Nico
"What the hell was that interview, Nico?" Dylan, my manager, demanded the second I stepped into the Red Bull hospitality suite.
His eyes were wide with disbelief as he shoved his phone directly into my face.
I frowned at first, but then my own eyes widened slightly when I saw the screen.
Alaric and I were trending worldwide with lots of hashtags: #PrincessVsMonCheri #SaudiGP #NicoAndAlari #EnemiesOrLovers #F1Drama.
The internet had completely lost its mind.
Tweets, edits, interview clips, slow-motion zoom-ins, and reaction videos flooded every platform so quickly that the hashtags kept refreshing in real ti. There were tons of comnts, and it was mostly the positive ones that caught my attention.
"This rivalry is insane because why do Nico and Alaric act less like Formula One rivals and more like divorced exes?"
"Not Nico calling him princess on LIVE television. The sexual tension during that interview was actually crazy."
"Ferrari versus Red Bull? No. This is boyfriend warfare."
"I ship them so bad. The way Alaric looked at him after the ’first position will always be mine’ comnt??? Yeah. They are definitely sleeping together."
"Soone get those n a room imdiately."
"Why did Alaric say mon chéri back like he was flirting instead of fighting? THE SHOULDER TOUCH??? DID EVERYONE SEE THAT???"
"Nico Park wants that man carnally. I used to watch Formula One for racing. Now I am here for the homoerotic nonsense."
"Princess versus mon chéri sounds like a Wattpad couple with communication issues. One thing about Nico Park? That man flirts like a supervillain."
"I ship them so much it is embarrassing."
A grin ford on my face as I read more of the comnts. Interesting. Very interesting. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips before I could stop it.
Dylan looked horrified by my reaction.
"Nico," he said cautiously, "why do you look pleased?"
I handed the phone back calmly before walking toward the fridge.
"Because they are entertained," I replied simply.
Dylan looked like he was seconds away from ripping his hair out. "This is not entertainnt!" he snapped. "This is a public relations nightmare. Both of you are supposed to be rivals, not acting like so lovey-dovey couple in front of the cara. The managent does not like the closeness."
I grabbed a cold bottle of water before leaning casually against the counter.
"Relax," I said lazily. "The fans love drama."
"The fans think you are flirting with your rival on international television!"
I unscrewed the cap slowly, completely unbothered.
"And?" I asked calmly.
Dylan stared at in pure disbelief.
"Oh my God," he muttered under his breath. "You are actually enjoying this."
A low chuckle escaped as I tilted my head back slightly.
Maybe I was.
Because sowhere in the Ferrari garage, Alaric was probably losing his mind over the bet I had proposed, and honestly, that thought alone made qualifying feel even better than pole position itself.
And another reason I was doing this?
My grandfather.
That old man hated things like this more than anything.
I already knew he would have seen the interview clips circulating online by now. The headlines, the edits, the comnts, the slowed-down eye contact, and the endless shipping posts.
Good.
That was exactly why I proposed the Japan trip. To spite my family, especially him.
The sound of footsteps interrupted my thoughts before Ethan finally walked into the suite.
Without saying anything at first, he headed straight for the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap open, and took a long drink.
Then he glanced at .
"You two do not look like enemies out there anymore," he said casually. "Have you gotten close lately?"
A grin tugged at my lips again.
I shrugged without looking at my teammate.
"Life is too short to make enemies," I replied lazily. "Besides, we are brand partners now. What better way to make the fans love us?"
Dylan looked like he was about to develop high blood pressure.
"Rember," he snapped, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "there are no friendships on track, Nico. Red Bull needs to take the championship again this year."
"And who said I was planning on losing?" I asked calmly.
Ethan scoffed before leaning against the counter. "I saw the tension between you two," he said bluntly. "Sothing is definitely going on between you and Alaric."
I said nothing but simply stared at him silently.
Ethan narrowed his eyes at my lack of denial before pointing the bottle toward .
"Whatever it is," he continued, "keep it away from the team. Do your thing, Park, but do not let it screw up the season."
Still, I did not answer.
Because the truth was simple. Nothing was screwing up my season.
If anything, Alaric only made want to win more.
The suite doors slid open again before more mbers of the team started arriving one after another.
Liam, my race engineer, walked in carrying several tablets under his arm while discussing tire degradation with one of the strategy analysts.
Marcus, the head strategist, followed closely behind him while talking about fuel loads and safety car probabilities.
Behind them ca Oliver, one of the chanics, still covered in grease from the garage, and then Adrian, the performance director, who imdiately started discussing straight-line speed comparisons between Ferrari and Red Bull.
The room quickly shifted from casual conversation into full race mode.
Large screens lit up across the conference wall as teletry data, sector comparisons, tire wear projections, and onboard footage from qualifying replayed repeatedly.
I leaned back lazily in my chair while the eting started.
"Ferrari’s long-run pace looks stronger than expected," Marcus said seriously as he switched slides. "Especially De Villiers. His tire managent through Sector Two is becoming a problem."
A picture of Alaric’s Ferrari flashed onto the screen.
My eyes instinctively locked onto it.
"He was gaining almost three-tenths through the dium-speed corners," Liam added while pointing toward the teletry graph. "If he gets DRS early tomorrow, defending becos difficult."
"He nearly took pole too," Ethan muttered under his breath.
Dylan imdiately looked toward . "You need to keep him behind tomorrow," he warned firmly. "The mont Ferrari gains montum, they beco dangerous."
I rested my elbow against the table and stared quietly at the screen.
Alaric’s onboard footage replayed again, and I watched the aggressive steering inputs, the way he had gone through the walls, and the way he attacked corners without hesitation, and a faint smirk tugged at my lips.
He really did drive beautifully.
"Nico?"
Liam’s voice pulled back slightly.
"Hm?"
"We are discussing Turn 1 defense strategy."
"Right."
I leaned forward slightly as another simulation played across the screen, showing possible race starts for tomorrow.
"If Alaric gets a better launch," Marcus explained, "he will try taking the inside line into Turn 1 imdiately."
I almost laughed quietly to myself.
Of course he would.
That was exactly what he threatened during the interview.
Watch it, mon chéri. One lock-up from you tomorrow and I am taking the inside line before Turn 1.
The mory replayed clearly inside my head, along with the annoyed flush on his face afterward.
Cute.
"Nico," this ti Dylan’s voice sounded sharper as he called for , "you are smiling again."
The room went strangely quiet for a second, then Ethan slowly lowered his water bottle while staring at suspiciously. "What the hell is wrong with you today?" he asked.
I blinked before realizing my lips had curved upward unconsciously. "Nothing," I said, leaning back into my chair calmly.
Then my phone suddenly started ringing.
The sharp vibration against the table imdiately drew everyone’s attention inside the eting room.
All eyes turned toward .
I sighed quietly before reaching for the phone.
"Sorry," I muttered absentmindedly as I glanced at the screen.
The second I saw the caller ID, a grin slowly spread across my face again.
It was my mother, and that only ant one thing.
My grandfather had seen the clips. It was exactly what I wanted, and that thought alone made satisfaction curl warmly inside my chest.
And now? It was ti for plan B.
User Comments
0 comments from readers