Rafael Serrano had exactly seventeen minutes between the post-race media debrief and the team strategy meeting—enough time to change into something that didn't smell like champagne and tire smoke, dodge two overzealous fans with homemade signs, and possibly ice his shoulder from the overly aggressive celebration hug he'd received on the podium. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

Instead, he was standing in the narrow hallway of the team's motorhome, shirt half-tugged over his head, still damp from the cool-down room, and actively pretending not to hear the soft thud of his teammate's racing boots hitting the floor behind him.

They were teammates. Allegedly.

To the press, they were oil and water—two top drivers with clashing styles, egos, and just enough fake snark to fill a week's worth of sports gossip columns. Tension in the garage? They oozed it. On-track rivalry? Simmering. That one viral clip where Rafael didn't clap during his teammate's victory interview? Framed as petty. Intentional. Possibly grounds for a duel.

But if someone—say, a Netflix camera operator—had turned left instead of right after the media zone, they would've found Rafael pressed up against the motorhome sink an hour ago, towel slipping, mouth still swollen, with his teammate looking entirely too smug for someone who couldn't keep a straight face during press conferences.

This? This was a very dumb arrangement.

They weren't dating. They weren't not dating. They were just... frequently shirtless in private, unnecessarily aggressive in public, and had developed a deeply problematic Pavlovian response to the phrase “cool down room.”

Back on camera, Rafael rolled his eyes so hard they probably needed alignment. He scowled during interviews. He interrupted his teammate during pressers with the same energy as a raccoon flipping a trash can. He was the drama. And everyone ate it up.

No one noticed that his teammate's towel was the same as Rafael's.

Or that one of their fireproof undershirts had mysteriously gone missing and kept showing up in the wrong locker.

Or that Rafael's racing boots had scuff marks suspiciously similar to the way his teammate kicked doors when he was in a mood.

In the safety of the motorhome, Rafael slung the damp towel around his neck and caught his own reflection—jaw sharp, expression smug, neck suspiciously red.

He should have felt smug. He did feel smug.

Until the door behind him creaked open again and his teammate appeared with that look—that post-race, post-messy-makeout, walking-PR-nightmare look—and Rafael's brain short-circuited for a second.

This wasn't sustainable.

This wasn't smart.

This wasn't even technically legal under several team policies.

But as he shoved the towel into his teammate's chest, smirk curling, voice low and smug as sin, Rafael couldn't stop the words that came out:

“Next time you win a podium, try not to moan my name in the cooldown room mic feed.”