Chapter 24 #2
But the courtyard contains more than just fans.
There’s a sponsors’ area where Juanma Montero and Sofia Bautista from FuegoFrío are giving away pink and gold stadium cups that I swear must’ve been rush printed this afternoon.
Clearly they’re here to see if this viral moment translates to marketing dollars.
I catch sight of Gregor Schultz from Velocity Capital Group hovering near the photo booth, and immediately plot a route that keeps maximum distance between us.
I raced him in F3, but he bombed out and was a right wanker about it.
One less arrogant billionaire’s son to take a seat from a more capable driver.
I nod toward them. “Sponsors showed up.”
“Money follows attention.” Claudia’s pragmatic as always. “Just stick to racing talk if they approach. Ready?”
I look to Rodrigo, who’s shadowing me. “Everything good?”
He nods. “Perimeter’s secure. Someone tried to access the service areas earlier. Hotel security handled it.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s always one, right?”
He nods. “The attendees have been vetted.”
I squeeze his arm. “Thanks, Rigo.”
Okay.
I take a slow breath and nod. “Claudia, let’s do this.”
The barriers open and the crowd surges forward with surprising politeness. These aren’t the aggressive autograph hunters looking to flip signatures for profit. These are genuine fans carrying homemade signs and wearing Hot Bunny Luvin’ shirts.
“Petra! Thank you for an incredible race!”
“Can you sign my shirt? We’ve been following you since F3!”
“Ooo! Can we get a pic of you with Fort Rigo?”
That’s what the fans call him. I think he likes it, though he never lets on.
I wade into the crowd. Rodrigo maintains his walking fortress position nearby.
The fans love him and always want to take pictures with him, probably because he’s a giant and lets them, even as he scans the surroundings and keeps tabs on me.
The first group I reach consists of five girls who’ve clearly coordinated their outfits.
They have matching pink streaks in their hair and custom shirts declaring Hayter Honeys Se Gustan Las Conejitas.
“Thank you for organizing this!” one girl says while I sign her shirt.
I smile. “Nooo. This is to thank you for everything. Between all of you taking care of the mechanics, then dealing with the online drama. You lot have gone above and beyond expectations to support us.”
Her friend jumps in. “Some people were being absolutely horrible online, saying you were just a distraction or that Nico was using you for mind games. We shut that down fast.”
“The internet can be brutal.” I keep my tone light. “But your support means everything. Especially to the mechanics who worked through the night to fix my car.”
More photos, more signatures. A teenager hands me a poster showing me and Nico rendered as cartoon characters with bunny ears. Someone else presents artwork of our cars racing side by side with hearts floating between them. It’s simultaneously sweet and surreal.
“That podium kiss was epic!” A girl with elaborate bunny ear headgear beams at me.
I laugh, deflecting with practiced ease. “It was quite something. But right now I’m focused on the championship. We’ve got Mexico coming up.”
“But you and Nico are a power couple!”
“We’re both focused on racing.” The professional answer rolls out automatically. “All of this support is what matters. Having fans like you cheering us on is mega.”
The questions keep coming, gentle but persistent.
How long have I liked Nico? Are we officially together?
Will there be more podium snogging? I navigate each one with championship-level precision, acknowledging without confirming, appreciating without promising.
The Honey Bunnies mean well, but I’m not about to discuss something I don’t understand myself.
For all I know, Nico and I are just scratching an itch that’s been building all season.
It’s best not to overthink it or overpromise anything to anyone, including myself.
Juanma Montero approaches during a brief lull, Sofia at his side. “Petra! Congratulations on the podium. FuegoFrío loves seeing all this positive fan engagement.”
“Thank you. The fans have been incredible.”
“Indeed. This level of organic marketing is invaluable.” Doubtless he’s already calculating revenue streams. “Perhaps we should discuss additional collaboration opportunities between the teams.”
Before I can respond, Gregor Schultz appears beside Sofia. He still hasn’t lost the stink of entitlement that made him so insufferable as a driver.
“Juanma, good to see you.” Gregor’s smile is all teeth. “VCG has been watching this development with great interest, as well. Petra, impressive performance today despite the distractions.”
The way he says ‘distractions’ makes it clear he’s referring to the leaked photo. I smile, but I couldn’t stand racing against this tosser, and he’s no more tolerable off track than he was on it.
“Thank you, Greg.” My tone could freeze champagne.
“Let’s discuss how our respective brands might capitalize on this momentum,” Gregor’s oblivious to or ignoring my lack of enthusiasm. “VCG has some innovative approaches to relationship marketing.”
Juanma’s expression tightens slightly. “I’m sure any discussions would go through proper channels.”
“Of course. Though timing is everything in these situations.” Gregor’s gaze flicks between us. “VCG likes to move fast.”
Before Gregor prances out Velocity Capital Group’s tagline and over-explains it like we’re all idiots, Rodrigo appears at my shoulder. “Ms. Hayter, transition in five minutes.” Bless my bodyguard’s timing.
Nico approaches through the hotel entrance, and my insides go as loose as my car did in turn 13.
He’s changed into a fresh team kit, hair still damp from a shower.
The man looks every inch the world champion despite the chaos of the last twenty-four hours—controlled, confident, moving through the courtyard like he owns the space without needing to prove it.
“Looks like your favorite driver’s arrived,” I tell the crowd, all of whom immediately swivel toward Nico with collective excitement.
He catches my eye across the courtyard and tips his chin.
The gesture’s casual, almost professional, but there’s heat underneath.
The fans nearest me notice everything—the way he looks at me, how I can’t quite keep the smile off my face, the fact that we’re comfortable in the same space despite the global speculation about our relationship.
I haven’t forgotten the feel of kissing him on that podium this afternoon. Or the strength in his hands and body. And judging by the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, he remembers things too.
“Aww, are you leaving?” One of the Honey Bunnies looks genuinely disappointed.
“Time to let El Conejo have his turn with you.” I move toward Nico, and we meet at the transition point where the crowd can see us both.
“How’d they treat you?” He pitches his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Better than we probably deserve. They’re still running our defense online.”
“I saw.”
He steps closer and leans in for the traditional Spanish greeting, one kiss to each cheek.
It’s casual enough to seem natural to the watching fans, but his hand lingers on my arm and he takes a fraction longer than necessary, his breath warm against my skin.
The familiar gesture feels anything but casual.
There’s an intimacy in the way his fingers curve around my elbow.
His gaze lingers on me and he doesn’t immediately step back.
My pulse quickens despite every rational thought telling me to keep this professional.
Then Nico smiles and lets go. “Thank you for handling this.”
“Thank you for showing up.”
Fort Rigo steps to my side. “Ready, Ms. Hayter?”
The crowd calls out as I step back:
“Thank you, Petra!”
“Love you!”
“Bring Nico to Mexico!”
I laugh at that last one, especially when Nico shakes his head and smirks.
“Totally legit that they want some privacy,” I hear one fan say to another as Rodrigo guides me toward the hotel entrance.
“Yeah, can you imagine having every moment analyzed?”
We reach the entrance, but I glance back to see Nico settling into the crowd.
He’s so at ease with them, signing shirts and posing for photos.
It’s always surprised me how good he is with the fans when he’s so hyper-focused on the racing.
But whatever complications exist between us, this part we both handle well.
We’ve spent our whole lives wearing a public face, maintaining professional interactions, and giving the fans what they want without promising more than we can deliver.
The hotel’s automatic doors close behind me, muffling the crowd’s excitement.
Rodrigo and I burn rubber crossing the lobby to catch an arriving lift. I’ve been on exhibit all damned day and I just need to escape all the prying eyes. Time to shower, eat, sleep. Not think about Spanish drivers or talented hands or... I sigh and look at the time on my fitness tracker.
The fan event took more from me than I expected, but I can’t begrudge their enthusiasm. Even if their questions about Nico veered too close to personal.
What are we doing? What is this thing between us?
Rodrigo escorts me to my room, still scanning the hall as I unlock the door.
“Thanks for having my back, Rigo.”
“That’s my job.”
I nod and stare at the floor.
“Anything else, Ms. Hayter?”
I frown, then look up at him. Maybe this is beyond the scope of his duties, but he’s always there, always watching. And I trust his judgment. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Only to keep you safe.”
I squint at him, considering that answer. “If Nico was one of those situations in a crowd when you take my hand and lead me. Would you pull me toward him or away?”
A smile ghosts across his mouth. “Toward, Ms. Hayter.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
I smile back. “Thanks, Rigo.”