Two hot Alphas bet on the biker-widow mate

Chapter Nine: Carlotta's POV

The final bell rang, and I gathered my books slowly, watching as students rushed toward the exits. My first day at college had been a disaster from start to finish - bullies, unwanted attention from Gabriel, and Paxton's condescending dismissal of my interest in racing.

Maybe tomorrow will be better, I thought, though I wasn't holding my breath.

As I walked toward the main entrance, I caught fragments of conversation from a group of students huddled near the lockers. The words "race" and "tonight" made me slow my pace and move closer.

"...going to be epic," one of them was saying, a tall guy with bleached hair. "Gabriel's been training for weeks."

"Yeah, but Paxton's got that new engine modification," replied a girl with purple streaks in her hair. "My money's on him."

"Are you kidding? Gabriel's bike is a beast," said another guy, shorter with thick glasses. "Plus, he's got that hunger, you know? Like he's got something to prove."

I hesitated for a moment, then approached them. "Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but are you talking about the race tonight?"

They all turned to look at me, their conversations stopping abruptly. The girl with purple hair raised an eyebrow. "Who's asking?"

"I'm new here," I said, trying to sound casual. "I heard Gabriel and Paxton talking about it in the cafeteria. Where is it happening?"

The tall guy laughed. "Where is it happening? Lady, this isn't some public event you can just show up to."

"I know that," I said quickly. "I was wondering... are there still chances to apply? To participate, I mean?"

The entire group burst into laughter, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"You want to participate?" the girl with purple hair asked, wiping tears from her eyes. "In the underground races?"

"It's for a friend," I lied smoothly. "Someone who's also willing to gamble on the winnings."

The shorter guy with glasses studied me more seriously. "A friend, huh? They got experience?"

"Some," I said vaguely. "So is it possible or not?"

The tall guy shrugged. "I mean, technically, yeah. There's a hidden site where people register. But you'd have to be crazy to sign up this late."

"Why?"

"Because," the purple-haired girl said, "this race isn't about fun and games. It's about Gabriel and Paxton settling their rivalry once and for all. Everyone else is just cannon fodder."

"Cannon fodder?"

"Dead weight," the glasses guy explained. "People who think they can compete but end up eating dust or worse. The real race is between those two."

We'll see about that, I thought, but kept my expression neutral.

"So where would someone find this hidden site?" I asked.

The tall guy looked at his friends, who both shrugged. "I guess it can't hurt to tell her. Her 'friend' will probably chicken out anyway."

He pulled out his phone and showed me a web address. "Memorize this. The site only opens for registration at specific times, and tonight's window closes in a few hours."

I quickly committed the URL to memory. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us yet," the purple-haired girl said with a smirk. "When your friend gets their bike totaled, remember we warned you."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, already walking away.

"Good luck!" the glasses guy called after me, though his tone suggested he thought I'd need more than luck.

The walk home felt longer than usual, my mind racing with possibilities and plans. By the time I reached Mama's small apartment, I had convinced myself that this was either the best or worst idea I'd ever had.

"Carlotta!" Mama called out as I opened the door. "How was your first day?"

"It was fine," I said, dropping my backpack by the door and looking around the small living space.

"Just fine?" she asked, emerging from the tiny kitchen with a concerned expression. "Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened," I said quickly. "It was just... a lot to take in, you know? New people, new classes."

And new enemies, and unexpected kisses, and underground racing circuits, I added silently.

"That's normal," Mama said with a relieved smile. "It takes time to adjust. Are you hungry? Mrs. Blackwood sent some leftover roast home with me."

"Maybe later," I said, scanning the room until I spotted what I was looking for. "Is that computer working?"

In the corner of the living room sat an old desktop computer that looked like it had seen better days. Mama followed my gaze and nodded.

"Yes, it's working. Mrs. Blackwood gave it to me when they upgraded their office equipment. Why?"

"I have some assignments to work on," I said, moving toward the computer. "Research and stuff."

Mama's face lit up. "Oh, that's wonderful! I'm so glad you're taking your studies seriously. I was worried that everything you went through might have affected your motivation."

If only you knew what I was really motivated to do, I thought as I powered up the old computer.

"Do you need help with anything?" Mama asked, hovering nearby.

"No, I'm good," I said, waiting for the computer to boot up. "It's just basic stuff. Nothing complicated."

"Well, I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," she said. "I'm going to start dinner."

I nodded, trying to look like a dedicated student rather than someone planning to secretly enter an illegal street race. The computer finally loaded, its fan whirring loudly as the desktop appeared.

Please let this thing have internet, I prayed as I clicked on the browser icon.

The connection was slow but functional. I could hear Mama moving around in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared our meal. I waited until I was sure she was occupied before typing in the web address the students had given me.

The page loaded slowly, revealing a sleek black interface with minimal text. At the top, in red letters, it read: "REGISTRATION CLOSES IN 47 MINUTES."

Forty-seven minutes, I thought, my heart starting to pound. That's cutting it close.

I clicked on the registration link, and a form appeared asking for basic information. Name, age, bike specifications, racing experience. I hesitated at the name field, then typed "Anonymous" in bold letters.

"Carlotta, what are you working on over there?" Mama called from the kitchen.

"Just... research for my English class," I called back, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I filled in fake information. "About local history and stuff."

"That sounds interesting," she replied. "Make sure you cite your sources properly."

"I will," I said, moving to the bike specifications section.

This was where it got tricky. I couldn't just make up motorcycle specs - anyone who knew bikes would spot fake information immediately. I thought back to the afternoons I'd spent in Papa's garage, listening to him talk about engine sizes and modifications even though he'd never let me touch anything.

Kawasaki Ninja ZX-6R, I typed, remembering the specifications of one of the bikes Papa had worked on. 636cc, modified exhaust, performance air filter.

Racing experience was easier to fake. "Three years amateur circuit racing" sounded believable without being too impressive.

The timer at the top of the page showed thirty-two minutes remaining as I moved through the rest of the form. Insurance waivers, emergency contacts, financial responsibility clauses - all standard stuff for any kind of motorsport, legal or otherwise.

"Dinner's almost ready!" Mama called.

"Just a few more minutes!" I replied, frantically filling in the final fields.

The last section asked for a brief statement about why I wanted to participate. I stared at the text box for a moment, then typed: "Looking to prove that skill matters more than reputation."

Twenty-eight minutes left.

I double-checked everything, making sure I hadn't left any obvious clues about my real identity. The registration fee was steep - more money than I had saved - but there was an option to pay at the track if you provided collateral information.

This is insane, I thought as I clicked through the final confirmation screens. I don't even have a bike.

But somehow, that felt like a problem for future Carlotta to solve. Right now, I just needed to get registered before the window closed.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Mama called, her voice closer now.

"I'm fine!" I said, clicking the final submit button just as the kitchen door opened.

"REGISTRATION CONFIRMED" flashed across the screen, followed by an address and a time: midnight, at the old industrial district near the harbor.

I quickly closed the browser and opened a document, pretending to type as Mama appeared in the doorway.

"How's the research going?" she asked.

"Really well," I said, my heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush. "I found some great sources."

"That's my smart girl," she said with a proud smile. "Dinner's ready when you are."

"I'll be right there," I said, watching as she returned to the kitchen.

I stared at the blank document on the screen, reality starting to set in. I had just registered for an illegal street race. I had no bike, no real racing experience beyond what I'd observed, and no plan for how to actually participate.

What have I done? I wondered, but underneath the fear, there was something else - excitement. For the first time since Dante's death, I was taking control of my own life, making my own choices.