Chapter Text
May 2008
Snetterton Circuit
Norfolk, England
Shane looked up at the clouds above, trying to determine if today was going to be a lucky day for him. Ever since moving to England he’d got used to staring at grey skies, but today he had no idea if it was going to rain or just be another grey spring day. Shane did not like unknown variables. He had to remind himself not to get annoyed by something as ineffable as weather.
“Forecast is fifty-fifty,” his dad said, coming up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Gotta be ready for anything out there.”
Shane nodded, checking the velcro on his gloves for the fifth time. It was always chaotic in the garages before a race, and he much preferred it if he could sit on his own in a back room and prepare, close his eyes and drive the circuit in his head like he did the night before every race. But today there were scouts from McLaren and Mercedes in the crowds and both his parents had told him it would be better to be outside. Be visible. Talk to the cameras. Be the Shane Hollander that could get a seat in Formula 3 next season, if he was lucky.
If these stupid British clouds would behave, at least.
He climbed into the car, buckling himself in and performing his usual pre-race checks with his engineer. He was having a good season, at least — the step up from karting had been easier than he’d expected. He had been flagged as ‘one to watch’ on the serious racing forums, the promising young hard-working Canuck amongst a field of wealthy Europeans. It’s a great story, his mom had beamed when they’d gone out for a pre-race family dinner the night before. Half the battle is the story now. Look at Hamilton for McLaren. He’s showing the world it’s not just a sport for aristocratic white guys. Shane had those words bouncing around his head as he struggled to sleep the night before. Not his mom’s fault, but still. He felt the pressure.
But he knew he was good enough to win today.
“Radio check one two,” his engineer called in via the radio.
“Radio check,” Shane confirmed, watching the other cars roll in for the line-up. He had qualified first place, position one, well ahead of the rest of the field. Jobart, the Frenchman in second place who Shane had been battling all season, gave him a friendly middle-finger fuck-you as they lined up on the grid. Shane returned it happily. Jobart was a poser and not a threat. Behind him in third was the Brit, McAllister, and in fourth, a surprise good quali from Rozanov, who was driving what was essentially a tin can on wheels in the worst car on the grid. Shane didn’t know much about Rozanov except he was a Russian who raced under the Maltese flag (“Probably for some political reason,” his mom had opined with a raised eyebrow). Shane didn’t care. He really didn’t think much of the other drivers at all, even though he knew that gave him his own reputation as sullen and unfriendly. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to race.
He revved the engine, getting ready for the starting lights. There wasn’t much of a crowd here in the depths of Norfolk, but he knew his mom and dad were using some of their precious vacation days to visit him. He would make them proud. He gripped the steering wheel, smelling motor oil and gasoline, as the starting lights went out and he roared off the line.
And the first drop of rain fell.
Of course.
Just a few drops wouldn’t affect the race. Shane had started well and was already comfortably ahead by the first few corners, Jobart and McAllister squabbling for second in his mirrors, Rozanov already well back. His fingers moved fluidly on the gears, feet stamping alternately on the accelerator and brakes as he drove the circuit he must have practised a hundred times on the simulator. The engine vibrated around him, his engineer calling out sector times and advice.
“The rain,” Shane said into the radio mic. “What is the forecast?”
“We think it will hit around lap seven. Your pace is good so far, no need to manage.”
Shane tried not to feel nervous. Rain did not intimidate him, exactly, but it did introduce an uncomfortable unpredictability in his driving that he really preferred to avoid. As a serious, studious seventeen-year-old, he had watched every frame of famous wet races in the past to try to copy their technique, but for whatever reason could not need to replicate it in real life. He kept his mind clear as the laps ticked up and his lead increased. No need to worry. Jobart had fallen to third place; McAllister would be his closest rival today. Drops started to clutter the visor of his helmet.
“Rain’s coming in now,” he reported on the radio. He could feel it, too; the car was usually stuck close to the ground, but as the tarmac slicked up it became flighty, unwieldy. The back of the car snapped out of his control and he swore. McAllister crept closer in his mirrors. Then he saw something interesting.
Rozanov was gaining on McAllister.
“Keep your head, Shane,” his engineer encouraged. He reminded himself to focus on the track ahead, not behind. Now it was really coming down. He was told to take a pit stop for new tyres, which helped slightly, and when he returned the radio message was, “OK, Shane, looking good. You have Rozanov behind you, he’s lapping in the one-fifty-fives--”
“Wait, Rozanov is behind?”
“Yep, uh, looks like McAllister lost time in the pits and Jobart has an engine oil issue.”
Shane glanced in his mirrors. The nose of Rozanov’s car was much closer than he’d like it to be. “Jesus, he’s driving like the cops are after him.”
“Don’t worry about him, Shane. Focus on our race.”
Shane did as he was told. But the car did not obey him like he had planned. He missed a couple of apexes, and snapped the rear again on the same corner. He gripped the steering wheel harder, trying to stay calm, trying to ignore the pressure of the car slowly creeping up to him. Rozanov was close behind him now. He’d never seen anyone drive like this before.
“Five laps to go, Shane. Calm and cool, like always.”
“He’s right on me!”
“He’s driving recklessly. Don’t think about him. Just stay out of trouble.”
Shane knew what that meant: don’t cause a crash. Well, he could do everything in his power to avoid it, but Rozanov was dive-bombing him almost every corner now. He had to swerve twice in order to avoid their wheels touching. And then—
“Fuck!”
It was as aggressive a move as he’d ever seen; Rozanov piled past him in a spray of water, a crazy move on the wet side of the track that sent him into a wild spin and right into the barriers. The yellow flags came out, the race neutralised, Shane’s heart beating wildly in his chest at the sight.
“Christ, that was insane,” Shane muttered into the radio.
“You all right? Any contact?”
“No, I’m totally fine. What about him?”
“I see him moving, looks okay.” Always a relief to hear, no matter the circumstance, when there was a crash like that. On the second slow lap Shane caught sight of Rozanov getting out of his car, kicking the advertising hoarding in frustration. He shook his head. Stupid, reckless driving. But still. Kind of admirable, in a way.
He won by ten seconds in the end, relieved the rain eased off enough not to give him much more trouble. The guy from McLaren came to find him in the garage, and the Mercedes scout beamed about how impressive his parents were, and wouldn’t he like to come down to Brackley to get a tour of the factory? Shane beamed as his parents hugged him; today couldn’t have gone any better. He left them to chat with the Mercedes team so he could debrief with the engineers, taking the shortcut behind the pit building to get to the garages. He almost stopped in his tracks to see he wasn’t alone.
It was Rozanov, his blue team overalls unzipped to the waist, pacing furiously and gesticulating on the phone to someone. Shane felt the intrusion keenly, like a force field repelling him, and almost turned and doubled back before Rozanov caught his eye. He was stuck. Rozanov said something in Russian and pulled the phone away from his ear and hanging up.
“Hollander?” Rozanov said. Shane nodded. “Good race. But you drive car like suburban mom on school pickup.”
Shane snorted at the trash talk. “What? I won, in case you missed it.”
Rozanov shrugged. “I could have won.”
“You crashed your car.”
“It was risk. Risk did not pay this time.”
“Your mechanics are gonna be working overtime to fix all that damage.” What little Shane knew of Rozanov was that his car was not only the worst on the grid, but had the highest repair bill. Rozanov just fixed him with a long stare, and Shane tried not to look at how his curls stuck to his forehead from the rain and sweat. He was obviously the same age as Shane but he looked bigger than the other drivers. Harder. There was a hint of rough stubble under his jaw. The other Europeans were usually rich kids or sons of former drivers; Rozanov, with his rough, broken English and cheapskate car, was completely different. A good story, his mom would have probably said, if she knew the first thing about him. But his mom didn’t care about Ilya Rozanov, because he wasn’t Shane’s competition. He’d most likely wash out in F4, like most of the drivers in today’s race, and after this season Shane would never see him again.
“Eh. Mechanics job is to fix car. Yours must be bored. Not good for morale,” Rozanov said. Somehow he’s got closer to Shane, so they were only a few steps apart. Shane had no idea why he was still having this conversation. He had to go. He did not care about the other drivers. He was just here to do his time before he worked his way up the leagues. And yet. Here he was. Still talking to Rozanov, for some bizarre reason.
“Next time,” Rozanov said, voice low, “risk will pay. And next time, I will win.”
He winked at Shane, patting him roughly on the shoulder as he stalked off. Shane could not stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
March 2025
Albert Park Circuit
Melbourne, Australia
“And of course, we can’t start the show without discussing what is possibly the most talked-about driver move of the off-season.” The huge seventy-inch TV on the wall showed three commentators grouped in the paddock. Shane watched them, chewing the skin around his thumbnail, knee bouncing. Normally he couldn’t stand watching the Sky Sports commentary before a race weekend. But anything normal had kind of gone out the window in the last few months.
“Well, yes, exactly. Is this the year we finally see Ilya Rozanov in a car that matches his driving abilities? I certainly hope so. That Red Bull looked lightning-fast in testing, and of course he topped the time boards in all three practise sessions this weekend.”
“I know we often ask the question, how much of a F1 championship battle is to do with the car or the driver, but I think everyone here would agree that Rozanov’s cars have never lived up to his abilities as a driver. How unlucky that he ended up leaving McLaren right before all their great upgrades. And the less said about his time at Williams, the better.”
“But he was still able to win races when those in the better cars couldn’t even place on the podium.”
“Yes, think about Monza in 2021, for example, or his frankly crazy win in the rain in Interlagos in 2023.” Shane wrinkled his nose. Two of his worst races. And of course, inevitably, the commentators continued: “It’s going to be fascinating to see him line up against Hollander in near-equal machinery. Some even think Red Bull might have the edge on Ferrari this season.”
“We know their rivalry goes all the way back to F4, and they’ve never minced their words when talking about each other. Hopefully it all stays civil on track.”
“Another Prost v Senna on our hands, maybe? Or Hamilton-Rosberg?”
“We’d be in for a fascinating championship battle if so. You don’t want to say it, but after three straight years of Hollander championships, I think the fans are itching for some real racing.”
Shane scowled. The screen segued into a glossily put-together montage of the hot topic of the weekend: Hollander v Rozanov. Yes, there was Monza ’21, when Rozanov had made a frankly insane strategy call to keep his shredded tyres on while everyone else pitted and clung on to win the race with a puncture. Brazil ’23 in the pouring rain where Shane had only managed to place a lowly seventh. And god, all the times they’d made contact in the car. Even when Rozanov had been nowhere near the podium places it felt like he’d done everything he could to fuck over Shane’s races. Specifically. The soundbites flashed through their most famous barbed words. “I don’t even have the words. I don’t think any language has words for how he behaved today,” on-screen Shane said, deadpan with fury. Cut to Rozanov: “He said what? Oh, no, we have word in Russian. It is [BLEEP]”.
The montages flashed through podium celebrations, Rozanov’s hair plastered to his forehead as he kissed each trophy. In almost fifteen years in F1 he’d won only seven races. Shane remembered every single one with unfortunate clarity. Sometimes he wondered why Rozanov even still bothered.
It would certainly make his life a lot easier if he would just retire.
“Shane!” His mom’s voice rang out for the other room, and he guiltily stabbed the power button. “Are you ready? We gotta go!”
“Yeah, yeah, one sec,” he said, getting to his feet. Yuna was waiting for him by the exit to the paddock. She handed him a brand cap and a Richard Mille watch. Shane smiled toothlessly.
“Good idea. Save the real smile for the cameras,” she said, with a knowing wink. Shane sighed. The documentary crew would be here today — the documentary he had spent a lot of the off-season and one unpleasant Christmas dinner arguing against doing. But everyone from his agents to his parents loved the idea, and so he had eventually relented. “I know, I know, you don’t love the idea of the whole season being filmed, but this is a chance to show everyone the real you. This is your legacy.” She cupped a hand lovingly over his cheek. “Good luck, sweetheart. You know I’m always sitting here with my heart in my throat watching you drive.”
“I know,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “You know I’m not, like, actively trying to crash out there, right?”
She gave him a wry look, helping with the watch as he put the cap on. “Careful of Rozanov.”
“I am always careful of him.”
“He’s got a point to prove. Don’t let yourself be the target of his misplaced aggression.”
“I’m thirty-three years old, Mom. I think I can handle the schoolyard bully.”
She just smiled. “Still. It’s my job to worry.”
“And it’s my job to win.” He straightened his jacket, preparing for another year of the madness that was life in Formula 1, and definitely not thinking about Ilya Rozanov.
*
Ilya loved Australia. Full of hot people and great weather, and also beaches. God. The beaches! It was the only place in the entire racing calendar where he could surf, which, surprisingly for a man who grew up in the icy depths of Moscow, came quite naturally to him. Generally, anything where there was an over fifty per cent chance of something dangerous happening called to him like a moth to a flame. Though sadly he hadn’t met any sharks yet. He was still holding out hope he would get a cool scar to tell people about at future parties.
“Boring, boring, boring,” Svetlana called out, flicking through profiles on her phone. “So many boring people here. Where do you find your hookups?”
Ilya shrugged, pulling his fireproof suit on. “I guess people take one look at me and there’s no need for an app.”
She rolled her eyes. “That can’t be true.”
“It is. Sorry.” He crossed the room, giving her a friendly kiss on the forehead. It had been a long time since they had slept together regularly; it had not seemed like a good idea to mix sex and business. As Svetlana was as talented a manager as she was a lover, it had been a very difficult decision. “You can definitely find a not-boring man at the afterparty tonight. Or girl, who knows with you. Australia is full of very beautiful people. I don’t know what is happening with your algorithm.”
She smiled. “Let’s see if you win first, eh?”
He grinned, stuffing his feet into his racing boots. “I will. That is a certainty.”
Almost fifteen years of racing in Formula 1 and he had almost — almost — been starting to lose hope. It had been like a cruel joke every time he got a new piece of bad luck: the stupid regulation changes screwing over McLaren’s development; Williams’ years of garbage form overturning basically overnight as soon as he departed; the mechanical issue that had plagued his Mercedes for a full season with no explanation. He would not admit it to anyone, but he had been close to calling it off the previous year. But then, like a gift from heaven itself, Red Bull had found themselves unexpectedly without a driver to partner Cliff Marlow and Ilya was helpfully a free agent. The unluckiest man in F1, they called him. Now it was time to rewrite that history.
He didn’t need luck. He just needed to be him. And he needed to get Shane Hollander off his game, which happily was something he was well-practised in.
It was his lucky day — as soon as he stepped out into the paddock he saw him, sitting at the hospitality area at Ferrari and eating what looked like rabbit food. It was pre-season weigh in today, and Ilya had already been told by the team doctor he should drop a few pounds for ‘maximum performance’. He had said, simply, ‘no’, and had enjoyed his sausage and egg McMuffin with extra enthusiasm afterwards.
“Hollander!”
Hollander jerked his head up, instantly tense. Good. The Canadian was always so uptight Ilya wondered how he managed to get through the day without pulling a muscle. Ilya smiled, lazily jumping over the barriers so he could sit opposite his rival.
“Enjoying lunch?” He reached over and grabbed a stick of carrot from Hollander’s bowl, crunching noisily. “Wow, special day, you are allowed salad dressing, huh?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“Your car looks slow. Did you bring car seat for the kids?”
Hollander looked like he would murder him. Even better. Ilya enjoyed this look of steady hatred on him more than anything else. Well. Almost anything else.
The way he looked when he was desperate to cum after hours of edging probably beat it.
“I heard Red Bull had to take out extra insurance to fund your repairs budget.”
Ah, he loved it when he got under Hollander’s skin enough to tempt him into terrible trash talk. He took another spear of carrot, grinning. “Wrong information. Insurance was for me. My ass is national treasure, needs special safeguarding.”
This had the desired affect too. Hollander blushed furiously, looking away from him. God, this was so easy. Too easy. They’d known each other too long, Ilya thought, allowing himself a moment to enjoy Hollander’s freckles as they broke eye contact. He was too easy to play. He rapidly schooled his expression when Hollander looked back at him.
“Get out of here, Rozanov. Save it for the racetrack.”
He knew it was stupid, and that there was now a small crowd of fans clumped around the entrance to the Ferrari motorhome, watching them with their cameras pointed towards them, eager to record a famous Rozanov/Hollander sparring match. Ilya leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Thing is, Hollander, I think secretly you want me to win, no?” Hollander said nothing, staring determinedly at his terrible lunch. “Because if I win then maybe I tell you my room number. And maybe we do that thing you haven’t had done to you in, huh, how long…” He made a show of counting on his fingers, but he let the pause linger long enough that Hollander, scarlet faced and so angry he could barely speak, muttered something. “Ah, what was that?”
“Two years,” he said, a little louder. Brazil 2023. Ilya remembered that too. The rain pounding, howling on the hotel room window as he held Hollander down into the mattress, digging his thumb into the dimple at the base of his spine. God, Hollander had been so fucking angry about finishing seventh that he’d barely let Ilya open the door to his hotel room before he was on him. Truly one of the best fucks of Ilya’s life.
Ilya grinned, leaning back. Stupid, so very stupid of him to do this in front of all these people, but as far as they knew they were just trash talking. Which he kind of was, in a way. Horny trash talking. His speciality.
“Well, good luck in qualifying,” he finished chirpily, and because he couldn’t resist, added in a murmur, “No room for hard-on in cockpit. So try not to think about me too much with my car’s ass in front of you all race.”
He clapped his hands together, clearly shaking Hollander out of the daze he’d fallen into, and springing up from his seat, job done. This season was going to be fun, and it hadn’t even started yet.
*
Embarrassing.
That was all Shane could feel after qualifying. Embarrassed. He would not admit that Rozanov had got in his head, but there must have been something off because he could only qualify in second place. Rozanov’s Red Bull was as fast as the commentators had predicted, almost half a second quicker than Shane’s Ferrari. In the debrief afterwards he let the Italian debate of his engineering team wash over him as he thought about Rozanov’s crooked smile, the way he’d gripped his hand after the session was over in congratulations.
Maybe I tell you my room number.
Fuck that, honestly.
It had been long enough this time since their last, uh, encounter, that Shane really thought that their fucked-up little situation was over. He had genuinely thought Rozanov might retire at the end of the previous season, which would mean no more panicking every time the Russian (or was it Maltese? whatever he was) had an unexpectedly good weekend. No more raging internal debate every time he saw him up on the top spot of the podium, waiting for the message to ping his phone with a room number while simultaneously convincing himself he was going to spend the evening quietly seething in his room alone. No more telling himself every time that this was the last time, that it was not fucking normal for a guy in his thirties who was supposedly straight to only be able to cope with losing a race to his rival if said rival spent the whole night railing him afterwards. Like. The fuck?
His phone lit up where it was face-up on the table.
Rose: what time is it there? Wanna talk?
Rose: I just got back from set, miss you <3
Shane picked up his phone and replied right away.
SH: In debrief now but I'll call you when I can
SH: Long day??
Rose: it was fiiiiine we filmed at a diner today so I ate like half my body weight in fries
Rose: why do I never learn to fake eat
Rose: saw the quali result, wtf Rozanov? He’s definitely got a point to prove this year huh
Shane turned the phone over, as always feeling queasy whenever his girlfriend brought up Rozanov. He loved that Rose loved F1, that whenever she came to a race he would see her on the live feed screaming and shouting and jumping up and down when he did well. He loved her, no question. And so what if they barely saw each other throughout the year with his race schedule taking him all over the world, and her acting career doing the same? It was so precious to him for those snatched weeks or weekends when they could be together. He knew how lucky he was to have her because everyone in his life told him so — he saw the way people stared at them in awe when they were holding hands in the paddock or on the red carpet for her latest movie. It was the best thing he could have hoped for.
And yet.
His Apple Watch pinged with a notification.
(+377) 00 07 65 81: thinking about tomorrow night already ?
(+377) 00 07 65 81: very good forward planning to qualify second
(+377) 00 07 65 81: maybe try not to lose too bad. depressed Hollander not my favourite. I prefer angry Canadian, it’s very rare sight
Shane flushed from his ears to the pit of his stomach and stuffed his phone in his pocket.
“Shane?” His race engineer Alessio looked directly at him, and he realised he had not been paying the slightest bit of attention for the last ten minutes. “Cosa ne pensi?”
“Scusa, scusa,” he said, trying to get a hold of himself. “Puoi ripeterlo?”
He shifted in his seat, ignoring the incessant buzzing of notifications on his watch, and tried to get his game face on.
*
Oh, it was so fucking good to be in a car that was actually fast for once.
Ilya loved racing, because Ilya loved danger, and he loved the feeling of stretching the car to its absolute limits, the way his heart hammered as he took a risky dive or muscled his way past an opponent, even if it meant carbon fibre shattering on the track or a punctured tyre. He didn’t actually mind not coming first because it wasn’t really about that — it was about whether he did everything in that race possible to push himself to the actual limit. If he ever backed out of a challenge or didn’t go for an overtake, that would be a failure. He knew how the journalists compared him to Hollander: Ilya was all raw and power and potential where Hollander was precision and perfection and maybe even greatest of all time. Ilya knew Hollander well enough from watching him over the years to know when he would go for a move and when he didn’t. So he found racing against him fun because Hollander so constantly underestimated him.
He got a good start in the race but Hollander was soon on the back of him, his relentless pace hunting him down like the shark from Jaws. Ilya supposed he had kind of got his wish come true after all.
“Ilya, great pace but we need you to manage your tyres a bit out there,” his race engineer, a pleasant British guy called Rob said over the radio. “Still early in the race, don’t burn yourself out.”
“Hollander is in my ass!” he called back in exasperation. “I need to drop him!”
“Don’t worry about the Ferrari, he’s on a different strategy to you. Save the tyres now, you can leave him in the dust later.”
Ilya did not listen to his race engineers. He was well-known for this fact. But, in the back of his mind, there was something like doubt there. No matter what he said publicly, he did have something to prove today. To all the people who hated him, said he was a menace or a danger or didn’t take racing seriously enough. To the people who wanted him to fail. To Hollander, even, who he secretly suspected was only so angry when he lost a race to him because he thought him so inferior. On another day he would have stuck his foot to the pedal and driven even harder. Against all his instincts, he eased off a bit, letting Hollander creep closer but prompting a pleased comment from Rob. “That’s great, Ilya. Keep that pace going.”
To his surprise this pace drop didn’t lead to Hollander immediately jumping him. He felt his caution behind, too; Hollander was desperate to win, but not desperate enough to bin his car in the barriers. God, he was uptight even in the car. Ilya smiled to himself as he watched Hollander line up for a move and back out of the dive at the very last moment. Like he was edging himself, getting so close to actually doing something dangerous without actually letting it happen.
Vintage Hollander behaviour.
And, as Rob had predicted, as the laps ticked over Ilya started to drop the Ferrari, who had to work twice as hard following his car and eventually suffered for it. It was not a race for the record-books; ‘one for the purists’, as Ilya often heard boring races referred to. He didn’t care. Boring was good for him today, because boring meant he won the race by a ten-second margin, Hollander a distant second with last year’s second-placed driver and his teammate Marlow in third.
“Amazing job, mate,” Rob said, sounding genuinely pleased on the team radio. “Couldn’t have asked for a better start to the season.”
“For you, mama,” he said in Russian, as he always did when he won a race. He looked up at the bright blue Australian sky and hoped she was watching down on him. Maybe tune out now though , he advised her. Maybe not the best viewing for you later in the hotel room.
When he climbed out of the car he saw Hollander was already out, helmet off and hair plastered to his sweaty face, the wires from his radio scoring a deep gouge in his cheek. Their eyes met, and because Hollander was a nice Canadian raised to be the better man, he turned and walked straight to Ilya to shake his hand.
“Great drive,” he said, in his best cameras-on, media-trained voice. Ilya had a strange urge to pull him into a hug, but not here, and besides, what for? They were enemies. They did not hug. But Hollander didn’t look angry, which meant he was genuinely upset he hadn’t won. Tonight maybe wasn’t as sure-fire a thing as he’d thought.
“1132, the Hilton,” was all Ilya said, pretending to examine something in his helmet. He didn’t look up to see if Hollander acknowledged him. And besides, there were plenty of people who wanted to celebrate with him: his engineers and mechanics, Svetlana, and so many cameras and interviews. As always on the podium he kissed the trophy, and during the champagne spray made sure to get most of it on Hollander, who he knew wouldn’t like it: probably worried he would somehow accidentally have some fun by getting some alcohol in his bloodstream by osmosis. He spluttered and rubbed champagne from his eyes as Ilya took the chance in the confusion to get closer and whisper in his ear, “You heard me earlier, yes? The Hilton?”
Hollander pulled away, shaking his head minutely. The gesture was clear. Not here, not in front of the cameras. Ilya knew that, of course, but something felt strange and he was weirdly desperate for some kind of confirmation from Hollander that their deal still stood. He knew he was dating that famous actress now, but even if they hadn’t fucked for two years nothing else had changed. They still hate-flirted over text. Ilya still stalked his Instagram for his vacation pictures. He still thought about his mouth when he was jerking off. Not, like, always. But enough that it wasn’t nothing.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think I need to focus on my season,” Hollander said finally, and there in the flash of the cameras, champagne dripping from his eyes and the best season of his life in F1 stretching ahead of him, Ilya Rozanov could only think: fuck .