Rival Hearts - Chapter #4 - by itsvlada

[Soren’s POV]

* Present time *

I'm hemorrhaging speed through Silverstone's most technical section, and everyone can see it.

Four-tenths down through Maggotts and Becketts—a corner complex that's supposed to be my fucking specialty—and my engineer's voice crackles through the headset like a death sentence.

"Your sector two makes me want to quit engineering," Karina announces through the headset, her Finnish accent turning each word into a scalpel. "You're braking like you're afraid the car will bite you back."

"Working on it." I'm white-knuckling the simulator wheel, trying to claw back time that shouldn't exist.

This is a track I could drive blindfolded, a car I've been developing for two seasons. There's no excuse for being this slow. Except that I am.

Two seasons with Apex Racing. Two seasons of "solid results" and "consistent performances"—the kind of diplomatic language that means you're fast enough to keep your seat but not fast enough to really matter.

I cross the virtual finish line and the delta flashes crimson. Four-tenths down overall.

Fucking embarrassing.

"You know what you need?" Karina leans against the control panel, grinning like she's about to deliver a punchline. "Your own rival, right here in this garage. Someone to make you properly angry instead of just... adequate."

I yank off the VR headset, blinking against fluorescent lights that suddenly feel too bright. "What I need is three more tenths through Becketts. Not psychological analysis from someone who's never driven a race car."

"You have those tenths." She taps the telemetry screen with one manicured finger. "You just won't access them because Elliott drives like he's already at his own funeral."

She's not wrong. My current teammate, second pilot treats seventh place like a personal victory, which—as it turns out—he literally does. Hard to find killer instinct when the guy across the garage is counting down to retirement like a man serving a prison sentence.

"What you need," Karina continues, and something in her tone makes my stomach clench, "is your nemesis. Right here. Someone who makes you physically ill to lose to."

Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't fucking say it.

"You need your Almeida in-house," she continues, and something cold settles in my stomach at the name. "Someone who makes you want to drive their car into a concrete wall just to prove a point."

Nico's name in this context lands like a punch to my gut. I've spent eleven years perfecting the art of not reacting when people say it.

But hearing it here, now, wrapped in casual analysis of my psychological failings…

"Nico Almeida makes me want to drive him into a concrete wall," I say, reaching for my water bottle with hands that aren't quite steady. "There's a difference."

"Exactly my point." Her grin turns predatory. "Barcelona last year. You were P12 and you carved through the entire field because Almeida was on the podium and you couldn't stand it. Finished fourth. Best race of your season."

I take a long drink of water, suddenly fascinated by the bottle's label. "That was strategy."

"That was spite. And it was fucking magnificent." She shrugs—pure Finnish gesture, minimal movement containing maximum certainty. "Imagine what you'd do if that energy was right here. In the simulator, in debrief. Every single day."

"I'd probably end up in prison for murder."

"You'd probably win the championship." Another shrug. "But sure. Keep pretending four-tenths down is a setup issue."

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame, and Henrik Braun enters wearing his someone's-about-to-get-fucked expression.

Our team principal doesn't do casual visits anywhere—he does contract negotiations and sponsor politics and those motivational speeches that sound suspiciously like threats.

"Lindqvist." He nods at Karina. "Conference room in ten minutes. It's important."

Karina and I exchange glances as he leaves without waiting for confirmation. "Well," she says. "That was ominous as fuck."

I drain the water bottle even though my mouth has gone Sahara-dry. Important mid-season meetings mean one of two things: championship-level good news or career-ending catastrophe.

In my experience, the universe prefers the latter.

The conference room is packed when I arrive—engineers, strategists, mechanics, PR staff. Everyone looks like they're bracing for either celebration or bloodshed.

Henrik stands at the front, hands clasped behind his back.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice." His German accent sharpens every consonant. "Elliott is retiring effective immediately. Personal reasons."

Murmurs ripple through the room. Not shocking—Elliott's been phoning it in harder than a telemarketer with quotas to meet—but the timing is brutal.

Mid-season driver changes are expensive, desperate moves that usually signal panic.

"However," Henrik continues, and that single word makes my stomach drop, "we've already been in negotiations with his replacement for several weeks."

Something in Henrik’s tone makes every nerve in my body fire warning signals and the pause stretches like a held breath before execution.

"The driver we've signed brings exactly the technical precision, raw speed, and…" His eyes find mine across the room. "Motivation we need to compete for championships."

No. No no no no no.

"Effective next week, Nico Almeida will be joining Apex Racing as our second driver."

The room explodes into chaos—applause, whistles, excited chatter—but I can't hear any of it over the sound of my own world imploding in slow motion.

Everything goes silent.

Not peaceful silent. Nuclear-aftermath silent.

I can see mouths moving, hands clapping, people turning to look at me with expressions ranging from excitement to barely concealed glee at the drama they're about to witness.

But all I can process is the steady thrum of my heartbeat, irregular and panicked, like an engine on the verge of catastrophic failure.

Nico Almeida is going to be my second pilot.

The man I destroyed at seventeen. The man whose very existence has been the constant shadow over my career, the measuring stick I can never quite reach.

We've spent over a decade perfecting the art of mutual destruction disguised as professional rivalry.

Monaco last year—colliding in the tunnel, taking each other out. Or Monza—shouting in three languages with half the paddock watching.

Every season it's something new. Every race weekend becomes an exercise in controlled aggression masquerading as sportsmanship.

I've built my public persona partly in opposition to his. The charming playboy versus the cold robot. The fan favorite versus the openly-gay symbol.

The cameras love it. The fans worship it. The media devours it—two drivers who despise each other, the narrative practically writing itself. Manufactures drama from our every glance, turning mutual hatred into entertainment.

And now Henrik wants to bottle that energy and inject it directly into our garage operations.

Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

I tell myself I shouldn’t think about our past. That seventeen-year-old Soren made a choice and it's done. I've buried the guilt so deep that most days I don't access it. When it surfaces—late at night, alone, after too much whiskey—I shove it back down.

Nico survived. Nico succeeded. I don't owe him anything.

The meeting dissolves into congratulations and back-slapping. I wait until most people have filtered out before approaching Henrik while he's gathering his notes, clearly expecting this conversation.

"You didn't tell me it was going to be Almeida." Half accusation, half childish complaint.

Henrik raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered. "Would it have mattered?"

"We have... history." The word feels too small for what exists between us, but I can't find another one.

Can't explain the depth of this without revealing things I've spent a decade burying.

"I know." His expression shifts into something shrewd. "Everyone knows you two hate each other. I'm counting on it."

"You're counting on it?"

"Nothing pushes a driver like a rival they're genuinely, pathologically obsessed with beating." Henrik leans forward, and I can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. "You've been coasting, Lindqvist. Comfortable. Safe. Everything about your driving right now screams adequate."

There it is again—the label that's haunted my entire career, the participation trophy of descriptors.

My jaw clenches hard enough to crack molars. "This is going to be a complete fucking disaster."

"Then make it a fast disaster." His grin could power a small city. "Press conference is tomorrow. Get your shit sorted before then."

He walks out, leaving me alone with the weight of what's coming settling over me like tystnad—that particular Swedish silence that isn't peaceful, just empty.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough. Tomorrow will destroy whatever's left of my sanity. And the worst part? The absolutely terrible, humiliating, career-ending worst part?

Some pathetic corner of my heart is actually excited to see him again.