Rival Hearts - Chapter #5 - by itsvlada

The press conference is pure theater, and I've perfected my role over eleven years of practice. Easy smile, confident posture, charm that makes journalists quote me instead of questioning me too deeply.

I'm sitting two feet from Nico Almeida—my new teammate, Jesus Christ—both wearing matching Apex polo shirts like we're friends instead of enemies who've spent a decade perfecting mutual destruction.

The room is packed and journalists are already smelling blood.

"Soren, Nico—you were academy teammates eleven years ago. Will that history be an advantage now?" AutoSport woman, predatory smile locked and loaded.

I lean into the microphone with practiced charm. "Nico's incredibly skilled. I have nothing but respect for his abilities. Looking forward to healthy competition that pushes us both."

Translation: I'd rather self-immolate than admit our history is more complicated than a Christopher Nolan film.

Nico's response is liquid nitrogen. "We've both evolved considerably since junior careers. What happened then has no bearing on our professional relationship."

Translation: I hate your guts but I'm contractually obligated to pretend otherwise.

Sky Sports jumps in: "Monaco last year—you collided and had to be separated by marshals. Is this rivalry wise inside one garage?"

Henrik intercepts before we detonate. "What media calls rivalry, I call an asset. Two drivers who refuse to lose to each other. My job is pointing that energy at every other team."

Then some tabloid jackass raises his hand, grinning like Christmas morning.

Oh, fuck. Here we go.

"Nico, your previous team marketed your identity as F1's only openly gay driver. Are you concerned about fitting Apex's more... traditional brand? And Soren—how do you feel about sharing close quarters with..."

He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.

Rage flares so bright it steals my breath. Not at Nico—never at Nico for that—but at this garbage human treating someone's sexuality like entertainment.

Before I can respond without earning a six-figure fine, Nico cuts in with devastating calm.

"I fit into any environment that values talent over PR gimmicks. As for close quarters—Soren and I have been close on track plenty of times. He's survived." A pause. "Though I can't say the same for his win record when I'm nearby."

The room erupts.

My rage pivots instantly to Nico for that perfectly calculated public execution of my career stats.

I lean forward, smile sharpening to surgical precision. "My win record speaks for itself. Unlike some drivers, I don't need publicists manufacturing storylines about why I'm still championship-relevant."

Nico's eyes flash—first crack in that glacial composure. "Finally some actual competition in your own garage. Must be refreshing after teammates who don't challenge you."

Henrik's hand hits the table. "Gentlemen. We're discussing championship objectives. I suggest we return to that."

Too late. Tomorrow's headlines are writing themselves.

After the press conference, Astrid from PR bounces down the hallway beside us like a caffeinated golden retriever, talking at approximately ninety miles per hour.

"Twenty minutes for the promotional shoot, then social media content capture, then the sponsor meet-and-greet with the VIPs, and oh God, please tell me neither of you is planning to murder the other before we finish the marketing materials because I cannot explain that to corporate—"

"Astrid." I flash her my best disarming grin. "Sweetheart, breathe."

She flushes pink, fumbles her tablet, and nearly walks into a lighting rig. Beside me, Nico makes a sound that might be contempt or amusement.

The studio is already set up—harsh white panels, the AP-04 gleaming under spotlights, a rack of fresh team kit waiting.

"Race suits first," Astrid announces, still slightly breathless. "Full zip, no team shirts visible underneath."

I strip off the polo without thinking—because why would I think? It's just changing clothes in front of people, something I've done literally thousands of times.

Except… Ten feet away, Nico does the same, and I make the catastrophic error of glancing in his direction.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

He's... bigger than I remember. Broader across the shoulders, more defined through the chest and arms. Racing fitness is different from regular fitness—lean muscle built for endurance and precision—but Nico looks like he could bench press the actual car.

When the hell did that happen?

I yank my gaze away and focus very intently on my own suit, trying to ignore the fact that my peripheral vision has apparently developed a PhD in Nico Almeida's physical transformation.

Do not look. Do not look. Do NOT fucking look.

I look. Just for a second.

Just long enough to notice the way his race suit fits across shoulders that definitely weren't that broad at seventeen.

The way the material hugs muscles that definitely weren't that defined when we were kids sharing rooms and staying up too late talking about everything and nothing.

Fuck.

"Right!" The photographer—Emma, I think—claps her hands together with the enthusiasm of someone who gets paid to make people look good. "Let's start with something classic. Side by side, arms crossed, competitive energy."

We position ourselves beside the cars. Or rather, I position myself beside his bicep, because apparently I've shrunk or he's grown or both, and now I'm having an existential crisis about whether I've been lying on my driver stats this entire time.

"Closer," Emma calls out. I shuffle six inches to the right. "Closer." Another few inches. "Come on, you're teammates now, not strangers meeting for the first time."

"We're very well acquainted," I say, smile fixed.

"Perfect! Now let's try facing each other. I want intensity. Competitive fire. Like you're about to go wheel-to-wheel at Monaco with the championship on the line."

She repositions us, adjusting shoulders and tilting chins and generally treating us like very expensive mannequins, and suddenly—suddenly—I'm close enough to count his eyelashes.

Close enough to see gold flecks in brown eyes I once knew better than my own.

Close enough to notice a small scar near his left temple that wasn't there at seventeen.

Close enough to feel heat radiating off his body through the suit material.

This was a mistake. This whole thing was a catastrophically bad idea.

"Hold that position," Emma says, camera clicking rapid-fire like she's documenting the scene of a crime.

Nico stares back with that infuriating composure that makes me want to shake him until something real breaks through. But standing this close, I can see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his breathing isn't quite steady.

Something about the proximity feels electrically charged—like standing too close to high-voltage equipment when you know one wrong move will fry every circuit in your body.

"You're enjoying this," I murmur, quiet enough that only he can hear.

"Making you uncomfortable?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's something underneath it that makes my pulse kick up like a misfiring engine. "Absolutely."

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. My throat goes dry.

Get it together, Lindqvist. It's a photo shoot, not foreplay.

"Nico, can you put your hand on Soren's shoulder? I want that team unity energy."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

His hand settles on my shoulder—heavy, warm through the suit material—and my breath catches in a way that's definitely not professional.

His fingers brush exposed skin above my collar, and every point of contact feels amplified, like my nervous system has decided this specific touch matters more than maintaining basic respiratory function.

"Perfect!" Click click click. "The chemistry is incredible!"

Chemistry. Jesus Christ.

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes, and the air between us thickens like honey.

Neither of us is breathing properly. Neither of us is looking away.

"We're done with this pose," I say, but my voice comes out rougher than intended, and I don't step back.

"Are we?" His thumb shifts against my skin—barely a movement, could be accidental, except nothing about Nico Almeida is ever accidental.

I feel it everywhere. Everywhere.

"That's a wrap on this setup!" Emma announces cheerfully. "Let's move to the individual car shots."

I step back like I've been electrocuted, putting distance between us that feels both necessary and completely inadequate. Nico drops his hand slowly, deliberately, something unreadable flickering across his expression.

Emma calls it perfect, already reviewing shots on her camera display, completely oblivious to the fact that she just captured something that had absolutely nothing to do with competitive team spirit.

The rest of the shoot passes in a blur of repositioning and lighting adjustments and Emma's enthusiastic directions that I follow on autopilot while my brain short-circuits trying to process what the hell just happened.

By the time we're finally done, I'm wound tighter than a Formula 1 suspension spring and about as stable.

I tell myself it's anger. Frustration with the situation, with Henrik's manipulation, with having my career turned into a reality TV show for the entertainment of the motorsport world.

The usual cocktail of emotions that Nico Almeida inspires.

Nothing else. Nothing I'd need to name or acknowledge or deal with like an adult human being.

Fuck my life.

This is going to be a very long season.