The storm didn't end at Spa. It followed Leo everywhere he went.
He woke to his name plastered across headlines, his photo filling the covers of sports magazines, his face replayed in endless highlight reels. The rookie who had braved the rain. The boy who had stared down the veteran. The hero who had brought the crowd to their feet.
But the spotlight was merciless. Every interview chipped away at him. The questions were never about the feel of the car, the rush of the corners, the impossible rhythm of the track. They were about Cruz, about rivalry, about whether his win had been luck or destiny.
And Cruz answered them better.
He appeared in talk shows with his flawless grin, speaking about "healthy competition" while sliding barbs between the lines. "Leo has talent, no doubt," he'd say, his tone the very picture of sportsmanship. "But this sport is about consistency. One miracle drive doesn't make a champion."
The audience would laugh, nodding along, while Leo, watching from his hotel room, clenched his fists.
Even within the team, the storm brewed. The sponsors wanted Cruz for his charisma, Leo for his momentum. The engineers whispered about who would get the newest parts, the latest updates. Every decision felt like a knife balanced on its edge.
Javier tried to shield him, but the weight pressed harder with each passing day. One night, after a long meeting filled with sponsor demands, Javier sat with Leo in the garage, slumped against the tire stacks.
"They want me to choose," Javier muttered in Spanish. "You, or Cruz. They don't say it openly, but I hear it in every meeting. One of you will be their golden boy. The other will be their shadow."
Leo stared at the floor, the smell of rubber and fuel thick in the air. "And who are you choosing?"
Javier didn't answer. His silence was worse than words.
Adrian found him later, sitting alone, headphones in but no music playing.
"You're letting him in your head," Adrian said, lowering himself onto the pit wall beside him.
Leo didn't respond.
"You think Cruz cares about you? About your soul, your feelings, your doubts? He doesn't. He'll twist every weakness until it breaks you. That's what predators do."
Leo's jaw tightened. "What if he's right? What if Spa was luck? What if I can't do it again?"
Adrian leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Luck doesn't survive Eau Rouge flat in the rain. Luck doesn't stare down Cruz in the chicane and come out ahead. You're here because you belong. But if you don't believe that, no one else will either."
For the first time in days, Leo's chest loosened. Adrian's voice wasn't soft, wasn't comforting—it was steel, hammered against his doubts until they cracked.
The next race was Italy. Monza. The temple of speed.
The grandstands shook with chants, the Italian fans a storm of flags and flares. The track was fast, merciless. Mistakes weren't forgiven here—they were punished with walls of steel.
Qualifying was chaos. Cars lined up like rockets on the straights, slipstreams giving and stealing tenths of a second. Cruz played his games, weaving into Leo's line, slowing on his warm-up lap to ruin Leo's timing. The stewards turned blind again, brushing it off as "strategy."
Leo clenched his teeth, pushed harder, and somehow found a lap good enough for third. Cruz lined up second, beside Bianchi on pole.
Race day. The sun blazed, heat shimmering off the tarmac. Engines roared, the crowd deafening. Leo sat in the cockpit, sweat trickling down his neck, pulse hammering.
The lights went out.
The field surged forward, thirty cars barreling toward Turn 1, the infamous chicane where so many races ended before they began. Leo darted left, threading between two cars, braking late. Metal screamed as cars tangled behind him, smoke rising, but he slipped through unscathed. He emerged in second, Cruz just ahead.
The chase began.
Lap after lap, slipstreams pulled him close, braking zones gave him inches. Cruz defended like a man possessed, weaving, blocking, daring Leo to risk it all. The crowd screamed every time they went side by side, wheels brushing, sparks showering.
By lap forty, the tension was unbearable. Leo was faster, he knew it, but Cruz refused to yield. Down the main straight, the roar of the engines deafening, Leo pulled alongside. Side by side into Turn 1 again.
And then it happened.
Cruz braked later than physics allowed, desperate to hold the corner. His car snapped sideways, clipping Leo's front wing. Both cars skidded, smoke billowing. For a heartbeat, Leo thought it was over, that they'd crash into the barriers at two hundred miles per hour.
But instinct saved him. He corrected, braked just enough, and the car snapped back. Cruz spun, sliding helplessly across the run-off, his race over.
The crowd erupted. The radio screamed in his ear. "Go, Leo, go! He's out! You're still in it!"
Heart pounding, arms trembling, Leo pushed on. Lap after lap, he held off Bianchi, his car wounded but alive. And when the checkered flag waved, he crossed the line first.
His second victory.
The team exploded with joy. The grandstands shook with cheers. But as Leo stood on the podium, champagne spraying, he didn't smile as wide this time. Because he had seen Cruz's face when he climbed from the wrecked car.
Not fury. Not disappointment.
Something colder.
Cruz had lost, but his eyes promised war.
The podium felt different this time.
At Spa, his heart had exploded with joy. At Monza, the feeling was sharper, edged with adrenaline and dread. The crowd below roared his name, chanting in waves, a sea of flags snapping in the wind. He sprayed champagne, the foam glistening in the Italian sun, but his eyes kept flicking to the paddock. To Cruz.
Cruz stood in the shadows, no smile, no clapping for the cameras this time. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, and when Leo raised the trophy high, Cruz didn't look up. He turned and walked away.
The celebration blurred after that. Reporters swarmed again, microphones pressed against his lips, flashbulbs blinding him.
"Leo, was that a fair fight, or did Cruz go too far?""Two wins now — are you the real team leader?""Was Cruz reckless, or just desperate?"
He wanted to answer, to shout the truth, but the words tangled in his throat. Adrian's advice echoed in his head: Don't whine. Don't complain. Beat him. So he kept it simple.
"Racing is racing. We both wanted it. I got the flag."
The reporters weren't satisfied, but the cameras devoured the line anyway, spitting it out across the world within minutes.
In the garage that night, Javier hugged him so hard he could barely breathe. The mechanics lifted him onto their shoulders, chanting his name. He smiled, laughed, let himself feel their joy. But when the noise faded and he finally sat down in the quiet, the truth settled on him.
Cruz had lost, yes. But Cruz was not broken.
He replayed the moment in his mind: the spin, the smoke, Cruz climbing from the wreck, helmet off, eyes dark and steady. No tantrum, no fury. Just a cold, calculating promise.
Adrian joined him, carrying two bottles of water. He tossed one over. Leo caught it, cracked the seal, and drank deep.
"You drove like a champion today," Adrian said. "Not just fast, not just brave. Smart. That's what wins."
Leo nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. "Cruz won't let this go."
Adrian smirked faintly. "Good. Let him stew. The more desperate he gets, the more mistakes he makes."
"He nearly ruined us both."
"That's what fear looks like." Adrian's eyes narrowed. "He's not afraid of losing to the field. He's afraid of losing to you. Remember that. Every time he lunges, every time he swerves—it's not confidence. It's terror."
Leo let the words sink in, but the unease remained. Because he knew Adrian was right, and that made it worse. Cruz wasn't giving up. Cruz was sharpening his knives.
The next morning, the headlines screamed louder than ever.
LEO DOES IT AGAIN!CRUZ SPINS, ROOKIE TAKES GLORYTEAM RIVALRY ERUPTS AS YOUNG STAR RISES
The sponsors swarmed like locusts. His phone buzzed nonstop—offers, invitations, contracts. Everyone wanted a piece of him now. The rookie underdog had become the golden story.
But not everyone was celebrating.
At the team meeting, the atmosphere was heavy. The engineers congratulated him, but their smiles were stiff. Some avoided eye contact altogether. The air crackled with unspoken tension. Cruz sat at the far end of the table, silent, staring at the data sheets in front of him.
When the meeting ended, Cruz rose slowly, chair scraping against the floor. He walked past Leo, close enough for their shoulders to brush, and whispered, so low only Leo could hear:
"You think this makes you the hero? You think they'll love you more than me? Enjoy it while it lasts. I'll burn this whole circus down before I let you take my crown."
Then he was gone, leaving the words to sink like ice into Leo's stomach.
That night, Leo couldn't sleep. The trophy gleamed on the table by the window, catching the city lights, but it brought no peace. He should have felt invincible. Two wins in a row. Momentum. Glory. Instead, he felt hunted.
He opened his laptop, watched replays of the race. Lap after lap, Cruz lunging, blocking, forcing impossible risks. The spin. The smoke. The promise in Cruz's eyes.
Leo closed the screen, his reflection staring back at him in the darkened glass.
"This isn't enough," he whispered. "I can't just win. I have to survive him."
The chapter would end not with triumph, but with a seed of dread — Leo lying awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing Cruz was out there, waiting, plotting. And with the next race looming, the storm wasn't fading. It was only beginning.