Betting on the Chase (Hearts in Gear #1)

Chapter 1 Theo

Theo

I loosened the zip on my racing suit, let it drop, and tied the arms around my waist. It wouldn’t do to lose so much weight through sweat just before the race, and it was an unseasonably warm thirty degrees Celsius in March.

Monaco was experiencing a heatwave, and all of us drivers would suffer for it.

I was so preoccupied making sure my vest was tucked into my trousers that I didn’t notice Albert Stevenson until he was thrusting a microphone in my face. “Theo Tyler, welcome back to another year of racing. First of all, how happy are you with yesterday’s qualifying?”

I pasted on my media-appeasing smile and formulated my reply before replying.

The MIA had instituted a new swearing rule for the year’s season, which impacted some of us more than others.

“Very happy. I’m not used to sitting at pole, but I think we’ve got the car for it this year, so I’m happy to have pushed it to its limits. ”

“How about your teammate, Graham Evans? He only reached tenth in the qualifying, a far cry from last year’s Monaco record. There are rumours swirling around about his marital troubles, do you think they might have impacted his racing?”

Albert was fishing for a story I wouldn’t give him. “I’m sure Graham will fight for a podium finish. We all have rough qualifiers, and he’s always given his all in every race.”

“He’ll have to fight with your fiercest rival for that podium spot. Sebastian García was just a tenth of a second behind you yesterday and will be hot on your heels today. How do you feel about the rivalry hotting up between you?”

Sebastian García. Sebastian fucking García.

The bane of my life. And the most beautiful, infuriating man on the planet.

What did I think of him? “I think I’d like to focus on winning this race and the next, Albert.

I’m not going to start talking about this year’s rivalry before we even get started,” I said. There. Diplomatic.

Before Albert could ask any further questions, I vaguely waved him way before melting back into the crowd. Hopefully some Hollywood starlet or reality star with more money than sense would rescue me by asking for a selfie or my hand in marriage.

As I walked, I looked backward to make sure Albert wasn’t following. He seemed to be caught up in an awkward conversation with a minor royal, so I breathed a sigh of relief. And then stumbled right into someone.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking,” I mumbled. A tanned hand reached out to clutch at my bicep and keep me in place.

“Watch where you’re going, Teodoro,” said a familiar voice. I looked up into the striking hazel eyes of Sebastian García.

“You know my name is Theo,” I countered. Great. Lame.

There was heat between us, and it wasn’t just because we’d started sweating in the warm Monaco sun.

Like me, he’d tied the arms of his overalls around his waist and was wearing his team’s thermal t-shirt underneath.

He raced for Remini, a team sponsored by the big-brand sports drink, and their team colours were black and white.

At least I knew that should have him sweating more under his helmet. Black absorbed heat like a bitch.

I realised that I’d allowed his clutch on my arm for too long, and I yanked myself from his grip. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I challenged. Sebastian really didn’t care about personal space, and he was really up in mine.

Sebastian laughed. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, you really want to carry that on after last year?”

Sebastian had been racing since he was nineteen, so for eight years.

I’d been racing since I was twenty years old, and this was my second season.

But my rookie season had been an unexpectedly strong showing for me, and there had even been a brief moment when I’d been in contention for the crown.

So we’d started betting, just to add to the stakes between us.

“If you win, I’ll give you my race helmet.

Signed.” Sebastian had said. For a rookie, looking into the eyes of my idol, it had seemed like a dream come true.

And then I’d beaten him in that race, and everything changed.

Suddenly, we were betting against each other more and more, with higher and higher stakes.

“Sebastian, if you lose, you’ll need to wear a pair of pink Speedos for every beach photo opportunity you get this year. ”

“Teodoro, if you lose, you have to shave off all that blonde hair.”

We’d each won consecutive races. Pink Speedos saw a 200% spike in sales, and the shock of blonde hair I’d spent years treasuring had ended up auctioned off for charity.

“So you’re telling me you don’t want to bet any more? You’re in first place, you have the advantage.”

He was muttering quietly so that the people around us couldn’t hear. “Fine. What are you thinking?”

“If you lose, you have to get a tattoo. Right here.” He poked his finger right underneath my chest, a jab that hurt far less than any tattoo needle ever would.

“Of what?” I asked.

“Anything I say.”

I gulped. But I was in first. And I had the faster car. “And if you lose, you’ve got the same conditions.”

“Deal.” Sebastian grinned, but it wasn’t friendly. It was feral. I felt like I might be about to be swallowed by some great white shark, his perfect teeth so luminescent and straight. So why the hell was I still so attracted to him?

Because that was the other problem with Sebastian García.

His attractiveness wasn’t just physical.

The ten-out-of-ten face was only one part of the attraction.

What made him an Eleven was the cockiness.

The way he dominated every conversation with his larger than life personality, the way he never lost his cool with interviewers or failed to answer a question.

He was so sure of himself and who he was, and he had every model from Monaco to Antarctica throwing themselves at him because of it.

And I would never admit to him just how hot I thought he was.

Despite the heat of the sun, I shivered.

Some motorsports featured air-conditioning and electrically cooled race suits.

Not Moto 1. The tiny car was open to the elements, and the weight of a cooling suit would put me at a disadvantage in the race.

I just had to make do with the team dumping ice-cold water over my thermals and then zipping up the race suit around them.

So my head felt like it was being baked in its helmet, and my baby-blue race suit was currently insulating the igloo that was my body.

No one had ever said that motorsport was comfortable.

I sat in pole position. Right at the front, but in reality only a couple of tenths of a second ahead of Sebastian.

I’d have to have good reaction time to make sure I got ahead of him to start the race.

I did not want a tattoo decided by Sebastian written across my chest. I’d never had a tattoo full stop.

Unlike Sebastian, who had a rosary-bead tattoo that I had totally never noticed, no sir-ee.

I looked over at him, and I could have sworn I saw him jerk his head back as if he was determined not to be seen looking at me.

There was a lot riding on the race for both of us, and I didn’t just mean the tattoos.

A good start to the season could be the difference between winning the championship and falling between the cracks.

Above us hung a bank of lights. They would light up, one by one until five red lights showed.

And then, they would all blink off. Once they went dark, we could go.

Just a foot on the accelerator to send us flying around the track at 300 kilometres per hour.

I raised my foot on the clutch, just below the bite.

Around me, I could hear gas pedals revving.

That sexy, intoxicating smell of petrol.

Soon all I’d be able to smell would be that alongside burning rubber and my own sweat.

One light lit. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.

A second. Then two. Then…

The lights turned off, and I raised my foot to the bite, flooring it on the accelerator.

Within seconds, I was shifting up gears with one hand behind the wheel.

First. Second. I didn’t want to look to my side.

There was no use comparing my speed to Sebastian, or anyone else for that matter.

I just had to make sure I was the fastest I could possibly be.

I floored it as I approached the first corner.

There was so little room for error at Monaco that if I could just hit the first corner first, it would be very difficult for me to lose many places throughout the course of the race.

My pit crew were second-to-none, and my pit stops should have been the quickest of anyone on the track.

As we approached the first corner, I risked a glance to my left.

Monaco’s streets were winding and narrow.

And Sebastian García was awfully close. But Moto 1 winners weren’t known for being cowards.

So I edged forwards, willing my car to be in front at the apex of the corner.

If I was ahead, then he would have to back off. Or he would risk both of our races.

I left my braking as late as I could. I was ahead. I was going to take the corner and Sebastian would have to fall in behind me. The narrow streets of Monaco allowed for so little overtaking that I would be sure to…

Thud. The whole world seemed to move in slow motion as my car slid sideways, and then I heard a horrible grinding noise as I hit the metal barriers to my right. Fibreglass and steel shredded one another, and the car slowed to a horrific but slow stop.

My tyres were shredded. I’d probably lost a third of the car, and my neck hurt from where the car had decelerated so suddenly. I turned my head slowly, painfully, to the left.

Enmeshed so closely with my car I could hardly tell where one started and one ended, was Sebastian García.

As the shock wore off, it gave way to rage.

The rest of the cars slowly inched past us, like they were witnessing a crash on the motorway that they just had to slow down for.

I would be surprised if the race wasn’t red-flagged and started again once they cleared us up. The race would go on, at some point.

But mine wouldn’t. My race was over. And all because of…

“You bastard!” I shouted, ripping my helmet off as I struggled to get out of the many safety restraints in the tiny 1 seat space.

Finally I stood and pointed at Sebastian, who had gotten up out of his seat and looked a lot more dignified than I managed to.

He hadn’t removed his helmet though, and my own anger reflected back at me from his visor as I jumped from the car out onto the road. “You took me out!”

Sebastian didn’t say anything. He just calmly climbed out of his own car and then walked back down the straight towards the pit.

“Get back here! I’m talking to you! You Just fucked up for both of us.”

The crowd was quiet. I was making a scene. I didn’t care. I walked at speed to catch up with Sebastian and then grabbed his shoulder to spin him as we reached the entrance to the pit. Other cars were pulling into the pit, where they would wait until our wreckage was cleared from the track.

I forcibly turned Sebastian to face me. “Haven’t got anything to say?

Not even a sorry?” I was furious, ready to kill.

I was surprised no one had come to intervene already.

I reached for his visor. If his eyes were half as smug as I thought they might be, I was going to take him to the ground.

Pummel him like my cousin Bradley had taught me when we were kids.

I flipped up his visor, and my anger…well, it didn’t dissipate. But it simmered rather than coming to a boil. Because Sebastian wasn’t smug. There was no anger, or cockiness, or pride in those eyes. They were red-rimmed. Sebastian García was crying.

“Get out of my sight,” I muttered, turning away from him. He’d ruined my day, possibly my racing season. But my own anger had made me look a fool in front of so many people. My race was done. But I’d be thinking about Sebastian bloody García and what he’d done to me for a very long time.

It wasn’t until later when I was soaking in a deep, hot, bubble bath, that I realised. Neither of us had won. Both Sebastian and I had lost. And we had a bet. A perfect little revenge. I picked up my phone and began to text.