The Paddock Pact

Chapter 3: The Cold Reality

POV: Mateo

My head was completely ruined. It wasn't just a basic hangover; it felt like someone was pounding a nail directly into my temple with a heavy hammer.

I groaned, my tongue feeling as dry as paper. I tried to roll over, but I couldn't move properly. Something was blocking me—something warm and heavy right next to my chest.

I opened one eye, squinted against the bright morning light coming through the curtains, and almost choked on my own spit.

Dark blonde curls were spilled all over my pillow. My arm was wrapped around a woman's waist like a vise, pulling her right against me.

Anya. The girl from the bar.

My brain went into total panic mode. I didn't remember half of last night, but I definitely remembered her telling me I was a bad driver. And now she was in my bed?

Before I could even think, I let out a stupid, loud gasp and practically threw myself backward off the mattress.

"What the—!" I yelled, tumbling onto the carpet, taking half the bedsheet with me.

That woke her up instantly. Instead of screaming or covering herself, she just slowly sat up, pushed her hair back, and looked down at me on the floor with a super calm, unbothered expression. Like this was just another Tuesday for her.

"Good morning to you too, Mateo," she said, her voice completely flat.

"What are you doing in my room?" I blurted out, scrambling to my feet while holding the sheet over my chest like an i***t. My voice sounded raspy and weak. "Did you really think this was a good idea? Wait until I get drunk, drag me to my hotel, and hope for a payday? Is that what this is?"

Look, I knew I sounded like an asshole the second the words left my mouth. But I was hungover, terrified, and my brain instantly jumped to the worst-case scenario. Famous guy, unknown girl in bed, scandalous headlines. I was just trying to defend myself.

Anya didn't yell back or lose her temper. She just looked at me with a quiet, freezing disappointment that felt way worse than any insult.

"Stop talking," she said softly.

She stepped off the bed, smoothed down her crumpled top, and put her glasses back on.

"You couldn't even walk straight," she said in a dry, calm tone. "The bartender told me where you were staying, so I brought you here so you wouldn't sleep on the sidewalk. I stayed on top of the covers, fully clothed. And you were the one who grabbed me in your sleep."

She grabbed her bag from the chair and headed straight for the exit. Right by the door, she paused and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"I don't care about your money or your name, Mateo. And I definitely don't need anything from a guy who acts like a jerk to hide his own problems. Good luck with your race."

The door clicked shut.

I stood there in my bare feet, staring at the empty hallway. The room was dead silent.

I turned back to the bed. Her side was barely touched, and the second pillow was undisturbed. She hadn't tried to trap me or pull anything weird. She had just helped a drunk i***t walk home, and I basically called her a cheap clout-chaser.

"Great job, Mateo. Outstanding human being," I muttered to myself, dropping onto the edge of the mattress and burying my head in my hands. I felt like total garbage.

My phone started buzzing like crazy on the nightstand. I grabbed it, expecting an angry text from my trainer about missing morning cardio. Instead, I had sixteen missed calls from my manager, Carlos, and dozens of unread messages in the team chat.

I opened Twitter, and the very first trending post made my stomach drop right to the floor.

It was a shaky video taken by someone outside the Majestic last night. The caption read: “Mateo Alvarez spotted arriving at his hotel at 1 AM with a mystery blonde after his breakup.”

I hit play with a trembling thumb.

In the clip, I looked completely hammered. I was hanging onto Anya like a heavy backpack, my arm thrown over her shoulders, my face buried in her neck while she struggled to drag me through the side entrance.

The video was shot from across the street at night, so her face wasn't completely clear, but her glasses and dark blonde hair were obvious enough.

Without context, it didn't look like a stranger helping a drunk guy. It looked like a very hot, very intimate night out right before the biggest race weekend of my season.

I scrolled down to the comments, and my mouth went bone-dry. People were already cropping her photos, trying to figure out who she was, and turning it into a massive pre-race scandal.

“Who is she? Tag her!”

“Mateo’s breaking curfew again. Is he throwin’ the race?”

Before I could even exit the app, my phone screen flashed with an incoming call from my manager. At 6 AM.