Chapter 9 The Offer From the Racer
Tasha’s POV
“I NEED a favor.”
Carlos didn’t sound like himself. That was the first thing I noticed.
Not the words. Not the fact that he was standing in front of me when I’d been very clearly trying to avoid him since earlier.
It was the too calm tone. Controlled in a way that didn’t feel sharp or irritated or ready to snap back at me.
Which, somehow, made me trust it even less.
I didn’t look up at him right away.
I kept my focus on the locker in front of me, fingers tightening slightly around the edge as I pulled it open, buying myself a second to think.
“To what do I owe the sudden politeness?” I asked, reaching inside for my bag.
He didn’t answer immediately. And that pause told me more than anything else.
I glanced at him then.
He was leaning lightly against the row of lockers, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me in a way that felt… intentional.
Like he was choosing every word before he said it. “I’m being serious,” he said.
“That’s new,” I replied, pulling my bag over my shoulder.
His jaw tightened just slightly. “There’s a situation.”
I almost laughed.
“A situation?” I echoed, turning to face him fully now. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
His eyes flicked briefly down the hallway, then back to me. Like he was checking who might be listening. Which immediately made me more suspicious.
“Walk with me,” he said.
“No.”
It came out faster than I expected.
He blinked once. “Why not?”
“Because every time I go anywhere with you, it turns into an argument.”
“That’s because you argue with me.”
“That’s because you start it.”
A beat.
Then, surprisingly, he didn’t push back. He just exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to reset himself. And that gesture was so freaking hot I almost forgot I hate him.
“Just… come on,” he said, quieter now. “Five minutes.”
I hesitated. Not because I trusted him. But because I wanted to know what this was about. And because the way he was acting? It wasn’t normal. Which meant whatever this was… it mattered.
“Fine,” I said finally. “Five minutes.”
He nodded once and pushed off the lockers, stepping ahead of me without another word.
I followed reluctantly. But we didn’t go far. Just down the hall, around a corner, into one of the smaller observation rooms that overlooked the training bay.
It was quieter there. Not silent. But removed enough that the noise below felt distant.
Carlos closed the door behind us. That should’ve been my first warning.
I turned slowly, crossing my arms. “Okay,” I said. “What’s the situation?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a second, looking at me like he was figuring out where to start.
“The rumors are getting worse,” he said after a long pause.
I blinked. “That’s your emergency?”
“It’s not just rumors,” he said. “It’s attention.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not,” he replied. “Rumors die. Attention spreads.”
I stared at him. “…You dragged me in here for that?”
“It affects both of us,” he continued, like I hadn’t spoken. “Our performance. Our reputation. The way people treat us in the program.”
I let out a breath, shaking my head slightly. “You’re overthinking it.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“You are,” I insisted. “People will get bored eventually.”
“They won’t,” he replied. “Not if we keep feeding it.”
I frowned slightly. “We’re not feeding anything.”
“You think that argument earlier didn’t make it worse?” he asked.
I hesitated. Because… okay. Maybe it did.
But still.
“That doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it,” I said.
“We do.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not letting it interfere with the season.”
There it was. Control. Of course.
I huffed out a small breath. “Then ignore it.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is for me.”
He stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Just… intentional.
“You don’t get it,” he said.
“Then explain it.”
A beat.
Then, he suddenly heaved a sigh as if what he was going to say was a very hard solution.
“We fake it,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.
I blinked, not sure of what I just heard. “…What?”
“We fake it,” he repeated. “We give them something consistent. Controlled. Something they can’t twist.”
I stared at him. Processing. Trying to figure out if I heard that right.
“You want to fake… what exactly?”
“A relationship,” he said.
He dropped it just like that. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t suggesting something completely insane.
I let out a short laugh. “You’re kidding.”
He scowled at me. “I’m not.”
I shook my head, stepping back slightly. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Listen—”
“No,” I repeated, sharper this time. “That’s not happening.”
“It makes sense.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he insisted. “If we control the narrative, everything else dies down.”
I stared at him. “You sound like this is a strategy.”
“It is.”
“That’s worse.”
He exhaled, clearly trying to keep his patience. “It protects both of us.”
“From what?” I challenged. “People talking?”
“From people interfering,” he corrected. “From Bianca escalating things. From unnecessary distractions.”
That made me pause. Just slightly. Because he wasn’t wrong about one thing.
Bianca.
She hadn’t done anything major yet. But she would. I knew that.
Still—
“That doesn’t mean I agree to something like this,” I said.
“You don’t have to agree to anything long term,” he replied quickly. “Just until things settle.”
“And you think pretending to date you is going to make things better?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m being practical.”
“You’re being controlling.”
“I’m being realistic.”
I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair as I tried to process this. “This is a bad idea.”
“It’s the best option we have.”
“We have other options.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But not this.”
Silence.
“You don’t trust me.”
It wasn’t a question.
I looked at him. “Should I?”
He didn’t answer right away. And that answer was enough.
“Exactly,” I said.
“This isn’t about trust,” he said. “It’s about results.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it effective.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Tasha—”
“No,” I repeated. “You don’t get to just decide something like this and expect me to go along with it.”
“I’m not deciding,” he said. “I’m asking.”
“That sounds like deciding.”
“It’s not.”
“Then accept my answer.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at me as if assessing the every fiber of my being.
“Set conditions,” he said suddenly.
I frowned. “What?”
“If that’s the problem, then set conditions,” he repeated. “Make it work for you.”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re actually serious.”
“Yes.”
I let out a breath, pacing a few steps before turning back to him. “Fine,” I said slowly. “You want conditions?”
“Yes.”
“No crossing lines,” I started. “No unnecessary touching. No acting outside of what’s needed in public.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
“Second,” I continued, “this ends the moment it starts affecting anything important. Training. Work. Everything.”
“Agreed.”
“Third,” I added, watching him carefully, “you don’t get to control how I act outside of this. Who I talk to. Where I go.”
Something flickered in his expression. Quick but gone.
“Agreed,” he said.
“And this is temporary,” I said. “Strictly temporary.”
“Of course.”
I heaved a breath. “Okay. That’s it.”
Carlos straightened slightly. Not visibly relieved. But something in his posture changed.
“Good,” he said.
I crossed my arms again, grounding myself. “This is fake,” I said firmly.
Carlos stepped closer. I took a step back, chest hammering loudly.
His voice dropped just slightly, fixing his gaze on mine down to my lips. “But we'll act like it isn’t.”