Rival Hearts - Chapter #2 - by itsvlada

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.