Carter #3
“What then, the entire event?” I joked, though my voice went up a suspicious octave. I waited for the punchline. I waited for him to tell me it was a mandatory sponsor's thing or a team buyout that he’d simply hijacked for a few hours.
He didn’t say a word. The silence stretching out between us until the weight of it became deafening.
He stayed still, almost too still, but his thumb kept moving—dragging a slow circle over the bear’s paw like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
He looked like he was waiting for me to stop being dense.
My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. No. No way.
“Try again,” I pushed. “You don’t move unless there’s a podium involved. What’s the real reason?”
He looked down at the bear, then extended it toward me. “This is yours.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m serious. What’s the real reason?”
His attention dropped back to the bear, fingers tightening along the seam. “It’s not a play.” He met my eyes for half a beat before looking away, something unreadable passing through. “Just something I’ve been… circling. An idea.”
He gave a sharp, dismissive shrug—the kind of movement meant to discard a thought before it could be dissected. “But forget it. It’s… this. It was a stupid thought.”
I watched the way his shoulders remained pulled tight, despite his casual tone. He was working hard to look like he didn't care, but the erratic pulse thrumming at the base of his throat betrayed the script.
Before I could poke at the lie, he stepped into my path, cutting off my air and my exit.
He didn't wait for permission; he simply shoved the teddy bear into my chest. My arms uncoiled instinctively to catch it, the soft fur forcing my hands to curl around the plush midsection.
I looked down to see a miniature version of his teamwear stretched over the bear's torso, the name Valerio printed in bold across the back.
I was left clutching the bear like a shield, staring up at the hard, unreadable line of his mouth.
“What if it was also an apology?” he asked, his voice dropping until it was barely audible over the distant roar of the tilt-a-whirl.
The words felt like a physical weight. I sucked in a breath that didn’t quite land. Apologize? Who was this person? This wasn't the arrogant driver who had humiliated my father at the TwoFold Gala. This wasn't the guy who had looked at me with that untouchable arrogance on the daily.
He shifted his weight, studying a crack in the sidewalk like it held the answer. “It’s not that big of a deal. Besides, this is something I’ve been considering testing out for a while now.”
Not a big deal? I looked around at the bright lights, the rows of tents and booths, and the sheer scale of the takeover. Most people considered a text or a drink a peace offering; Dominic apparently considered an entire carnival a casual experiment.
“An apology?” I managed, backtracking a bit, the word feeling clumsy.
He didn't double down. He didn't explain. He just made a small, restless gesture with his hand, looking as if he were searching for a way to take the honesty back. The silence between us stretched, thick and alive, until the vulnerability seemed to itch.
He shifted his weight, his posture straightening a fraction as something colder took hold again. The flicker of something human disappeared, replaced by that clean, calculating precision he moved through everything with.
“Double or nothing,” he said, his voice regaining its bite. He jerked his chin toward a booth nearby, where the high-pitched whine of a simulator engine echoed through the air.
He just turned and started toward the game, shoulders loose, like the decision had already been made.
It was a getaway—a way to stop the conversation before it got too real.
But as I stood there, clutching a bear, I realized for the first time that the Great Dominic Valerio might be just as frazzled as I was.
“New wager,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. “I win, you have to keep the bear.”
My brain was a static-filled mess. Why was I even still standing here? Why was I letting him pivot from a heavy, suffocating admission of an apology right back into another game?
Maybe I just wasn't ready for the alternative—going home and actually having to process the way this night had taken turn after turn, each one sharper than the last. It felt like I was caught in that game where you try to stack moving blocks on top of one another.
Every time I thought I had a stable base, the speed increased and the blocks got smaller, leaving me with a leaning, precarious tower of things that didn't fit.
I was just waiting for the inevitable moment the whole mess toppled over.
I adjusted my grip on the bear, squaring my shoulders to meet his gaze head-on. If we were going back to games, I could do that. I was better at friction than whatever "this" was.
“And if I win?” I asked, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He shrugged. “What do you want?”
I took a breath, thinking of the way my dad’s face had looked after the last race—the exhaustion and the quiet sting of being ignored. “For you to start listening to my father. Or at the very least, stop dismissing him before he even finishes a sentence.”
Dominic’s expression soured instantly. A flash of genuine distaste flickered in his eyes, his lip curling just enough to show me exactly what he thought of taking advice from someone he’d already written off.
“Fine,” I snapped, moving the goalposts. I went for the hard ball. “Tell me what was up with your hands the other day.”
The atmosphere shifted, but not in the way I expected. Instead of a scoff, a look of profound, physical pain crossed his face—the kind of expression someone might make if they had to choose between jumping into a pit of vipers or actually hearing my father out.
His eyes thinned, his pupils sharpening into needles.
The intensity broke for a fraction of a second as his gaze flicked, scanning the nearby area and the lingering fans to ensure my question hadn't traveled farther than the space between us. It was a clinical, heavy silence. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he weighed the two options. On one hand, he’d have to unlock a door to his life that was clearly reinforced with steel plating and 'No Trespassing' signs. On the other, he’d have to let my dad finish a sentence.
He actually looked like he was considering which one would hurt less.
The fact that he didn't immediately laugh me off was terrifying. He was genuinely doing the math on how much he hated my father's input versus how much he guarded his own secrets—and for the first time, his control was losing the battle.
“Fine,” he said, his voice dropping low. “I’ll tell you what happened. But I’m modifying my win. You still keep the bear, but you also have to join my team. Officially. No more staying just far enough away to pretend you’re not part of it.”
“No way,” I shot back. “I’m not becoming a pawn.”
He just shrugged again, that frustratingly calm demeanor returning. “Then the deal is off.”
He started to turn away, the ultimate power move.
He knew he had me. He knew the curiosity was eating me alive, and he knew that for all my talk of hating the sport, I was already knee-deep into this world.
I was a sucker for the truth, and he was dangling it just out of reach like a carrot.
I hated how easily he read me, but I hated the idea of walking away without an answer even more.
I looked at the simulator, then at the hard line of his back. “Fine,” I bit out, the word tasting like lead. “Deal.”
The "race" was over before I even had a chance to get comfortable in the seat. Dominic didn't just beat me; he dismantled the track.
I kept waiting for the familiar kick of the clutch, the vibration in my teeth that told me exactly where the tires were biting.
Instead, I got the resistance of a spring-loaded wheel and a screen that felt two-dimensional.
I was wrestling with a machine that didn't talk back, over-steering into corners and hunting for a weight transfer that never came.
Dominic didn't hunt for anything. His hands were a blur of twitchy, micro-adjustments—the kind of muscle memory that only comes from staring at a monitor until your eyes bleed.
He wasn't driving; he was inputting commands.
He took lines that would have shredded real rubber, clipping apexes with a surgical indifference to the physics that usually governed my world.
Every time I glanced over, his face was bathed in the harsh blue light of the display, his pupils tracking the digital curves with a terrifying, rhythmic flick.
When the screen flashed his victory in bright, mocking red, he exhaled once, a slow release of tension.
He didn't just climb out; he uncoiled, the adrenaline leaving him in a visible wave. He didn't look triumphant. He looked like he’d just finished a shift at a desk he’d sat at every day for years.
He moved closer to where I stood, the quiet settling back in to fill the gap left by the digital whine.
He reached out, his fingers grazing the bear that was now mine, officially.
He didn't spare a glance for the game, the crowd, or the chaos; instead, his focus settled on me with a weight that felt like a binding contract being signed.
A slow, satisfied curve touched his mouth. “Welcome to the team, Shortcut.”