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cherry-leclerc · 25 days ago

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pride ☆ cl16

genre: smut, manipulation, erotic literature, egotistical reader+charles, rivals to "lovers", tennis!reader, a bit of fluff and humor, mentions of depression, mentions to suicide, mentions of alcoholism

word count: 14.1k

pride (noun) — a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, cowgirl, doggy style, fingering, fingers in mouth bc why not?

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh] !

cherry here!...thank you all for being so patient with me and for sticking around—welcome to the twisted world of prideeee mwah!

You’re both on opposite sides of the world with very little knowledge about one another when they break the news.

You and the Monegasque like to think that your guys’ reaction was quite valid.

“Fuck!”

Smashing your tennis racket against the green court, you let out a yell slithered with a deep trace of agony, feeling your vocal cords threaten you to snap with how raw and cruel the sound is. That alone makes your manager, Lisa, flinch harshly, quickly covering her ears as she squints her eyes with bewilderment. Up and down, you raise the paddle, each time crushing it harder against the concrete, pieces of plastic flying everywhere as your face burns red with fury. And for a moment there, the blond woman who’s devoted most of her life to you and your religiously famous family, begins to wonder—what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Letting go of the racket, you stomp on it this time until it’s no longer recognizable. Lisa curses beneath her breath, somehow having it mixed with a wince as she takes a steady step back before hugging her tablet against her chest as some sort of shield, just in case you decide to swing at her next. Lord knows you have it in you. Grinding your teeth, your dark eyes finally meet hers as you inch closer, enough that you can spit at her if that was really your intention. She prays it’s not.

Who got the cover?

“Fuck!”

Throwing his steering wheel worth more than life itself, Charles lets out a yell, something that catches everyone around him by surprise because he’s not usually like this. He doesn’t normally lose his temper this way, and if he ever does, it’s definitely not in front of his loyal team.

As soon as it makes its impact with the floor, it shatters into a million little pieces, making him scream until his throat hurts, foot stomping all over, making things much, much worse. Isaiah, his manager, nearly makes a run for it as soon as the Monegasque reaches for his helmet, chucking it towards the nearest wall, a loud crack following rapidly. He hears the murmurs behind the heat of his ears, he hears the way the mechanics all mumble to one another, but honestly, he doesn’t give a single fuck about any of that right now.

Who got the cover?

Right—the cover to the most prestigious magazine of all time. Generations and generations of actors, singers, models, entrepreneurs—athletes—who have fought their way against one another for it. To stand out in ways very few can.

Vogue.

Everyone has the same goal—to be the face printed onto the front page. It’s plain and simple. But to get there was the trouble.

May’s issue. That’s where you’re trying to be. And the funny thing is that you should've been chosen by now. You’ve been having your best season yet. Becoming a professional tennis player has always been a part of your destiny, since birth. It’s just the way things have played out in your favor. How exactly? Well, because your father injected his talent into your veins—he was no ten-time Grand Slam winner for no reason.

Your entire childhood has been filled with luxury all thanks to him. You saw trophies shine brighter than stars, you felt medals weigh heavier than boulders, and you savored all his accomplishments as if they were your own. And in hindsight, they sort of were.

Like it was just yesterday, you can still picture him, forming a gun with his fingers, shooting it at you with a proud smile, crinkles indicating his pure euphoria. Three fingers, aimed at you and your two older brothers—one to indicate Bennett, one to indicate Vinnie, and one to indicate you. Your mother never liked that stupid celebration of his, she never understood it, but you didn’t really care about that—it was never meant for her, so why was it to matter?

You remember the way you’d tag along to his tennis practices, to his prestigious photoshoots, and you remember how much you loved it. Time and time again, you begged him to teach you how to play, how to win. Only that was where you learned his secret to success.

“You have to view everybody else as the loser,” he’d advise with a cigarette in his mouth. You rarely saw him smoke, but when you did, he became a little bit more open and honest. He’d cover your nose with a spare towel to prevent you from inhaling too much second hand smoke and made you swear not to tattle on him, and you always promised the exact same thing: this is just between you and I. “Think of yourself as the winner. Think about winning because there is no other option. Do you want to be pitied?”

“No,” you’d respond firmly. “I want to be just like you.”

He’d laugh, always that same laugh. The one that sounded like it was fading into the clouds, but at the same time, more alive than ever. Your eyes would twinkle, indicating your admiration towards him like no other.

“There’s only one me, sweetheart.” A sly smile. “But there’s only one of you.” Blowing a gray puff of smoke into your face, you’d giggle, digging it deeper into the clean rag. “And I think that’s worth more.”

He died a few years later. Your mother blamed it on the drugs, your brothers blamed on the fame, but you blamed it on the heartbreak of being left to die in the dust as soon as new blood entered the game. Whatever it was, it ruined what was left of your family.

Only recently, you’ve been going through a rough patch yourself. You can’t put a finger on the last time you won a match, one that boosted your ego the same way it boosted your paycheck. The thrill was dying and apparently so was your talent. So, yeah, you need the Vogue cover.

You needed validation.

“You’re s-still under consideration, Charles,” Isaiah stutters, tucking his chin in order to avoid his strict gaze. “You just need to stand out, that’s all.”

He knows what Isaiah means by that—he needs to win again in order to gain their attention.

Quite frankly, the Ferrari driver never really cared for things like this. He never understood what the fight was for, it was never a part of his agenda. Until this year. When Lewis first joined the team, the Monegasque was quick to be waterboarded with all of his accomplishments—his championships, his race wins, his pole positions, his podiums. Everything about him screamed utter perfection.

And regularly, he wouldn’t let that get to him. This was his friend, he should be proud of that, but all of the comparisons are what wore him down eventually, one sucker punch at a time. Then, the opportunity to be the face of Vogue’s May issue came up.

“Wow.” Lewis whistled, brown orbs trained onto the screen where Zhou took his Ferrari on a test run. He smiled, dimples forming. “That’s a pretty big deal, innit?”

Was it? To be fair, the green eyed driver couldn’t tell, but the way the Brit said it made him think, yeah—it was a massive deal. Charles chuckled, arms crossed with his excitement building up higher than any skyscraper planted on Earth. “It’d be kinda cool to get it, I suppose.”

“Cool?” Lewis teased light heartedly. “It’ll set you for life, man, that’s what it’ll do for ya.”

And he couldn’t help but ask, he couldn’t help but feel confused. The Monegasque titled his head, thick brows knitting together. “Set me for life, how?”

Just then, Zhou pulled back into the garage, gaining Lewis’ attention, and he’s about to walk away, but before he had the chance to, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I’d put a heavy layer of respect onto your last name, that’s for sure.”

And he was right. Getting the cover of Vogue would make everyone take him seriously. He’d no longer be the one hiding in Lewis’s shadow, he'd no longer be the scapegoat or Ferrari's dry spell—he’d be the one.

He needed it.

“You’re up against Charles Leclerc,” Lisa said all at once, waiting for you to throw another tantrum. But it never comes. Instead, you ask—

Who’s that?

Isaiah freezes. “How do you not know who she is?”

Charles sighs. “I don’t have time for this, just tell me, will you?”

The black haired man shakes his head, swiping a finger along his tablet for a split second before flipping his screen towards him. There, with the brightest screen ever, the Monegasque squints, reading your name, followed by a last name that comes off far more familiar than he’d like to admit.

“Wait a second—she’s the daughter of that one tennis player? You know, the one who won eight Grand Sla—”

“Ten,” Isaiah corrects him like a little know-it-all before deflating beneath the harsh glare. “But yes. That would be her. She’s had a spectacular year. Well, up until—”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “How do you not know who Charles Lecelrc is?”

“Leclerc,” you repeat, furrowing your neat brows. “Leclerc, Lerclerc, Lecelerc…huh?” And then it hits you harder than a tide. You snap your fingers loudly. “Hold on! He’s the son of that one driver so long ago, uh, what’s his name? Ju…Ju…”

“Jules Bianchi?” Lisa offers, making you nod fiercely. She laughs. “Only that’s not his son, he’s his godfather. His father was Hervé Leclerc. He passed away a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Yeah. My father used to be friends with his, I think.”

Charles rubs his eyes. “My father used to be friends with hers. I remember now.”

Isaiah grins, as if his realization might mean something to him. It doesn’t. “She’s been having a bit of bad luck on court, but she’s one of the highest grossing tennis players of all time.”

“So what?” Charles shoots back. “I’m one of the highest grossing drivers of all time, aren’t I? Are they seriously pitting me against a nobody?”

“—he looks like such a snob,” you declare, grabbing a small towel from your duffel bag, patting yourself dry, no longer interested in practicing, though you could really use it. “Like he assumes everything is for him. It’s obnoxious.”

“—she looks like a petty little princess,” Charles announces, slipping his gloves off as he reaches for his water bottle, chugging down most of it in less than a second. Pulling away from his straw, he rolls his eyes. “It's like she thinks everything will fall into the palm of her hand. It’s obnoxious.”

Lisa bites her tongue.

Isaiah bites his tongue.

Sitting down on a wooden bench, the one your father and yourself would rest on most Sunday’s growing up, judging the way your brothers would attempt to play tennis, never really as good as you two, you hum, waving her off. “Doesn’t matter—they’re going to pick me over him, anyways.”

“There’s no way they’re going to choose her over me,” Charles points out, walking into his driver's room as the black haired man follows him squeamishly. “They’d have to be out of their minds in order to do that.”

Lisa makes a face. “Here’s the thing, honey…”

Isaiah lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, so here’s the thing…”

They want you guys to fight for it.

“Fight for it?” Charles echoes, scoffing sourly. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Fight for it?” you ask, face pinched up. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Isaiah shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his tablet, the sound itself making the Monegasque clench his jaw. It was quickly starting to irritate him. “Make the best athlete win.”

Lisa smiles, trying to encourage you. “Make the best athlete win.”

A loud cackle rolls off the tip of your tongue, making her question your sanity. “Give me a break! Formula One drivers are not athletes.”

“Tennis players aren’t even athletes!” he pipes up, laughing at the thought of you and him being placed on the same level. “If anything, that takes her out of the equation, they should just give me the issue.”

“It belongs to me,” you declare, your voice breaking with how disturbed you were at the fact that you had to go through any of this. “I should be on the cover of Vogue, not him.”

Lisa licks her red lips. “And you will be, don’t worry. We just have to beat them to it. Shouldn’t be too hard, you’re a prodigy at what you do, everybody loves you—they’ll see that.”

“You’re the best at what you do, Charles,” Isaiah reassures his client. “We just have to jog their memories up a bit. After, they’ll have no other choice than to pick you, you’ll see.”

You don’t know why you ever doubted yourself.

He doesn’t know why he ever doubted himself.

You’re one of the best athletes of all time.

He’s one of the best athletes of all time.

You’ve got it locked down.

He’s got it locked down.

You smile, nodding with a mischievous look in your eyes. “You’re right…”

“You’re right…” Charles whispers, nodding with a roguish smile.

It’s obviously going to be me.

You’re in Monaco.

You’re here for a match he doesn’t quite care about, but he finds himself attending anyway. He wants to see what he’s up against, if you will.

Smack!

Piercing green eyes struggle to keep up with your figure as you glide from side to side with such ease, following the neon ball, rapidly firing it back to your opponent with a certain determination in your eyes. The kind he's never seen before, the kind that doesn’t let the other player respond on time.

The kind that makes you win.

Bowing gently, you wave towards the massive crowd of people that celebrate you, chest rising hard and fast as you soak in this much needed victory. This is what sports were all about. This is what you knew like the back of your hand. This is what you’ve come to memorize.

This is what you were made for.

He pays close attention to the way you talk, how soft your voice comes across besides the fact that you look tough enough to snap back if necessary. He pays close attention in the way your eyes glint with excitement. He pays close attention in the way you wink at the camera, signing it with a white marker nicely before doing a quick finger gun, shooting sheepishly, and making your way off the court, leaving everyone to lose their minds at the infamous move your father was once known for.

As soon as you disappear, the Monegasque is fast to rise to his feet, following after you. And no one asks questions, no one wonders where he’s headed. That way—he reaches you in a second.

“I’m a huge fan!” he shouts, watching as you come to a halt. “Can I get a signature?”

Spinning back to face him, he’s instantly hit with a whiff of florals, which is weird because you’re practically drenched in sweat. Only, you don’t look half as gross as the other girl—you appeared to be absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. Radiant.

“Do I know you?” you ask, pink lips forming into a suspicious smile, slightly startled by his presence, he can tell.

The brunette grins, extending his arm out towards you. “I’d say so.” Linking your small hand into his, you giggle, somewhat dreamy eyed over his broad stature. “I’m Charles Leclerc.”

In less than a second, your face drops, suddenly scratched with hatred. Ripping your hand back, you pull it to your side, wiping it down against your skirt for good measure. “No wonder you looked so…familiar.” A beat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You use that word quite lightly, enough for him to know that you don’t mean it. By now, you’ve crossed your arms, bumping your hip out as you look up at him with a sense of boredom. He didn’t even want to be here, but of course, the fact that he was is what stroke your ego sickeningly well. He shrugs, tilting his head smugly. “Came to see you play. You were flawless out there.”

“You don’t mean that.” A click. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason why?”

And he doesn’t hesitate even by a bit.

“I want you to turn down the Vogue cover.”

Silence, then: “Sure.”

He blinks. “What?” You nod, continuing your march back to your dressing room, hearing the way he follows you like an abandoned stray. You bite back all kinds of snarky comments before he speaks up again. “Why are you making this so easy for me?”

Opening the door, you jut your head to the side, catching his confused expression. He hadn't expected this when he first showed up. He didn’t expect this when he first spoke to you. He simply didn’t expect this at all. A slow smile slowly starts to spread across your lips as you play with the golden knob. “I never stood a chance. You’re Charles Leclerc—it was bound to be you.”

He feels himself start to feel bad for pushing you to this. Pity. It’s not something he’s completely accustomed to, but you’ve brought it out of him it seems like, and now he’s left perplexed. “Wow. That’s, uh, really kind of you.”

“Kindness doesn’t always make you successful in life,” you note, stepping inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Sometimes you just have to be the bigger person and admit defeat, you know?”

“Sure,” he says. “The bigger person, yes.”

You giggle. “Yeah! And we both know that isn’t you, right?”

“Right,” he agrees before coming to the quick realization of what you’re actually saying to him. “Wait—are you calling me small?”

“Well…” Forest green nails tap against the wooden, slightly chipped frame as his blood begins to boil. And there it is again, his burning irritation. “If the shoe fits.” Flashing a dopey smile, you wave gingerly. “It was so nice to finally put a face to the man I’m going to outbeat!” you cheer before shutting the door right in his face.

Staring directly at your name that is spelled out in fancy cursive, the Monegasque hums to himself, glaring and wishing it was harsh enough to kick your door down.

Yeah. You definitely weren’t going to go down without a fight.

You extend your stay in Monaco for one reason and one reason only.

His home race.

You studied him later that night, after he chased you down like a desperate bloke. You read all the articles you were able to find on him, took notes too. He was young, he was successful, and he was a heartbreaker. It's no wonder everyone stupidly falls for him. But much like you, he was sort of stuck in a predicament—he wasn’t winning as often as he once used to.

Which is why it catches you by surprise to see him zip past the checkered flag, claiming first place as if it was something he was born to do. And maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, and maybe your opinion didn’t matter.

You hated seeing him gloat like a champion, something he clearly was not. Electricity flies through the air as he stands on top of his car, screaming with triumph as he jumps down, running towards his team who waits for him with open arms and loud chants of Italian. You don’t need to understand any of it to know that he’s made them proud.

Up on the podium, drenched in champagne that probably cost more than one’s college tuition, the Monaco native raises his trophy with pure accomplishment. You partially respect it, but you can’t help but feel your stomach twist at the sight.

You find him heading to his motorhome, shoulders high and mighty, and it takes all of you to not sucker punch him on his way there, though you heavily considered it.

“I’m a huge fan!” you call out, making him stop dead in his tracks. “Can I get a signature?”

Charles lets out a mocking laugh, facing you with his golden baby on full display, showing off without missing a beat. “If that’s what you want, then yes—I’ll give you anything you ask from me.”

You physically have to stop yourself from squirming. You wouldn’t dare stroke his ego in that way or any other. Swallowing, you regain your composure before it slips away again, and you narrow your eyes with subtle warning. “I’m not here to have you flirt with me, I’m here to have you back down.”

It takes him a second to register what you're asking him to do, but once he does, all he can do is chuckle, eyes crinkling childishly. “You’re insane.”

An eye twitch. “Then you must be too because if I recall correctly, you begged for the same thing from me a couple days ago, no?”

The Ferrari driver rolls his eyes, a certain flush painting his cheekbones. “I didn’t beg, it was a simple request.”

“Fine then, call it what you want,” you sigh. “I’m requesting the same thing as you. You have to say you’re no longer interested in accepting the cover and move on.”

Green eyes flicker with amusement, seeing you for who you really were. Not some sweet girl, no, but rather someone willing to track him down just to ask him to do her a simple favor. In your own manner, but still. A couple mechanics walk by, patting him on the shoulder as they exchange a couple words of wisdom before running off. He lets out a soft breath. “I think I get you now,” he states, making you frown. A nod. “Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, I get why you don’t want to back down first.”

“And why is that?” you challenge, raising a neat brow with curiosity to see how he might turn this around.

Charles licks his pink lips, leaving them moist and wet. “You’re used to getting your way in life, so the one time it doesn’t work out, then you’re desperate enough to ask for your opponent to give up and let you have it.”

Your stomach churns with his accuracy. “Aren’t I in the same position to say the same thing about you?”

Slapped with the precision of playing the same game as you, the Monegasque rolls his jaw, mixing it with a dark smile. His grip tightens around his trophy, knuckles turning as white as paper as he tries his best to remind himself that you’re a girl—a pretty one, too—and that he can’t take out his anger on you in ways he wishes he could.

“Alright then, yeah,” he agrees. “We’re the same, you and I. It’s a shame we’re not friends the same way our father’s once were.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Shame.”

A moment lingers.

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue so bad, anyways?”

You flinch. “I don’t know—why do you?”

He flinches. Then, he fixes himself, seeming to be the same Charles as before. Fun and easygoing. Yeah right. “Come out and have dinner with me, won’t you?”

You can’t help the blush creeping up because despite the fact that you hate his guts right about now, you’re able to admit to yourself that Charles fucking Leclerc is strikingly beautiful. You hum, biting down on your bottom lip subconsciously before shaking your head adamantly, as if that will be enough to hold you back. “I already told you, I’m not here to have you flirt with me.”

“And I’m not flirting,” he shoots back, pushing you into a pool of embarrassment. “I’m simply inviting you out for dinner.”

I have a proposition for you.

You scoff playfully. “A proposition?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “I promise you that I’ll make it worthwhile, you’ll see.” When you fail to make up your mind, he sets the golden cup down onto the floor and walks closer to you, making you freeze almost as natural instinct. Leaning down, he comes close to your face, grinning teasingly. “Unless you’re too scared to find out what it is…”

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are,” you whisper, staring intently into his colorful eyes. Being this close lets you see that they aren’t just green, but they also have a thousand other colors mixed in them. In any other scenario, you would have let yourself be a fool, but in this one, you push back the need to memorize them in all their glory. “And I am not scared—I’m just not interested in wasting my time on you.”

“Oh, no—you wouldn’t be wasting it on me,” he points out, extending back up to his full height, looking down at you, heat shooting through his body, one that he’s quite familiar with. He makes a face. “You’d be wasting it on us. Isn’t that intriguing?”

And fuck it, it was.

Which is how you find yourself cooped up in his Monaco flat because according to you, you’d rather die a slow and painful death than be seen out in public with him. God forbid people think you two got along, or worse, were dating. A complete nightmare is what that would be.

Filling up your glass with red wine, the brunette finds a spot right besides you, making note of the way you’re able to maintain eye contact for so long. And honestly, he was filled with awe because of it.

“You father was my favorite tennis player, you know?”

Any mention of the first man you once loved is enough to soften you up a bit. Your shoulders let loose, your smile becomes a bit more sincere, and you’re suddenly not that cold and strict. “He was?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening up because it was true. “His post celebration was my favorite thing to do growing up.” Doing a sloppy gun with his fingers, he clicks his tongue smoothly. “My mum wasn’t a big fan, though. When I did it, at least. Said it was too violent for a little kid to learn and do. A bad example?”

“I suppose she’s right,” you laugh. “My mother hated it, as well. Tried to get my father to come up with something else countless times, but his heart…” You look down onto your lap. “His heart was set on it for us.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean by that because he knows what your father’s celebration already meant. It was aimed at you and your brothers—not as an act of violence, but rather out of love. Very few understood that, and once he heard him explaining to his father in one of their hangouts at his house growing up, he understood it too.

With splotchy cheeks, your eyes connect back with his, letting out a dry chuckle. “Anyhow—what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Looks like the subject wasn’t something you wanted to touch up on too much, so he followed your change of topic. “I want us to take a business-trip together.”

A beat. “A business-trip? Just you? And me? Alone?” He nods boyishly, grinning as if nothing and you can’t help the mocking giggle that slides up your throat. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Oh my God—you seriously think I would accept, just like that?”

He was hoping you would, and he was feeling pretty confident about it too, up until now. Charles sets his glass down, sighing tiredly because apparently he was dealing with an immature girl who seems to be the only female in this world who wouldn’t jump at the chance he’s given her.

“And what for, too, man?” you question, still laughing, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. “If you would be so kind enough to explain, of course—”

“Shut up and maybe I will,” he ricochets back, making you raise a brow with his snappy response. A pause. “I want us to come to an agreement by ourselves.”

“What does taking a so-called ‘business-trip’ have to do with anything?”

“It would allow us to get to know each other, for starters,” he points out. “Not just by what we think we know about one another, but rather the truth.”

“I don’t think the rumors are that far off about you,” you joke, making him roll his eyes at the fact that you don’t seem to be taking this as seriously as him. You purse your lips, a wobbly smile threatening to slip. “Sorry, continue.”

“We could work on our communication skills,” he adds. “That way—”

“Are you trying to fuck me?”

He sighs. “—you don’t jump to any conclusions. Much like now.”

You shrug.

“I can learn how to understand you from your perspective, you can learn how to understand me from mine.”

“As if that would ever happen,” you mumble stubbornly against the rim of your glass, silently sipping on the alcoholic beverage as the Monegasque edges closer to snapping due to your many disruptions.

“And lastly, we can come up with a mutual decision on who deserves to have the Vogue cover.”

“You’re telling me you have faith in this plan of yours?” you ask.

“I do.”

“And you’re telling me that you and I can come to an agreement without ripping out each other's throats?”

“I think we can.”

Your safest bet is to debrief with Lisa. She can tell you what to do, how to do it, and beat him at his own game, once and for all. But something deep inside tells you that you can have the best spin off of your entire life if you really thought this through.

You can have him fall in love with you.

Yes. You can do that. You can play it up real nice, and you can have him falling faster than he’s ever known. Then, once you have him, you would gently—ever so fucking gently—have him give you what you want without him even realizing because he’ll be too busy thinking that if anyone deserves it, then it’s probably going to be the girl that he adores.

Green eyes watch as you weigh your options and that gives him enough space to come up with a plan of his own because his idea didn’t blossom from nowhere—no. It was meant to benefit him.

He was going to have you fall in love with him.

You won’t see what hit you until it’s too late, and by then, you would’ve already handed him the one and only thing he's been chasing after. That stupid cover. You’d think it was your idea, perhaps, but you wouldn’t care too much about it because you love him and you’d want him to have it, not you.

“All in?” he asks, extending his hand out for a shake to make things official.

You nod, fitting your delicate hand into his. “All in.”

And like Lisa and Isaiah once said.

Make the best athlete win.

You two settle on having this ‘business-trip’ up in Switzerland. You’re in between seasons, he’s in between seasons—it just works. Plus, you’ve never been there.

The breeze is cool against your skin upon arrival, enough for you to grow goosebumps. He smiles because eating outside was your idea. Rubbing your arms up and down to try and gain some warmth, you chew slowly on your grilled salmon. “I’m glad we chose this place. It’s always been a dream of mine to visit.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“I come here all the time.”

You drop your stare, frowning theatrically. “Do you have to try and one up me every time?”

Charles laughs, dropping his fork against the porcelain plate, causing a loud clink to ring through the air. “I wasn’t trying to, my bad.” Biting down on your giggle threatening to fly out, you look away, your side profile on full display. The gentle wind that kisses you makes his heartbeat quicken. Just a tad bit. He forces a cough, regaining your attention once again. “I want you to teach me how to play tennis.”

Amusement strikes your soft features. “Are you being serious?”

“Completely.” A beat. “And I’ll teach you how to drive a Formula One car. Sort of.”

This time you let out a snort, finding his words genuinely appalling because there’s no way any of that can happen without an argument taking place. “Why would we do any of that?”

The brunette rolls his eyes, resting his arms against the table. Like this, you’re able to admire his muscles that pulse like the feeling between your legs. Oh God, no, not him, anyone but him. Swallowing, you raise a brow, feigning indifference.

“We’re here to learn about one another, right? See who deserves the chance to be on Vogue—in order to understand you as an athlete and vise-versa, we need to be in each other's shoes.” He sighs dreamily. “Show me the struggle or whatnot.”

“Or whatnot?” you tease.

“Well…yeah,” he says, orbs still trained onto you. A certain flush paints your cheeks now that the temperature has dropped. “I just don’t think tennis is that hard, is all.”

Almost in a reflex, you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes with darkness. “Oh, and driving a car is?”

“Actually, yeah, I do think driving a car for a living at a fast velocity is much more difficult than chasing after a neon green ball like some Golden Retriever.”

The absolute nerve that this guy has.

Hitting him with a dirty glare, you scoff. “Please! All you do is go around in circles like some manchild who doesn't know the difference between left and right!”

“That happened one time!” he argues, recalling the mishap he had back at the airport. You snicker, sliding your legs up, sitting criss-crossed as he leans back against his chair in return. Sighing tiredly, his shoulders sag, a large hand coming up to rub his temples. “Just…trust me, m’kay?”

You don’t—not fully—but if you wanted him to like you, you needed to suck it up and go with it. Play along to the best if your ability and not be so snappy.

Forcing a smile, you nod sweetly, surprise clearly locked in his eyes.

“Sure—I trust you, Charlie.”

That fucking nickname came out of fucking nowhere.

And it’s fucked with him all fucking night and now he can’t fucking think straight anymore because the only fucking thing living in his fucking head is you and your fucking voice that sounds like fucking honey and he bets that if you said it one more fucking time then maybe he’d fucking risk whats left of his dignity and for God’s sake what the fuck was he thinking asking you to do this and better yet why the fuck were you wearing the smallest and tightest tennis dress he has ever fucking seen in his fucking entire life and why was he fucki—

“Ready?” you ask, hitting the ball in his direction as he snaps out of this trance you suddenly have him in, pushing away the spiral you’ve caused.

Gulp. “R-ready.” Great, now he’s tongue tied. Another gulp. “I’m ready.”

Turns out, it’s not as easy as he once thought it’d be. He completely missed the mark and now you’re on your forth racket because apparently breaking them was a silly little thing you do when things didn’t go your way.

“I’m usually an avid instructor, what the fuck are you on, man, are you fucking joking?”

Bright red crosses the bridge of his nose as he wipes away a drop of sweat. He winces, squinting hard due to the burning sun, but also, your killer glare that is harsh enough to make a grown man cry if he really thought about it for too long. “I-I’m sorry, let me try again. I promise I’ll get it right this time.”

Without saying anything, you strut to the opposite side of the court, looking over your shoulder to warn him like—don’t screw this up. It’s both attractive and scary. You’re asking for something simple, something easy, and somehow, he finds the way to mess up his serve for what seems like the millionth time that day.

He can tell you want to beat him with the purple racket next. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m trying, but my forearm hurts!”

“Because you’re not holding it right!” you yelp, marching up to him once again and snatching the paddle from him harshly. “Fuck it, let’s do your thing now.”

You hate Charles Leclerc.

He’s showing off now, yeah, that’s exactly what he was doing. You gave him so much shit for not being able to excel in your world, and now he’s returning the favor.

“My neck hurts so bad,” you groan, massaging it as he lends his hand for you to grab, helping hoist you out of the car. There was a race track nearby, a lousy one kind of, but it’s enough for you to get the gist of driving a Formula One car. You were scared to step on the accelerator a tad bit too hard, you were scared when you spun into the barrel, and you were more than scared when he zoomed past you with ease. You swore you heard him laugh at you behind his helmet.

Taking in the fresh air, you sigh contently, shutting your eyes and thanking God for living to see another day. The Monegasque snickers, sharing a quick conversation with the owners who begged him for a photo and his signature before making his way back to you. “Not so easy, is it?” A beat. “Ha—and this doesn’t even come close to the real thing. That’s where you should be terrified.”

“I did just fine,” you grit, pushing your sweaty hair back. Your face is flushed, bare, and angelic. It’s nearly too much for him to take in. Switching his gaze back to the open track, he brings his arms to rest on his hips. “How do you do this for a living?”

A hum. “How do you play tennis for a living?”

“Fair,” you say, shrugging with a yawn. “Can we head back now?”

As soon as you make it past the door, you eagerly rush towards the couch, plopping down lazily as the green eyed boy sighs, reaching for a blanket from a nearby cabinet. You’re so fast asleep that you don’t seem to notice the moment he covers you up, but you do cuddle into the warmness like a maternal instinct that has suddenly kicked in.

He doesn't have much to do either because quite frankly, this thing between you and him has been enough to keep him occupied. He thinks of shit he can get done in the meantime. See, usually he’d hop into his at home stimulator, but right, that couldn’t be the case being so far away from Monaco. He could binge watch that one show Pierre had nagged him on for so long, but that doesn’t sound too appealing.

But you did.

Grabbing his computer that sits on the edge of the kitchen island, he’s quick to open up a new tab, Googling your name. Instantly, a million different articles come up, some solely focused on you, others on your family, and a lot of them about your career.

But only one in particular catches his eye.

“Holy…” Scroll. “Shit.”

Your father died before his. Charles thought it was heart failure, that’s what his mum told him it was the moment he asked why he wasn’t coming around as often anymore, but now he’s left in a puddle of doubt.

“What are you doing?” a raspy voice questions over his shoulder.

Flinching, the brunette turns back to face you, color draining from his usually lively face. His eyes flicker up towards the clock that hangs on the wall and that’s when he finally notices that it hasn’t in fact been five minutes of your deep slumber, but rather two hours. Had he really been this caught up?

“N-nothing.” He slams his screen shut. “You look much better, you really did need a quick nap, didn’t y—”

In a flash, you lean over, picking up the electronic device once again and freezing as soon as you read the same title you’ve been re-reading ever since that God forsaken journalist published it with zero respect towards you and your family.

“She doesn't know what she's talking about,” you mutter, exiting from the page before rudely throwing the computer back onto the table, making him frown because he wouldn't be too surprised if he finds a crack on it next time he opens it. “I swear to God, if I ever meet this so-called Lissie Mackintosh, I’ll curse her out so good, she won't ever want to write another article in her life ever again.”

Charles bites down on his tongue, choosing not to admit that he knows Lissie, and that she was actually a super cool girl. It's probably best that he keeps that piece of information to himself. Hesitantly, he licks his dry lips, looking up at where you remain tense. “I—”

“Do you agree with what she wrote about me?”

Honestly—he doesn't even know where his opinion stands given how you've reacted.

He swallows. “I don’t think you should care what I think.”

You don’t like his response, he can tell in the way you shift position, avoiding him now almost. You wish he had lied, you wish he had lied to you and said, you know what, no, I don’t agree with what Lissie wrote, and you do reserve the right to sue if you really wanted to.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t—he doesn’t know you like that yet.

Nodding rigidly, you murmur an lame excuse to flee, and he finds himself wishing he had said something else to make you stay.

Even if that just meant having you in silence.

Whoosh!

Letting out a yelp, your eyes grow wide, watching as the tennis ball hits the fence with a loud smack. Charles laughs. How was that? “Not bad,” you respond, grabbing another ball and hitting it back towards him with a simple smile. “That was actually really good, Charlie.”

His jaw ticks.

Cutting him off on a curb, a move he probably wouldn't have pull, but you somehow managed to make it work, he finds himself swerving to avoid crashing, and the fact that he was scared of that happening in the first place is enough to make his stomach roll because how did you manage to do that so smoothly?

How was that? you ask once you climb out of your car, excited as ever.

The Monegasque tilts his head, helmet still on. “You were…” He lifts his visor up, green eyes twinkling with amusement. “A natural—you were a fucking natural.”

You blush.

It's a hard thing to admit to yourself, but you were starting to enjoy having Charles as a companion.

And unbeknownst to you, he felt the same way.

That afternoon, during dinner, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He tried, he really did, but the more you rambled on and on about how much better you were at driving than him and at playing tennis, the more he realized that you weren’t all that bad.

“I think the choice is clear—it should be me who gets to keep the cover.”

But fuck, why couldn’t he have met you in different terms?

Sitting up straight against his chair, the brunette makes a face of disagreement. “I don’t think so, actually…” A loopy grin. “If anything, I should be the one who gets it—I think I’ve outshined you in both your own sport and mine.”

“Bull!” you yelp, fighting the urge to kick him under the table. “That's just your opinion.”

“You did the exact same thing!” he argues back, wondering if you truly knew that you were being a hypocrite of some sort. “If we both don’t agree with one another, then we haven’t made a decision, no?”

He was right.

Annoyed, you stand up, chair screeching. “Fuck you.”

The sun turns from golden to pearl white and you two haven’t spoken a word to each other ever since. You shouldn’t be mad, you shouldn’t be upset, you’re well aware, but you truly thought he’d let you have it by now. He’s been looking at you differently, you’ve caught him a couple times throughout the weeks, especially during your lessons, but you suppose he wasn’t quite there yet.

And, well, now that you know that—you’d take a different approach and be more straightforward with your intentions.

Knocking on his door, you wait impatiently, playing with your hair as a way to pass time, but really it was only three seconds. With a swing, you find yourself face to face with the Monegasque who looks like he just awoke from a late nap. You muster up a warm smile. “I wanted to apologize. About before. My outburst wasn’t…necessary,” you finish with a struggle because something tells him you don’t mean it, not completely. “I wanted to invite you out for a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

As expected, it was a yes.

Peeking an eye over to where he grabs your guys’ order with a charming smile, and a giggly barista who wishes there weren’t a drastic language barrier between them, you stifle a gag, forcing a tight grin when he returns. “Thanks,” you chirp, fluttering your lashes flirtaciously, hoping the blond girl was still looking—she was. And you don't know why that satisfies you.

Or why you felt a pang of jealousy in the first place.

“What’s your dream?” you ask after a few minutes of walking in silence. Mid-sip, he raises a dark brow. You nod gingerly. “What do you wish for in life?” A beat. “And you can’t say winning a world championship—that’s too basic.”

Charles sticks his tongue out with humor before bumping his shoulder against yours, making you laugh dreamily. Realizing how stupid you sound, you straighten out your lips, ignoring the need to pinch your arm for being so soft all of a sudden.

“To not be so prideful.”

His confession catches you off guard because of course you knew he was such a thing, but the fact that he knows it too is what blew your mind—the fact that he admits to it. Drinking carefully, you taste the rich flavor of dark roast and hum to yourself, as if still weighing in his words.

A beat. “I think being prideful isn’t always a bad thing.”

The green eyed boy shakes his head with a simple click of his tongue. His gaze lingers for a moment too long, and it should be intimidating, but it’s not. Charles rolls his jaw, gently running his hand through his hair. “What’s your wish?”

“To not be so prideful.”

This gets a laugh out of him, one that’s laced with mirth. “See—this is why we’re so alike. You and I just…get each other, you know?”

You hate that he’s spot on about it. You hate that he knows the way you think because he’s too busy thinking the same.

She’s playing me, Charles thinks to himself, realizing what game you’re taking part in because as stated before—you two are practically the same person.

You smile tightly. “I like that.” A beat. “Don’t you?”

The Monegasque forces a grin. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s hard not to get in any kind of trouble when you’re with him. Getting pulled over for going over the speed limit on your way back to the AirBnB is a harsh reminder.

And he’s honestly a bit ticked off with you, but he does a good job at hiding it. “That’s alright, I’ll pay for it.”

You sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Sharing a sweet smile, one that’s soft as jello, the brunette gingerly grabs the ticket from your grasp, sending a reassuring look. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t worry about something like this.”

Oh yeah, you think to yourself as you blink stupidly. He’s playing me. You would know—you’re doing the exact same thing.

“You’re such a dream,” you mutter, clenching your teeth with a fake smile of your own.

What are the odds?

The kiss was a total accident. It wasn’t a part of your plan. It wasn’t a part of his.

It’s been three weeks now and neither of you have given up. You flirt, he flirts back. You wear a short dress, he walks around shirtless. It’s even, it’s fair, and it’s messing with your head.

He honestly didn’t think it’d be this hard.

He’s tried his best to get you to fall for him, but every time he tries to wink smoothly, you bite your lip seductively. At times, he even thinks about just surrendering and letting you have the cover, then, he reminds himself that you’re just brainfucking him, and that instantly slaps him back into reality.

But the kiss—that came to mess with you both.

It’s early morning, and you two are yet to change, comfortably lounging in pjs. It’s a funny view, to see him in anything other than fancy linen. Instead, he stretches coolly on the couch with plaid cotton pants and a simple white tee. Meanwhile, you wear an a pair of shorts with an oversized t-shirt that once belonged to Vinnie—or was it Bennett’s?—whatever, doesnt matter.

“I bet I could I could draw a constellation with all the moles you have,” you hum, lazy feet kicked up as he flickers his gaze to where you are. In a separate couch, not too far from him, but the floral scent radiating off your body is enough to convince him that you were closer than he'd like. He thinks it’s too tempting, and it was—you were tempting him to cross the invisible line.

Charles raises a brow. “Wanna try?”

This is the game, this is what you both are into. Silently, you walk over, laying right besides him as you rest an arm gently over his firm chest and draw a finger along his face with a teasing smile. His breath hitches, realizing how much power you have over him now that he’s given it up, and how much he’s enjoying all of this. That can’t be a good sign. “From here,” you whisper, drawing shapes. “To here—it looks like a heart.”

“Yeah?”

Your stomach flips with how he’s looking at you, and suddenly, your hand feels clammy. You get the sense that you’re enjoying this more than you'd like. That can’t be a good sign. You nod. “You know, beauty marks are a portal into your past life. It’s where your loved one once kissed you.” A giggle. “Looks like you were quite lucky.”

Green eyes focus on the corner of your lips, smiling softly. “Looks like you were too.”

You blush, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “I hate mines. Doesn’t look half as good as yours.”

This gets a frown out of him, as if he’s genuinely bothered by you not liking a mole of yours. It was small, and not really there, but if you pay close attention—just like him—then you’d learn to appreciate it. “What are you talking about? It makes you look like a doll.”

A beat. A blink. “You think I look like a doll?”

Charles chuckles, sitting upright as you follow along, still astonished by how much his words meant to you. “Are you kidding? You have got to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

A surge of affection bubbles within you as you look away, biting down onto your bottom lip. Compliments—they were never something you could ever receive. It always seemed like the most difficult task, but now that you have him here, with a sincere look in his eyes, you learn that you kind of like it.

So long it comes directly from him.

His attention is stuck on you like superglue, you feel it tug you closer and closer. You try to ignore it, God knows you’ve tried to ignore it, but the more either of you try to fight it, the more it…feels right.

He didn’t know a kiss could feel like this—so hot and cold, all at once. One one side, he know he should be running from you, he knows you’re not the kind to fall in love, but the other side of him is screaming with satisfaction because he never knew you'd taste so goddamn intoxicating.

You should probably pull away, you should probably remind yourself that he’s not one to count on, but you almost can’t seem to help it. Not when his long fingers run through your hair with the need to ease your nerves or with the way he sighs contently against you whenever you move your lips at a certain angle.

This was just—

The plan.

He has you. He comes to the conclusion that he has you now.

You have him. You come to the conclusion that you have him now.

“Do you—”

“Yes,” he answers in a heartbeat. “Do you—”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Is that even a question?”

He smiles.

You don’t want to. You really don't want to share your past trauma with him.

But if you want this cover to be yours, you have to pull at his heartstrings a bit. Enough.

And it looks as if he was thinking about doing the exact same thing.

You lick your lips numbly, twiddling with your fingers. “I just want to preface that I’m not a bad person.” Charles nods, smiling reassuringly. “Okay then—ask away.”

It was his idea. To each get ten minutes to ask each other all the hard hitting questions. All the questions that would help you and him resonate with one another. It sounded easy, but it wasn't.

“Are you still close with you mum? With your brothers?”

You swallow. “Not after my fathers death, no, we’re not as close as before.”

“Have you ever cheated in any match of yours?”

You grind your teeth. “Yes.”

His eyebrows raise with surprise. “How?”

“Using hand signals.”

“Huh.” A beat. “Clever.”

“What’s your biggest fear in life?”

“Being a loser.”

“But you’ve lost many matches before,” he rebuttals.

“Sure—but I’ve never lost a Grand Slam.”

His lips quirk. “Don’t you think that that’s a possibility?”

“Only if I allow it.”

Charles laughs. “You quite a tough girl, you know that?

“I do know that,” you answer confidently. “But it’s also called having a winners-mentality. It helps eliminate the competition. It helps you overachieve.” You can tell that he's amused with the way he leans back against his chair, manspreading as if his life depended on it. “It allows you to—”

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue? Why do you deserve it?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. You knew this would happen. You knew that he would bring this up sooner or later, but you just didn't think it would bother you this much.

“If I answer truthfully…” you start, slowly and unsure. “You promise you won’t judge?”

“Promise,” he reassures you with zero hesitance.

You could lie. You could make something up that would be enough to gain his sympathy and call it a day, but this somehow felt like therapy, and you somehow felt as if he might understand. Gathering you words, you look up at him blanky. “I don’t want to be a failure.” A beat. “Like my father.”

You father? And failure? In the same sentence?

That’s just unheard of.

“Just hear me out,” you say, adjusting yourself and licking your lips in preparation to explain. “I’m sure you don’t agree with what I’ve said, but I want a Golden Slam. I want it because he never got it.”

The Golden Slam. Of course you'd go for the Golden Slam.

“He was an amazing tennis player, but he wasn’t always the best father,” you mumble, sort of wishing to take it all back, but no. You're in too deep. “I first noticed us starting to grow apart the moment my career started to pick up.”

Charles remembers that. He remembers all the headlines of your father coming face to face with his own daughter and how everyone all around the world started to place bets. First it started with millions, then it went to billions, and then it started to move on to real estate properties and businesses, and later even children. It was a fucked up world of gambling. One you had no clue you were a part of.

“I started beating him at his own game, one he dominated for years before me. And he—he didn’t like that.” Your cheeks burn up with the reminder of once being your fathers favorite, to later being someone he resented harder than anyone else in life. “He stopped talking to me, but our matches still continued. I think it had to do a lot with me.”

“How so?” Charles whispers, too afraid to make you shy away.

You shrug. “I think he wanted to win against me—even just once. But apart from that, things were never really the same.”

The green eyed boy nods rigidly. “And what does Vogue have to do with this?”

“Technically nothing,” you respond lamely, then smile menacingly. “I just want to rub it in his face, that’s all. That I’m still able to accomplish things he never could.” A short chuckle. “That’s the ideal situation for me—that’s it.”

The competition was never between you and him. Not the way he once thought it was.

It was between you and your father.

“You get where I’m coming from, don’t you, Charlie?”

His chest tightens.

You smile flirtatiously. “Athlete to athlete here, you understand what it means to win, right?”

In this moment, one he never thought he’d be a part of, he wonders that if by answering this question he’d be signing his life away to you. It nearly felt like it with the way you were looking at him right in the eye, sharp and smooth. He shivers, intimidated by you and your cold stare. “I do.”

“Great,” you whisper, leaning in to peck his lips and leaving him to accept it with a heavy sigh. What about Lissie? Your eyes darken at the mention of her name. “What about Lissie?”

His gaze flickers curiously once again. “Do you agree with what she wrote you?”

He switching up the question on you. You had once asked him if it mattered to him, and now he was doing the exact same thing to you. It was smart. You roll your eyes, separating yourself. “In a sense, yes. Maybe.”

The article was published a year after your fathers death.

To the public and your mother—he died of alcohol poisining.

To your brothers—he died because of all the dark enegry surrounding his fame.

To you—he died of heartbreak.

But in reality.

“I think it had to do a bit with everything,” you claim calmly.

Lissie Mackintosh was an up and rising journalist, one that caught the eye of many. Specifically, the world of Formula One. And there came a time where she published a single piece of article once every few weeks on her blog she was known for. Honestly, you never cared enough to learn the name. It gained attention—lots of it—so much so, that people were always anticipating for the next piece to drop, always excited to read away.

But then, she went on a long hiatus. And when she came back.

Shit hit the fan.

She had chosen to switch it up a bit and write about the world tennis. Out of all things…tennis.

She dove into your life as if it was already hers. You didn’t like that. You didn't like that what seemed to be the most interesting topic to her was your father’s death. Because that meant digging. And boy, did she find out about a lot of things.

In her now taken down article, the Brit wrote about how the possibility of your talent might have pushed your own father to pass away before getting the chance to reach his sixties. Suicide wasn’t a conspiracy before that, but after millions clicked to read, it sort of was.

It made your mother go crazy. She started blaming you because maybe you did have to do with his drinking problem, maybe you did have to do with his depression.

Maybe you did have to do with his death.

Bennett and Vinnie—well, they were always momma’s boys so there wasn’t even a second thought for them to choose her.

And that left you. Just you. Alone and pensitive.

Did you have to do with his passing?

And even you can admit to something like that in private—yes. You probably did have to do with it.

You killed his ego. You killed his winning streak. You killed his fanclub.

And honestly, you didn’t care if he killed himself by drinking his way to his grave.

But Vogue? Vogue was just the cherry on top. And you pray—pray—that when you get it…he’ll see how successful his descendant was able to become without his help.

You hope he rots in Hell for outcasting you out of pure jealousy.

“I think he just gave up on life, is all,” you wrap up right when the timer rings. “It happens, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Charles murmurs, looking you in the eye to see if you were truly as soulless as you sounded. “I suppose that could be it.”

Humming softly, you start the ten minutes up again and smile brightly over at him, making him snap out of his sticky daze. “Looks like it’s your turn, Charlie. First question…” Silence. “Did I scare you?”

Heat rises to his ears. “Wha—no. Not at all.”

You eye him suspiciously. Once. Twice. Three times. Four even. Then, you push it aside. “Alright then—have you ever cheated on a race?”

Fuck. Of course you’d return the question. He grinds his molars before smiling tightly. “I have.”

“How?”

“My mechanics made my car light enough to win, hence, allow me to drive faster.”

“How did you not get caught?”

“The FIA agent checking my car at the time was easy enough to bribe.”

“Who did the bribing?”

A beat. “I did.”

“Wow,” you whisper with a loopy grin. “I mean, wow—I didn’t think you’d have it in you when I first asked.”

“Can we move onto the next question?” he grumbles, ashamed to be identical as you.

“Yeah, yeah, no, yeah,” you say, a teasing smile slipping once before letting it fall. “Just—which race was it?”

This is what he didn't want you asking. And he could lie. He really, really could. But he doesn’t.

“Monaco.”

“Oh shit!” you exlaim, letting out a loud laugh and clapping excitedly as he withers with embarrassment. “That day! That I went to see you race—you cheated?”

Green eyes flip with danger. “I saw your coach sending you hand signals the day I went to go see you play—in Monaco,” he snaps back, making your lips part with surprise that he had even noticed. “So I wouldn't be talking if I were you.”

This gets you to shut up because yeah. The day he went to go pay you a visit was the day you cheated for your win. It seems like the universe keeps finding ways to remind you two that you're looking into a mirror when you’re looking at each other. Biting the inside of your cheek, you brush him off, thinking of your next question.

“Do you hate anyone?”

“You,” he answers, half-jokingly, half-serious. “Only when you get on my nerves, though.”

You giggle. “Which is almost always?”

Charles’ lips quirk. “Which is almost always, correct.”

Nodding, you squint your eyes, making his stomach twist like a pretzel. “Why do you deserve to be on the cover of Vogue?”

Pause. “I don’t want to be a failure. Like many people that I know.”

You encourage him with a gentle nod. “Do you mind explaining?”

His blinks feverishly. “I want to be better than my father. Better than Jules.” Your eyebrows dart up with surprise. He continues. “I love them—God, do I still love them—but they never reached their full potentials. Given, yeah, their deaths had a lot to do with that, but I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Being forgotten?” you speak up. “You’re afraid of being forgotten…just like them.”

The brunette grimaces. “Part of me thinks that I’m doing this for them, but I know that’s not the truth—I’m doing this for myself.” His jaw clenches and it’s almost as if you’ve spilled truth serum in him. “I’m selfish. I’m vain.” Connecting his gaze up to yours, his eyes soften like a child pleading for help. “But I wasn’t like this before…”

“Oh, Char—”

“And the thing is that I don’t hate it,” he says meekly, almost embarrassed to be admitting something as dumb as this. “No, I don’t, and you want to know why? Because it has helped me win. It has helped shape me. Everything else can fail on me in life, but my ego won’t. It’s the only thing I have.”

Athlete to athlete, you get what I mean, don’t you?

Plump lips part, pink and wet. And you do. You do get where he’s coming from. You understand because you’re just the same. Resting a delicate hand over his, you feel his skin, warm and calloused from gripping onto a steering wheel for a living.

“I do,” you whisper. “I get you what you mean.”

And just like that, his ten minutes are up.

And you're both left confused on who deserves May's issue more.

Because both reasons are pretty fucking good.

You’re down to the last week in Switzerland and Lisa keeps calling you and saying—

“This isn’t a good idea, how many times do I have to keep reminding you? He’s obviously going to choose himself, you’re obviously going to choose yourself. Both of you—you're just wasting each others time.”

You sigh tiredly, rubbing your eyes because she really was starting to sound like a robot. “I actually do think that we can come up with a mutual decision, him and I.”

“Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” you hear her mutter before clearing her throat. “Don’t let him sweet talk you is all I'm asking, okay? Men are deceiving.”

“Women are deceiving. It's the number one thing I learned from college," Isaiah speaks through the static. Right now, if the Monegasque were to look out the window, he’d spot you on a call, much like him, but he’d be too busy dealing with his manager to linger on about it. “I’m starting to think you like wasting your time on her.”

“What?” the brunette accuses. “That’s not true.”

“Right,” Isaiah hums suspiciously. “Whatever you say. Just don’t let her sweet talk you—that’s another thing they're good at.”

Goodbye now, Isaiah.

Bye-bye, Lisa.

Hanging up, you squint towards the wide window where Charles peeks out. “Ready?” he hollers.

“Ready,” you confirm.

It was a two-in-one kind of day. Usually, you either play a round of tennis or you race a few laps, but due to your trip coming to an expiration date, you’ve both decided to wrap it up and give your sports a farewell before going your separate ways and moving on with life.

He was going to miss it, though. Especially now that he’s so good at it.

“Fifteen-love,” he calls out, making you blink with bewilderment. For the past few weeks, he’s gone from not knowing how to play, to sort of keeping the game alive. But never—ever—has he scored a point on you. Charles snickers. “You can serve if you’d like.”

“Don’t say it like you’d be doing me a favor,” you snap, shooting daggers at him for even assuming you’d be into that. “Just hit the damn ball.”

The game continues and your anger begins to burn.

Thirty-love.

Forty-love.

Panting, you let out a scream, crashing your racket against the court. He flinches at the sound, watching as you quickly lose what’s left of your temper. “No, no, no, no, no!” you shout, raising the paddle before smashing it twice as hard. “Fuck me! No! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Relax,” he tries soothing you from a large distance. “It’s just a game.”

Freezing, you breath hard as your movements come to a pause, an eye twitching with irritation. “Relax? Are you seriously telling me to…relax?”

Charles doubles down. “I’m just saying—it’s no big deal. Losing is a part of life.”

“No,” you spit out. “Loosing is a part of your life. Of Jule’s. Of your fathers and mines, so please—don’t you dare add me into the mix.”

Here, in a tennis court that you’ve rented out for an hour or so, it dawns on him that even though you two may agree on many things in life, and though you may be more alike than if he were to have a twin—you two were never really going to get along. Not at all. Because you’d always remind him how much better you thought you were. And how could that ever work out when he thought the opposite?

The drive to the race track is laced thick with tension.Neither of you say anything up until he instructs you to your car, keeping steady eyes to where you push the helmet over your head and fix your attire. And he can tell that you're still sore about losing to him.

And you take it out on him on track.

You press on the gas angrily, with no sense of precaution of keeping you and him safe from crashing. Though, he sort of thinks that if you were to collide, then you wouldn’t care either.

What you wanted to do was beat him at his own game—and you do.

“She was faster than you by two seconds,” the man behind the counter explains, eyes trained on the data in his computer. Charles freezes, eye twitching. Say that one more time. The man sighs. “Actually, by one, but hey, that’s still pretty good for being a newbie.”

“Ha!” you cheer, rubbing it in his face. “Faster than a Formula One driver, who would’ve thought?”

Two seconds was bad, but for some reason, one was worse. Yeah, it was, because that meant he was nearly there—but you somehow managed to win.

They gift you a trophy for that. A trophy that doesn’t last long.

“Can I see that real quick?”

“Sure,” you answer, handing it to him with a simple smile.

“Thanks.” In a single movement, he throws it onto the floor, a loud crack following as you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yells out, stomping the tiny broken pieces until they practically turn into dust. “Fuck me! No, no, no, no, no!”

And despite not liking what he did, you’re not mad. You’re more so…satisfied.

Rolling your eyes as he breathes hard, not really wanting to apologize, but doing it anyways, you shake your head like a parent scolding their four year old.

“Relax, Charlie. Losing is a part of life, isn’t that so?”

Forcing a tight grin, he hums sourly, leaving you to yourself.

Back at the house, the view is particularly beautiful today. It always is, but right now? The sun shines bright, the birds chirp beautifully, and it looks like just the right time to make peace.

Let’s have dinner outside tonight, you had said the moment he awoke from his nap. You had taken one before him, hence why you were able to start up on dinner. To celebrate our last few nights together. You know you’ll miss it.

He knows he will. He knows he’ll miss having you around, even if it’s just to get him mad. He knows he’ll miss his private lessons and watching you swing with those mini skirts you like to wear. He knows he’ll miss hearing the sound of your voice, especially when you yell at him.

He’s just going to miss you.

Chewing gently, you wash down your food with a bit of sparkling soda. Peach, to be exact. You purse your lips, your free hand playing with the tall grass. From here, the mountains stand out in green and the flowers replicate a rainbow. It was gorgeous.

“Will you be biased?” He raises a brow with subtle confusion as you shrug, playing with a nearby tennis racket that had been lying around for a while now. He had been practicing his backhand a couple days ago, and it appears he left it out in open. You pretend it’s a guitar, slowly stroking your fingernails along the plastic. “Based on your decision, will you be biased?”

“I actually think I’ll be fair,” he answers truthfully. “And you know what? I think you deserve it.” You freeze, heart caught in your throat by his words. He smiles, popping a dimple. “Will you be biased?”

A beat. “I was actually thinking about being fair...” Your eyes soften. “I think you deserve it.”

“Oh.” Okay then, definitely unexpected. “So what do we do now?”

You knew about his intentions all along. You knew about his project to get you to fall in love and choose him for the Vogue cover—you just never thought it’d work.

He knew about your intentions all along. He knew about your project to get him to fall in love and choose you for the Vogue cover—he just never thought it’d work.

“I don’t know,” you admit, chewing on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering. “I have no idea.”

A moment of silence lingers upon the open blue sky, filling your mind with a race of it’s own because how is he so composed? How is he so unbothered? And how is he so goddamn handsome? It's a crime of it's own, his looks.

Your delicate fingers continue to strum up and down, avoiding his gaze because suddenly something as simple as that is intimidating to you. It takes a second for him to process that you're nervous. The strong and independent girl you've always been is long gone and that get's a sweet smile out of him.

"I wish we had met sooner," he confesses, hoping that will receive some sort of reaction out of you. Real, fake, anything at this point. He's desperate. And you do. React, that is. Gazing up at him, your round eyes soften up, young and beautiful, and he triple swears that his heart gets caught up in his throat and it's no longer his own, but rather yours. The green eyed boy nods gingerly. "Wouldn't it have been nice to have known each other since kids?" A snort. "I mean, our fathers were friends, why couldn't we have been too?"

"Because people like you and I aren't meant to get along,” you rebuttal, still playing with the racket.

"Don't do that."

You blink. "Do what?"

Charles rolls his eyes, scooting closer to you and making it hard for you to breathe. "Don't push me away."

"I-I'm not," you stutter. "I'm just telling the truth. Look at us...we consider each other a threat and we're not even a part of the same sport, it's ridiculous." A beat. "And you're trying to convince me that we could've been friends if we had met under different circumstances?" This time you have to laugh, which bothers him. "The way things are...are the way they're supposed to be."

He's looking to contradict your words. He's thinking, the wheels are spinning, and you can see it.

"No," you let out, picking up the racket and placing up towards your face as some sort of shield that might keep you from him. From making a mistake. He frowns, thick brows knit tightly together. You wince poorly. "Let's just...not, yeah?"

He doesn't answer. Nope. He simply continues to move forward until he kisses you, tennis racket still stuck between you both, making you freeze. It's an odd kiss, you both know that's true, but what he's trying to prove to you is that nothing really matters to him.

Not as much as you.

A simple peck and you're hooked.

How could either of you have fallen for this trap?

Straddling the Monegasque, you keep a desperate hand in his hair as you play with it, the other holding steadily onto his broad shoulder. “Y-you should be on the cover,” you pant against his lips as he shuts you up by squeezing your hips harshly, making you let out a whine.

“Non—it should be you,” he groans, imagination running wild when your begin to draw circles back and forth. “Fuck.”

It’s as if a wave of yearning has finally caught up to you two, leaving you with no room to act normal. Instead, he eagerly slides your panties to the side as you whimper at the sudden stretch.

It burns, and you deeply consider biting down onto his shoulder, but something in your brain tells you not to, too afraid to appear sensitive. Which you were, but he didn’t need to know that.

“God, you were made for this,” he praises when you start bouncing up and down, hair swaying from side to side. You moan softly against his ear. “So pretty—having you like this.”

“Char—” you begin, but fail to conclude your sentence when he starts sucking on your neck. It's brutal, it's barbaric, and it's making you loose your patience. Leaning back rudely, he reaches out to keep you in place, too distraught at the thought of having you leave him, even for a second. You don't, though.

Cradling his cheeks with both soft hands of yours, you graze his skin gently, almost as if you can't quite believe any of this was happening. It's an innocent moment, one that belongs to both of you, and suddenly you were an angel up on top of him to claim and write your name on.

Smiling to yourself, your eyes flicker back and forth, admiring his nose, his lips, his everything. He lets you do just that, too busy doing the same. Then, a lazy finger starts to play with his lips and he’s left to just accept your childlike behavior, the corner of his mouth tempting to let out a grin of his own.

“Open,” you whisper gingerly, instructions loud and clear. His green eyes darken and he raises a brow. You nod, watching as his lips slowly start to part, leaving you to hum.

Once his mouth is on full display, you poke his tongue, making his stomach churn, flinching a bit along the way. You tap his teeth, focused on how white and straight they were. They couldn’t have been veneers. Was he truly this perfect?

He observes your curiosity. He feels it too. But the weirdest part of all is that he’s not telling you to stop. It’s something interesting to him, something that’s never happened, and probably never will again.

Then, it’s a singular finger. Then two. Then three.

Then…he realizes.

It’s a loaded gun. You’ve formed a finger gun—inside of his mouth. Your eyes sparkle with something he can’t describe, but all he knows is that you like seeing him spiral with hesitancy.

“So pretty,” you mumble, keeping your hand in place and his eyes close for a second before opening up again, this time unusually lustful. “Having you like this.”

You have control. You did this to claim control. That’s why. But two can play this game.

Moving his head to the side, your fingers slip out of his mouth, making you giggle happily to know that you’ve gotten to him. But what you seize to remember is that he has you in a vulnerable position.

Pushing a digit along your sensitive clit, you squeal with pleasure. He mocks you with a big kiss, though it’s messy and not quite right. His speed quicken and you can’t help but squirm stupidly, therefore, clenching around his cock.

“Do that again, do that again.” You repeat your actions, watching his eyes shut with pleasure and his jawline tick. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”

You don’t get the chance to do it again because before you know it, he’s pushing you off and fixing you fiercely onto all fours. You cry out, already missing his warm touch that seemed to not have mattered to you a few weeks ago, but now appeared to be the lost important thing.

Thrusting in rapidly, the brunette grunts when your arms give out, ass up in the air for him to keep his gaze stuck on. He chuckles, somehow enjoying your lack of words as you babble on and on about God knows what.

“Repeat after me—I deserve to be on the cover of Vogue.”

“It should be y-you,” you stammer. “Not me.”

“That’s sweet, baby, but it needs to be you.” Reaching your g-spot, Charles sighs when he feels it pressed against his tip. “I don’t want it anymore.”

And something clicks inside of you. Forgetting the intensity that shoots through your body, you disconnect yourself, pulling your dress back down angrily and furrowing your brows with accusation.

“Oh my God—you feel bad for me, don’t you?”

He blinks once before pulling his pants up. “What? No!”

“Why the change of heart, then, huh?” you question, feeling a burst of fury swirl inside of you. “You heard my sob story about my daddy issues and now you want to play the role of being some sort of savior complex, right?”

“That’s not true!”

Sharing a bitter laugh, you shake your head with disappointment, and during it, he narrows his brows sharply. “If you don’t mind me asking—why do you suddenly want me to have the cover?”

Silenece.

Charles scoffs. “Oh, fuck you. You’re doing the exact same thing! You pity me!”

“I do not,” you snap, standing up and walking back towards the direction of the lively house. “I was just trying to be nice, you asshole.”

Chasing after you with long strides, the Monegasque shares a sarcastic chuckle. “Let me tell you one thing and one thing only, alright?”

“What?” you challenge, spinning back to face him. His skin is still flushed, and his collar is still wrinkled, but he look just as handsome as before, making your stomach flip. You lift your head up. “What is it?”

The green eyed boy stiffens. “I don’t need your permission to accept something that has always belonged to me.”

“I’m sor—belonged to you?” Your face drowns with annoyance. “This was never a competition, you were never in the running, please!”

“Is that really what you think?” he rebuttals. “Do you really think that a tennis player like you has a chance against a Formula One driver like me?”

A beat.

Stick to fucking, princess. That’s all you're good for, anyways.

He feels the sting right away, and he knows he deserves it not long after.

Your lips open dryly, then close, a trace of hurt coloring your irises. “I never want to see you again.”

“Done,” he confirms, nostrils flaring as he pushes past you, entering the AirBnB without a doubt that you were insane.

Completely—and utterly—insane.

You haven’t seen him in three months, but honestly, that’s probably for the best.

Whatever happened in Switzerland feels like a fever dream by now, and none of it makes sense anymore. Did you two really think you could come to an agreement by yourselves?

Because of that, no one has been chosen for May’s issue, and time was ticking. And a result, and because the date is closing in on you, an emergency meeting has been declared.

Just you. Lisa. Isaiah.

And Charles.

Entering the spacious office, one that has about a million photos of you and your family, the Monegasque starts to wonder if your manger was secretly a super fan that just lucked out on working with you. It was extremely creepy.

“Hello you two,” Lisa welcomes with a bright smile and red lips. “What a beautiful day to have you here with us!”

“Thanks for hosting, Lisa,” Isaiah chirps happily. “Why don’t we get started?”

They both call you out on your sense of delusion. For thinking that a trip to Europe might’ve helped to make a decision amongst you two without the need of them. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Since you two couldn’t make a decision like two grown adults, looks like we’ll just have to settle with a simple round of rock, paper, scissors.”

You face drops. “That’s it? That’s your solution to all of this?”

“Yeah, man, what the fuck?” Charles yelps, sending a glare over at Isaiah who looks ready to wither away. “A child’s game is bullshit.”

Lisa narrows her beady eyes with subtle threat. “You either play, or you don’t—it’s your choice. One round.”

“What if we tie?” you murmur, orbs stuck on the Monegasque who keeps his eyes trained on you as well. “What happens then?”

“You share the cover,” Isaiah says. “It was always an option.”

“No,” Charles responds. “It’s not.” He smiles. “Let's play.”

“Fine then,” you hum, tilting your head. “Let’s play.”

One round. Just you and him.

But you want to humiliate him—one more time.

Only he had the same thought as you.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

Shoot—

“A gun?” Isaiah ponders with pure confusion, squinting and rubbing his eyes tiredly. But he’s not imagining it, in front of him, you and Charles shoot—a hand formed into a gun.

Your breath hitches because you know he’s using your father celebratory against you. He’s aware that he now knows something that you wouldn’t want anyone finding out about. Your family secrets, your history of cheating—any of it.

His breath hitches because he knows that you’re threatening him just the same. You now know something that you can hold over his head. His actual point of view over Jules and his father, his history of cheating—any of it.

It’d ruin both of your careers.

You were even, it was fair, but—

“I can’t work with him.”

“I can’t work with her.”

With that, Charles exits Lisa’s office, not sparing a single goodbye to any of you. You flinch, eyes following him as he leaves before the door even clicks shut, having you remind yourself that this really was over.

Parting your lips, you stand up, sharing a look with both managers from very different worlds of sports, before abandoning them to try and understand what just happened.

“Do you have a clue as to why she doesn’t want to do it?” Isaiah asks, attention glued on the wooden door, almost as if waiting for either of you to come back.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a hundred percent sure that she wants to—that’s just her pride talking.” Lisa angles her head over to Isaiah. “You have any clue as to why he didn’t want to go through with it?”

Isaiah shrugs. “He’s the exact same way—it’s his pride.”

Mixing pride with pride?

It never works out.

And it never will.

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