
Charles had made a bet with his brother weeks ago: bring a win back from Vegas, or admit defeat in front of him. It had seemed simple at the time. Logical. Doable.
He hadn’t won. He hadn’t even come close. He had finished P4. P4. Not first, not second, not even third. Just… fourth.
The helmet slammed onto the afterparty table with a sharp thunk, a sound that drew a few curious glances from other drivers, team engineers, and hovering PR staff. Charles groaned so loudly it could have shaken the chandeliers. “I… I am a failure. A disaster. I… I suck,” he announced dramatically, flopping onto a chair as if the weight of the world were pressing on his shoulders.
Carlos, perched on the edge of the bar and clearly enjoying the show, slid a tequila across the table like a lifeline. “You’re not a disaster,” he said, voice teasing. “You’re… dramatic. And very entertaining.”
Charles picked up the glass with a sigh, as though it were a medal of honor. One drink became two. Two became three. Three became laughter as Charles gestured wildly at anyone and everyone, arguing about the unreasonably cheerful demeanor of Kimi Räikkönen and the injustice of Vegas croissants.
“Who decided these croissants were edible?” he demanded, flinging a hand in the air, nearly knocking over a champagne flute. “These are...these are insults to pastry everywhere!”

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