RIVALS | MxM MPreg

Chapter 11: Part 2

For a moment, Landon eyed the spectators seated in the grandstands before his attention wandered onto the designated areas within the infield that housed the wealthy guests. He smiled bright and toothy and waved to the grandstand, ignoring the designated areas. The scene of cheering crowds and flashing cameras directed at him brought forth a joy inside of him—a feeling, an adrenaline rush of something he couldn't quite explain. Despite everything, happiness surged through him.

"Mr. McCoy?" When a member of his crew tapped him on his shoulder, Landon's attention swayed. "We gotta go, Sir."

He nodded, then waved one more time at the crowd before following his crewmen, taking powerful strides over to his car on the grid.

It was already 2:15 pm, and in fifteen minutes the race would commence. Thanks to Jackson's victory at qualifications, Landon's starting lineup at Daytona was thirty-ninth, second to last. Never in his career had he been nearly dead last, and if it weren't for Jackson, none of this would've happened. He couldn't resent the young man despite Jackson's obnoxious behavior though. This was part of the sport; he knew better.

Suddenly, when the commentators' words over the speakerphone reached Landon's ears, he nearly stopped in his tracks as shame coiled his stomach:

"Alpha Jackson Blaze has been the talk of the town this week, folks! His qualifying performance was nothing short of spectacular. This is the rookie's first Daytona and he's already in the first-place lineup—talk about being a born champion!"

"Let's not count out the seasoned veterans just yet, Darrell. Alpha Landon McCoy, starting near the back of the pack, has a history of pulling off surprises."

"But can he keep it, Jeff? If McCoy doesn't perform well today, chances are his career days are over! I heard his sponsors are dropping him like a knife through hot butter—they're all cashing in on Blaze."

"Well, we'll just have to wait and see what plays out."

It seemed everyone thought of him as some wash-up veteran—an old timer, like how Jackson often phrased it. He would show them today that they were wrong—that he still had it in him. Yet, the second he spotted Jackson's car in the first-place lineup, his steps slowed and he couldn't help feeling a bit bitter. Jackson single-handedly stabbed a hole into his career, and now here he was, making a crazy deal with the rookie to give it back to him. Was he a loser? A failure? Landon gritted his teeth and moved on from Jackson's car, looking at the faces of watchful riders who were preparing for the race. It was then he noticed Jackson on the grid near the tenth car before the rookie turned around and started walking in his direction with two of his crewmen following behind him.

Jackson had his helmet in his hand, walking tall and proud—very cocky and pompous, though that was to be expected. From their distance, Landon noticed the younger's eyes were on him, his piercing gaze was poisonous, though his face was relaxed.

The closer they got to each other, the more Landon knitted his eyebrows, his mind grappling with a sense that something was wrong with Jackson. Each step brought more tension. He didn't know where it came from, but suddenly he found himself wanting to talk to Jackson—needing to talk to him.

Just as Jackson was about to pass by, with a thundering heart rate, Landon reached out, his fingers wrapping firmly around Jackson's wrist as their shoulder touched.

Jackson halted, and Landon leaned in and whispered in a calm tone only for the younger man's ears: "I didn't get to thank you, so thank you for—"

Like a fiery fire, Jackson snatched Landon's wrist before yanking it off. "You think I'm going to give you the race after that stunt you pulled?" he gritted with venom on his tongue. "Get ready to lose McCoy—am 'bout to fuck you up."