My dad didn't just hand out olive branches to people who were busy lighting matches; he offered them more kindling if it meant he got to stay in the heat. He always forgave too easily if there was a chance it could buy him back his life, and it usually ended with me being the one to pick up the pieces of a pride he’d sold for pennies on the dollar.
“Right,” I hissed. “Everyone is just so eager to be his props.”
“He’s the face of the team,” my dad said, his voice pleadingly reasonable as he looked out at the crowds gathered near the entrance.
I didn't wait for him to finish the rest of his thought. I shoved the door open, the night air rushing into the cab.
“He’s a nightmare in a firesuit,” I muttered, thinking of the way he looked when he was playing the hero for the cameras. “And I’m sure he looks just as arrogant in whatever carbon-fiber-priced outfit he’s wearing tonight to pretend he has a heart.”
“Carter! Where are you going?” my dad called out as I hopped down to the pavement, the door swinging shut with a heavy, final thud.
“I’m going to do what you’re supposed to do at a carnival. I’m going to find the games!” I shouted back over my shoulder. I didn't even look back at them as I started toward the blindingneon glow of the quad. “I heard there’s a clown at this circus, and I’m pretty sure he’s already wearing a Valerio name tag!”
I heard Marco let out a low, pained whistle behind me, and my dad started to say my name again, but I was already gone, weaving through the crowd.
The main part of campus had been transformed into something that felt like an overpriced fever dream. It was a high-octane carnival—a collision of local fairground kitsch and the sterile, terrifyingly expensive world of professional racing. To my left, a row of massive transport rigs were parked like slumbering steel giants, their polished chrome catching the floodlights for the "photo ops" the fans were currently swarming. People were lining up just to touch the side of a trailer.
To my right, the "circus" was in full swing. There were balloon dart booths lined with overinflated prizes and shooting galleries that promised "team prizes," all of it wrapped in the same primary colors as the grid. It was cheesy, deliberate, and clearly designed to make people forget that these same drivers usually spent their time in air-conditioned suites avoiding the public.
Everything was loud, everything was black, and everything was trying way too hard to be charming. It felt less like a celebration and more like a sleek, dark vacuum designed to suck the air—and the money—right out of my school.
The area was a sea of merch. It was impossible to turn a corner without bumping into a student in a "Valerio" hoodie or a local fan wearing a shirt with his silhouette arched over a steering wheel. It was like a virus had swept through the campus, turning everyone into a walking billboard for the guy who somehow managed to be both my biggest problem and the one I kept circling back to.
I wandered for a while, unimpressed by the sheer scale of the hero-worship. The more I walked, the more I felt like staticcutting through a carefully curated signal. I was the only person here who wasn't staring at the entire thing with wide, dewy eyes.
I drifted toward a booth labeledThe Apex Toss—essentially a glorified ring-toss where the bottles had been replaced by miniature plastic pylons and the rings were shaped like tiny steering wheels. It was peak marketing, and it was humiliating.
I stared at the little plastic things, a hard something twisting beneath my ribs. A sign propped against a stack of crates announced that five rings would cost five dollars. I should have kept walking. I should have gone to find a quiet corner of the library to hide until my dad was done playing pretend. But my hands were shaking with a restless, frenzied energy that needed an outlet. I didn't want a prize, and I certainly didn't want to support the "Valerio Brand," but the idea of hurling something as hard as I could at a target was suddenly the most appealing thing I’d heard all night. It was cheaper than therapy and more socially acceptable than screaming.
I was reaching into my pocket for a few crumpled bills, already picturing exactly whose face I was going to imagine on those pylons, when a hand—too steady, too familiar—reached past me and dropped a crisp hundred on the counter.
I exhaled a long, ragged sigh, as the worker set the rings onto the counter. I turned to face him, my eyes snapping to his. “I don’t need you to buy anything for me. I have my own money.”
Dominic didn't move. He just leaned back against the frame of the booth, crossing his arms over a black team polo. The fabric pulled tight across his chest, and he looked down at me with a slow, devastating confidence that made the air in the space feel twice as thick.
“You didn’t seem to mind when I paid for your buy-in the other night at the beach,” he said, his voice a low, smooth vibration.
I paused, my retort dying in my throat. The memory of the sand rigs and the floodlights flashed through my mind, making my pulse jump in a way I hated. I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already nodding to the kid behind the counter.
“Keep the change,” Dominic said easily. He didn't wait for a receipt or watch the kid’s hands; he simply turned back to me, the currency already forgotten the moment it left his touch. The worker looked like he’d just been handed a gold bar, stuttering out a thank you.
I scoffed, looking at the rings and then back at the person who seemed to own the very air I was breathing. “I only did that because you were being stubborn like usual. I was just making you pay the tax for having to listen to you.”
Dominic didn't bristle. Instead, his mouth curved into a look that lacked its usual serrated edge. It would appear that tonight, he wasn't looking for a fight; he was looking at me like I was the only thing that wasn't scripted.
“Is that the excuse we’re using?” he asked. He stepped a fraction closer, invading my space with a closeness that was impossible to ignore. “Because if you’re that worried about the debt, you should probably know I’m a very expensive habit to keep, Shortcut. Most people can't afford the interest.”
His gaze swept over my face, dark and clinical. “You’re acting like a buy-in is a life debt. It’s boring.” He leaned in just enough that the noise surrounding us seemed to hit a wall. “What’s the real issue? Your last boyfriend too broke to handle the check, or just too small to handle you?”
The words hit like a physical weight, dropping right into the pit of my stomach. It wasn't just the arrogance of the assumption; it was the way his voice dropped an octave, turning the question into something that felt less like an insult and more like a challenge. He sounded entirely too convinced that anyonewho had come before him was just a footnote he’d already finished reading.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t give him the "fine" or the "he was okay." I just matched his stare even as the blood began to hum in my ears, a frantic, heavy rhythm that mirrored the vibration of the generators nearby. My skin felt suddenly too tight, a sharp spike of something blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the air outside.
He was a nightmare, a polished menace on legs, and currently, the only person who could make me feel like I was standing in the middle of a live circuit without a car.
“My personal life isn’t for sale,” I said, my voice clipped.
He leaned back only a beat, looking entirely too comfortable. “So that’s a ‘no’ then,” he murmured, his eyes tracking the slight tension in my lips.
