Chapter 8 Wicked Reflexes
The Bandini Team photo studio that morning smelled like sweat, hot lights, and male ego. I walked in with a tablet in my right hand and my headset hanging around my neck, the faint scent of coffee still clinging to the cup I’d left on the front desk.
Crew members buzzed around checking the lighting, the photographer shouted ISO numbers like we were at NASA, and in the middle of all that chaos—of course—stood Rafael.
He was in front of the Bandini F1 car, the gravitational center of the room. The new racing suit fit his body too well, unzipped halfway down, revealing a stretch of skin and a jawline that should honestly be banned during working hours.
Alex stood next to him, playing with his helmet, looking far more easygoing and “boy-next-door” compared to the former world champion radiating pure GQ-cover energy.
“Right light up a little more,” one of the crew said.
Rafael turned his head slightly toward the lamp and, naturally, the lighting immediately fell in love with him.
I stepped closer, checking my tablet. “Okay, camera two needs to be higher. We’re trying to capture the sponsor logo on his chest, not shoot an arthouse film about temptation.”
Yevena appeared from behind the camera with a clipboard. “I told you, camera three’s gonna faint if it stares at Rafael’s smile for too long.”
“Perfect,” I said dryly. “One less camera means more PR budget.”
Rafael turned toward me, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Good morning to you too, Alvarez.”
“I hope you had a nice breakfast of professionalism,” I replied without looking up. “We need two sets of photos. One formal, one dynamic casual. Try not to improvise too much.”
“My improv’s what the media loves,” he said easily, patting Alex’s shoulder.
Alex chuckled. “Yeah, but if you improv too far, our PR might have a heart attack.”
“Thank you, Alex,” I said. “At least one human here understands the concept of risk.”
They laughed. The crew adjusted the lights, and the shoot began. Click. Flash. Rafael shifted slightly, chin tilted, a half-smile forming. Click. Alex stared straight into the camera, cool and confident. Click. Rafael dropped his gaze, smiling again—and I swear two female assistants in the back grinned like they’d just won the lottery.
I exhaled. “Alright, enough. Now both of you together—give me ‘rivals but united.’ Not two guys fighting over a girl.”
Alex went straight into professional mode, arms crossed over his chest.
Rafael leaned slightly forward, sharp expression, shoulder brushing Alex’s.
The shot was insane. The frame looked like a poster for an expensive action movie with suspiciously homoerotic undertones.
The photographer gave a thumbs up. “Perfect!”
I typed on my tablet. “Good. Now relaxed shots, no helmets. We want something more personal.”
“Personal how?” Rafael asked, voice deliberately low.
“Personal, not sensual,” I shot back quickly.
He laughed softly, the sound deep and smooth, rippling through the room like late-night jazz. “Noted, boss.”
The next poses were lighter. They sat on tires, laughed, threw jokes back and forth. I almost forgot that the man in front of the camera once shattered my heart eight years ago.
Almost.
Until the photographer suddenly looked at me. “Vicky, can you step in for a second? We need a PR shot with both drivers for the media guide.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Just one frame, PR rep with both drivers. For the formal section.”
Before I could protest, Rafael spoke up. “Great idea. Let everyone see who’s really in charge here.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered, walking forward.
I stood between them, tablet still in hand. Rafael on my right, Alex on my left.
First flash, I looked straight at the camera.
Second flash, Rafael turned slightly toward me, that faint smile tugging at his lips.
Third flash, I shifted position, but too late—his hand brushed my wrist. Just a touch, barely there, but enough to make one assistant drop a cable and the photographer gasp, “Damn, this is gold!”
“Done,” I said quickly, stepping back. “Use the least intense one.”
Alex laughed. “If I were PR, I’d be scared to be photographed next to De Luca too. His aura alone could raise stock prices.”
Rafael glanced at me, still with that lazy smile. “You should know my effect by now, Vick.”
I looked at him flatly. “And you should know mine by now.”
My headset buzzed—next meeting waiting. I turned and walked out of the studio just as the photographer shouted, “We’re using that PR shot for the cover of the media kit!”
I closed my eyes for a second.
God, please don’t let me go viral because of my ex.
:::
Bandini Team Headquarters, 2:00 p.m.
The Monaco sky was too bright for a room full of geniuses sweating under perfectly calibrated 21-degree air conditioning. Yet here I was, standing behind the control glass with the head engineer, taking notes on the performance of two men whose egos weighed as much as a race car chassis.
Alex went first. His sim helmet fit snugly, posture straight, eyes locked on the screen. He wasn’t the showman type. He was a spreadsheet with a six-pack. Focused. Quiet. Every lap, he gave feedback like a scientist: rear grip too loose, throttle response could be sharper, a 0.02-second delay in Turn 7 that he thought could be optimized.
“He’s insane,” one of the junior mechanics muttered.
“He’s a nerd,” I said. “But the kind of nerd who can smoke half the grid.”
Alex climbed out of the simulator after forty minutes, face damp, hair messy, eyes calculating. An engineer handed him a water bottle, he nodded once, and sat down with his notebook already open.
Then came Rafael.
Of course he didn’t enter with an “I’m ready to work hard” vibe like Alex. He walked in like he owned the place, no helmet yet, just that lazy smile and a body that somehow made a black hoodie and simulator shoes look like luxury fashion.
He snapped his fingers at a tech, climbed into the simulator like it was an arcade game. A few female crew members suddenly found the cables on the floor very interesting.
“Don’t expect him to give feedback like Alex,” whispered one staffer.
“I don’t even expect him to have read the car manual,” I replied, sipping what used to be coffee.
But when the simulator lit up, something shifted.
His reflexes were perfect. Movements precise, smooth but deadly sharp. He took the racing line like he was reciting poetry. Every turn looked like instinct, like his brain was hardwired to the front tires.
“1:16.4,” the engineer announced. “That’s his first lap.”
I stepped closer to the glass, eyes on the telemetry display—throttle mapping, brake pressure, tire load. Everything was nearly textbook perfect. Except he didn’t look like someone following a textbook.
The room started to buzz. A data analyst was already plotting graphs unprompted.
Second lap. 1:16.2.
Third lap. 1:16.1.
Consistent. Ruthless. Effortless. In the most annoying way possible.
Then he looked up. Straight through the glass. Right at me. And—damn it.
He winked. Calm. Cocky. Sinful.
Two women behind me squealed. Someone dropped a clipboard.
I took a slow breath. “Please, God. Give this man one flaw. Acne. Cavities. Wi-Fi issues. Anything.”
After ten flawless laps, Rafael climbed out of the simulator, adjusted his hair, and strolled into the control room. He wiped his neck with a small towel that, for some reason, looked like it belonged in a luxury commercial.
“You watching?” he asked.
“Unfortunately,” I said, closing my tablet.
“Impressive, right?”
I tilted my head. “Like watching a self-obsessed god drive with a mouth full of ego. But yes, impressive.”
He laughed. “You have a unique way of giving compliments.”
“I’m PR. My job is to compliment you without inflating your head further.”
He took a step closer. Too close. “That’s the problem. This head’s been big for a long time.”
I looked up, resisting the urge to throw my tablet at his ridiculously symmetrical face. Before I could answer, Alex appeared beside us, pointing at the data screen.
“Your racing line’s different from the standard input. But faster. Why take the outside on Turn 10?”
Rafael shrugged. “Instinct. And... the corner reminded me of an ex’s smile. Looks sweet, always dangerous.”
Alex chuckled. “You’re insane.”
“Used to it,” Rafael said easily.
I exhaled. Enough testosterone for one afternoon.
Time to go back to my desk, edit TikTok captions, and rewrite the press release—while praying my immune system was strong enough to survive a man who drives like the devil and winks like trouble.
