THE FIGHT FOR LOVE

Cameron’s POV

I lost. Again.

The roar of the engines was still ringing in my ears, my pulse pounding like a war drum. My hands shook, still locked in the death grip I’d had on the wheel. My chest was tight, my breath coming in sharp bursts as I ripped off my helmet and hurled it onto the hood of my car.

Brandon Deville won. Again.

And there he was—the golden boy of street racing, the untouchable legend.

He stood on the winner’s platform, basking in the glow of victory while people swarmed him—his team, his fans, girls who looked like they’d throw themselves at his feet if he so much as blinked in their direction.

I wanted to look away. I really did. But I couldn’t.

Brandon had everything. The skills, the fame, the sponsors throwing money at him like he was some kind of racing god. And me? I was just the guy who always came in second.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Last time I lost to him, he forced me to go to his ridiculous birthday party. A party. Like I had nothing better to do than sip overpriced champagne and pretend to care about the rich kids who thought speeding through the city made them cool. It was torture.

And now? What was he going to make me do this time?

A few of my teammates walked up, clapping me on the back like I was some stray dog that needed comforting.

“Hey, man, you almost had him.”

Almost. That damn word again.

Almost wasn’t a win. Almost wasn’t a trophy. Almost was just another way of saying you failed. And the only thing people remembered was the guy who crossed the finish line first.

And that wasn’t me.

I shook them off, exhaling sharply. “Almost doesn’t mean anything.”

“Dude, you were right there,” another teammate chimed in. “Like, a split second behind him.”

Yeah. Like that made it any better. Like that made losing to Brandon freaking Deville again any easier to swallow.

“C’mon, let’s hit the bar,” someone suggested. “Cool off. Next race, you’ll get him.”

I scoffed. “Yeah. Sure.”

Next race. Right. Like I hadn’t been hearing that for months now. Like I didn’t already know how this story ended.

It was always next time. Next race, next round, next chance. But no matter how much I pushed, no matter how much I trained, the ending never changed.

Brandon won. I lost.

I wasn’t interested in drowning my frustration in cheap beer. I didn’t need a distraction. I needed an answer.

And there was only one person who had it.

Instead of following my team to the bar, I shoved past them and headed straight for Brandon.

He was still in his racing suit, his hair slightly damp with sweat but somehow looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a magazine. He turned toward me, like he knew I was coming.

I stopped in front of him, crossing my arms.

“Alright, Deville,” I said, my voice tight. “What’s it gonna be this time? How are you gonna humiliate me?”

Brandon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

He should’ve been smirking. He should’ve been gloating, rubbing his win in my face. But no—he just stood there, calm and composed, like he was waiting for me to say something first.

Up close, I could see why everyone was so drawn to him. His light blonde hair looked annoyingly perfect under the track lights, even slightly messy from the race. His bright blue eyes, sharp and unreadable, studied me without a hint of smugness. He was tall, lean, and his racing suit made him look even more put together, like he belonged here.

He looked so ridiculously handsome, and for a split second, I felt… something.

And I hated it.

Brandon was reckless and wild on the track, but the second the race was over, he was calm. Almost gentle, like he was a damn angel. It pissed me off.

How could someone be so aggressive behind the wheel and then just stand here, acting like none of it even mattered? Like winning didn’t even phase him?

Meanwhile, I looked like a waterboarded seal—sweaty, exhausted, and absolutely wrecked.

I clenched my jaw. I wasn’t here to admire him. I was here for an answer.

Brandon sighed. “You drove well today, Cameron.” His voice was smooth, almost casual. “I just got lucky.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Lucky? Are you serious? You don’t win because of luck, Brandon. You won because you’re better. And you know it, so cut the motivational crap.”

His gaze flickered, but he didn’t deny it. He just watched me, something unreadable in his eyes.

I exhaled harshly. “Just tell me what you want, man. You gonna make me serve drinks at your next party? Wash your car? Dance around in a bikini? What’s the price this time?”

Brandon rubbed the back of his neck, looking… almost hesitant.

“I’m not asking you to do anything.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Just forget about it. Like I said, I won by luck.”

My chest tightened. No. I didn’t trust this. There was no way he was just letting this go. He always collected his prize. That was the whole point of these races.

I wasn’t going to let him toy with me.

“You know what? Fine,” I said sharply. “I’ll buy the car you drove today and give it to you. Consider that my punishment for losing.”

Brandon’s face shifted—just for a second. A flicker of something almost conflicted. Like he wanted to say something. Maybe argue. Maybe tell me I was being ridiculous.

But I wasn’t giving him the chance.

I turned on my heel and started walking away, my chest burning, my hands trembling.

Brandon’s voice stopped me. “You’re serious?”

I didn’t turn around. “Completely.”

“That’s insane.”

I kept walking. “Yeah, well, so is losing to you for the millionth time.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, like he was amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re annoying.”

I felt his eyes on me as I left. Watching. Waiting.

But I didn’t look back.

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.