked me up and down like something he'd scraped off his shoe. "Him? As if I'd ever…" He shuddered theatrically. "That's fucking disgusting." The room exploded. Louder now, vicious, given permission by his participation. Marco clapped Soren on the shoulder like they'd been friends all along. "Should have known," someone shouted. "Always knew there was something off about him." "Better watch your backs in the showers, boys!" "Probably been jerking off thinking about all of us!" Soren crumpled my letter—two years of desperate honesty—and tossed it toward the trash. It missed, landing on the wet tiles like roadkill. I watched my best friend walk away with the pack that had just torn me apart, and felt something inside my chest go very, very quiet. Not broken, because broken implied it could be fixed. This was something else, something final. Então é assim. So this is how it is. I'd handed him my heart, and he'd fed it to the wolves. The laughter followed me out of the locker room, down the hallway, into the night where I could finally, finally stop pretending I was still breathing. But I was still here. Still standing. And I would never, ever make the mistake of trusting someone with the truth again. Chapter 2 I should have known they were just getting started when I arrived at the track the next morning. The smell hit me first when I opened my locker—sharp, chemical, and completely wrong. My racing suit hung exactly where I'd left it, but the fabric was stiff with something that made my eyes water. "OCUPADO" was scrawled across the chest in black marker, but that wasn't the worst part. Below it, in smaller letters: "Property of the Academy Fags." My hands shook as I lifted the suit out. The material crackled like old leather, the smell so potent I had to turn away to breathe. The helmet was worse. They'd turned it into a gallery of obscenity—crude drawings covering every surface, stick figures in positions that made my stomach turn. But it was the writing that made me see red: "Nico's Fantasy Collection" in neat block letters. The visor had fingerprints on the inside—they'd worn it while they drew, laughing, passing it around. The thought and image in my mind made my throat burn with rage so pure it tasted metallic. Focus on the driving. They'll get bored. Yet when we hit the track, they showed me what real cruelty looked like. The radio was supposed to be professional. Sector times, track conditions, positioning. Then three corners into my first flying lap, kissing noises crackled through my headset. Wet, exaggerated, and unmistakable. "Mmm, mmm, mmm," a voice moaned through my headset. "Oh, Nico, yes, right there…" I nearly drove straight into the barrier. "Jesus, did you hear that?" another voice cut in, laughing. "Think he likes it when we talk dirty to him?" "Anyone else feel a bit weird knowing Almeida's right behind you? Like… literally right behind you in the cockpit?" My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the wheel. I tried to change channels, but they were on all of them—a coordinated attack across every frequency. Static-laden laughter across multiple channels before James added: "Mate, imagine what he's thinking when he watches us bent over working on the cars. Probably the highlight of his day." "Bet he's rock hard in that cockpit," Marco whispered, voice dripping with mock seduction. "All strapped in tight, nowhere to run..." I missed my braking point so badly I had to take the chicane at walking pace. Behind me, someone honked their horn—long, mocking, deliberate. Explosive laughter across multiple channels. I was drowning in their voices, their sickness, their coordinated campaign to destroy me one lap at a time. My sector times were garbage. Every missed apex was another nail in my coffin, another reason for the instructors to shake their heads and make notes that would follow me for the rest of my career. The session felt endless and by the time I finally pulled into the pits, my suit was soaked with sweat and my hands wouldn't stop shaking. That's when they found me. I was walking toward the garage when Marco materialized from behind a tire stack. Not alone—never alone anymore. Four others emerged from the shadows like predators who'd been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Soren was one of them. Part of the pack now. One of them. Something about seeing him there—voluntarily, by choice, having walked here on his own legs and positioned himself in this formation—hurt worse than anything Marco could orchestrate. Marco was performing cruelty. Soren was choosing it. "So, Almeida." Marco leaned against a tire stack, voice dripping with theatrical concern. "Did you enjoy watching us drive today? All suited up, strapped in tight?" He tilted his head. "Get a good view?" The others snickered. A semicircle of teenage cruelty, and me at the center like something they'd cornered. "Did it get you hot?" Marcus asked, stepping closer. "All that whispering in your ear?" "Bet it did," James added. "Bet that's the closest thing to action he's ever gotten." Marco nodded sagely. "Poor little virgin. So desperate for attention he'll take it any way he can get it…" The word virgin hung in the air like an accusation. I felt heat rise in my cheeks—automatic, unstoppable, exactly the reaction they wanted. "Look, he's blushing!" Alessandro crowed. "It's true, isn't it? You've never even kissed anyone." "Unless you count your pillow," Marco added. "Bet you kiss your pillow and pretend it's…" His eyes found Soren. "Actually, who do you pretend it is, Nico? Anyone we know?" The silence stretched so taut that I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and erratic. Could smell the piss stench clinging to my suit, the fear-sweat cooling on my skin. Alessandro turned to Soren directly then. "Lindqvist, you were his roommate last year. Ever catch him... you know... practicing?" The question hit like a physical blow and I held my breath—hating myself for it, hating that after everything, some pathetic part of me was still hoping. Soren's jaw tightened as he stared at the ground for a long moment, then looked up—not at me, through me—and spoke in a voice so flat it could have cut glass. "He used to talk in his sleep." The words landed like a bomb followed by complete silence before explosive laughter. "No fucking way," Marco breathed. "What did he say?" "Names." Soren's throat worked. "He'd... say names." "Whose?" James demanded. Soren's eyes flicked to me for one terrible second. I saw something flicker in his expression—regret, maybe, or recognition of the line he was about to cross. Then he crossed it. "Mine." The roar of laughter was deafening. Alessandro doubled over, James and Marcus made gagging sounds while Marco looked like Christmas had come early. "Holy shit, Lindqvist!" Marco clapped him on the shoulder. "You've been living with that for months? That's fucking traumatic, mate." "No wonder you requested a room change," Marcus added. My vision went white at the edges. Not from rage—from something deeper. The complete destruction of everything I'd thought I knew about another human being. Because Soren was lying. I'd never talked in my sleep—he would have teased me about it, the way we teased each other about everything. This was pure fabrication, calculated cruelty designed to destroy whatever was left of my reputation. This was who he really was. I stood perfectly still in the center of their hurricane and felt my soul detach from my body. Float up and away, leaving behind an empty shell that looked like Nico Almeida but contained nothing human anymore. I tried to push past them, but Marco blocked me, hand flat against my chest and the contact made my skin crawl as I met his eyes. "Move." "What, you gonna make me?" His grin turned vicious. "This how you like it?" The rage that had been building all morning finally found its target. I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. "You have three seconds…" "Or what?" His grin turned feral. "I wouldn't," Soren said quietly. I spun toward him, hope flaring like a match in the dark. For one insane second I thought he was defending me. Then I saw his expression. "He's not worth the suspension," Soren continued, addressing Marco like I wasn't even there. "Academy has a zero-tolerance policy. Touch him and you're out." The casual dismissal was worse than any insult. He was protecting Marco's career, not mine. Never mine. Marco backed off with exaggerated innocence, hands raised. "Jesus, can't you take a few jokes?" He shook his head. "Guess that's why nobody wants you, Almeida. Too fucking sensitive." They dispersed and Marco threw an arm around Soren's shoulders as they walked away. Soren didn't shrug it off, didn't hesitate, just fell into step like this was natural. Like belonging to this group was worth what it cost. I stood among the tire stacks before leaning back against the tire stack and closed my eyes focusing on breathing. In through the nose, four counts. Out through the mouth, four counts. Não pensa. Don't think about the letter. Don't think about anything except surviving the next hour. Through the thin garage wall, voices carried—two academy coaches clearly reviewing performance data. "Almeida's times have dropped significantly. You think the situation is becoming a distraction for team morale?" "Give it time. See if things settle. But if the disruption continues, we may need to consider alternative placements." Alternative placements. The polite way of saying: the problem isn't the boys who torment you. The problem is your reaction to being tormented. The problem, as always, is you. Turn up the heat and tension with Rival Hearts! ❤️‍🔥 Read it now! ✨