Three Months Later:

Landon slumped onto the couch like he had a ton hanging over his shoulder. His eyes were glued to his phone as he watched the latest report on Sports News regarding his potential failure in the upcoming qualification race he was scheduled to take part in an hour from now. The bloody race hadn't started yet and they were already declaring his loss. He let loose a defeated sigh before tossing the phone beside him, welcoming unshed tears to cloud his vision as he recollected earlier events that led to this.

He couldn't believe it—he knew it would happen, he just couldn't believe it. He blamed Jackson; that showoff, cocky rookie who needed someone to teach him a lesson in manners!

It had been three months with five races in total, and Jackson somehow managed to win em' all. Landon couldn't wrap his head around it; he had done everything. He trained harder—spent hours on the practice track every day for the past month, he got his car modified, he finally went to get glasses and contacts for his terrible eyesight with hopes it might help with his miscalculations, only to realize it was a memory problem and not no damn eye problem. Damnit, nothing was working! Jackson was destroying him on the tracks like a hot knife on butter.

Landon despised him and he never despised anybody.

Something had also changed about the rookie ever since the after-party. He seemed to drop the nice-guy act, and would sometimes outright taunt Landon after the races whenever they came in contact—especially whenever Landon's friends were nearby. He was always stony and mean in his approach—not like how he was weird, though eager on the first day they met. It was like he had a personal vendetta for Landon. It was quite baffling considering Jackson had told him that he was Jackson's biggest inspiration. He didn't understand the kid, and quite frankly, he didn't care to.

Apart from the rookie's angry side glances, Landon had other issues he needed to address. For one, Brandon wasn't too pleased with his recent losing streak. Although the man still said nothing, Landon knew that if he messed up today's race, he was in deep waters with his sponsor. He needed to win, and he needed to win today.

"You okay there, buddy?"

Wade's sudden appearance caused Landon's heart to spike before he looked over his shoulder where his best friend stood by the door with a worrisome expression. Landon couldn't blame him, the room stunk of a distressed Alpha. The veteran sighed as he melted back into his couch. He hadn't been feeling himself lately, and Wade knew—hell, everyone knew. He was an open book around his friends, and they were worried about him, about how his racing career was taking a toll on his mental health.

"I don't know, Wade," he said when Wade sat beside him before placing a hand on his shoulder. Landon anointed his temples, wanting to rid the approaching tension as he dumped his consuming emotions onto Wade; "I think I'm losing it."

"What do you mean?"

He meant he was becoming a failure, a joke. His years were numbered in the racing industry, and he didn't know how to feel about it. At least he wouldn't retire like his friends who had long let the tracks settle down. He wasn't them—he wasn't a quitter; racing was his life. If he couldn't race, he might as well be dead.

"You see what's happening these last few months out there—I ain't getting any better."

"Is this because of that Jackson fella?" When Landon nodded, Wade sighed and leaned against the couch with his arms spread wide. "Listen, Lan... I've known you for ten years, you ain't a quitter. I know times can be tough, but you always come through. Remember that time you had a setback couple years ago?" Landon nodded again. Wade was yapping about five years ago when new racers came into the game. He had a setback then too—but nuttin' like this, and none of those racers was rookie; just those European fellas who switched circuits. "You managed to get back then, buddy."

"But this time it's different."

"It ain't different, you just gotta have new strategies."

"But what if—"

"No what if's... You can do it, Lan. I believe in you."

Landon's somber eyes met Wade's. "You really think I can do it?"

"I know you can, Buddy," Wade replied with a soft smile before he slapped Landon on the back of the shoulder to snap out of it. "Now enough of this lollygagging and get your butt up, we gotta race to do in the next hour."

Landon jerked from the stinging slap, his clouded thoughts finally clearing up. Maybe Wade was right; this wasn't like him. He was Landon McCoy, the greatest racecar driver in North America. He shouldn't let some cocky young rookie get to him—he needed to teach that shit-head a lesson about who was in charge of the game. Landon proudly stood up, his face determined and ready despite his earlier turmoil as he looked down at Wade, who still sat on the couch. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. As he zipped up his suit up to his neck, he gave a curt nod and made for the door:

"Come on Wade—we got some winning to do."

The Beta laughed, a hoarse chuckle noise as he slapped a palm on his knee. "Now you're talking—that's what I wanna hear," he replied, already on his feet to follow Landon.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

It was a Sunday morning, and although the sun blazed heavily, grave wind swept through the racecourse, and the smell of gasoline and Barbee-queue engulfed the air alongside friendly laughter. It had all the Arazona touches that Landon loved, so his depressing mood from earlier was quickly swept under the rug the second he stepped onto the pitlane.

Today there were no cheering crowds or countless rowdy photographers and sports reporters. Instead, only a handful of individuals showed up who didn't bleed Landon's ears with obnoxious questions about his recent losses every time they saw him. It might've been because today wasn't technically a race day; it was a qualification race for the upcoming Daytona 500 in the next two months. Only the top four would be qualified for the Daytona, with ten races taking place across the country today, everyone fighting for a spot.

Landon knew he would qualify, he just didn't know if he could beat Jackson. He needed to, though. If he defeated the rookie, it would put him in first place at the starting track at Daytona, however; if he came in second, he'd be way behind to make room for the ten first placers.

As the veteran stood by the tracks with eyes closed, facing the sun, a familiar scent of sandalwood and Alpha engulfed his surroundings before his eyes opened, head snapping to the side where Jackson stood with a headphone around his neck, a Monster energy drink in one hand, and his phone and a washcloth towel in another. The rookie's eyes were on him, observing him from head to toe without an ounce of shame.

"What do you want, Jackson?" he asked after he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He looked away from the rookie's heated gaze, back at the tracks where the maintenance crew was inspecting the tracks.

Jackson stepped closer into Landon's personal space; his scent more pronounced and suffocating and intoxicating. "Oh, just thought I'd see my favorite racer before... You know? I beat you," he said with a coy smile. "Did I ever tell you that you look cute with glasses, Mr. McCoy?"

Despite the sudden heat on Landon's cheeks, he rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "I ain't got time for your bullshit today, rookie," he answered. "Go somewhere else if you wanna be a menace."

From the corner of Landon's eyes, he saw Jackson visibly cringed before saying, "You're originally from Cali, why do you talk like those hillbilly freaks?"

Instantly Landon's eyes were back on him with bubbling anger. "Who said that? You ain't know nothin'. Now don't go around callin' my family them freaks, Jackson."

"Hey, speaking of my hillbilly freaks," Jackson remarked casually, lifting his drink to his lips. He seemed to not care about offending Landon—to no one's surprise. "I don't see them roaming around. Are you flying solo, McCoy?"

Landon sighed. "No. Wade's around somewhere, and Vanessa's coming later."

"Vanessa?"

The way Vanessa's name slipped from Jackson's mouth sounded a lot like disgust, and Landon didn't know how to feel about it. His lady friend was the sweetest person ever. He had also met her in Fredericksburg, and like Wade, they'd kick it off from the start. She was a great friend—always there for him to lend a shoulder, and although they had at one time hoped their friendship could've led to something else, they tested and realized a romantic relationship was not meant for them, so they opted to stay as friends.

"Uh, yeah," Landon answered shortly after. "She always comes to my races. Well, almost always."

After a moment of silence, Jackson's eyes visibly went a shade darker before deadpanning, "How wonderful."

Landon cleared his throat. He couldn't quite get rid of Jackson's bloody scent. He knew the rookie was intentionally doing it to intimidate him, he wasn't a fool. He had people tried it before, but it never worked till now. "Yeah well, I should go get ready." Before he could take a step away, Jackson stepped up—blocking him from moving. He sighed. "What now?"

"Did you hear about Randy and Liam retiring?"

Landon quirked a confused eyebrow while he stared up at Jackson in disbelief. "Randy Simmers and Liam Tylor?"

"Yup," Jackson replied, popping the p. "This isn't a sport for old men. I heard the committee is starting to urge sponsors to start getting rid of the old-timers to make way for... Younger racers. If you ask me, I think it's about time." Then his eyes bore into Landon with contained anger. "So when are you planning on retiring, old man?"

"What?"

"You heard me," Jackson pushed.

Landon's heart suddenly spiked like crazy. The mere thought of him having to retire... No! Impossible, he wouldn't allow anyone to take it away from him.

"I'm not retiring."

Jackson's jaw went tight, it was a wonder his teeth didn't shatter before he responded, "Let's see what the committee has to say about that," he said. "You keep losing every race you're in. Second place doesn't count as winning. If I remember correctly, you came in fifth last month. Got beaten by not one—but two other rookies, old man? That's not lookin' good on your record."

What was his problem?

Landon gritted his teeth and replied, "I'm not retiring. No one can make me retire, I'm Landon McCoy."

"Uh, huh." In an instant, Jackson's personality seemed to morph into this bubbly spirit—the fake persona he gave to the fans and press, and then he said, all cheerful and smiling, "Of course you're not... Well then Mr. McCoy, if you excuse me, I low-key gotta go prepare for a race I'm 'bout to win."

"Oh, o—..." Landon frowned, deep in thought. What did low-key mean? He never heard that word before. Was this a word these kids today use? Nevermind, he didn't care, he—

A shudder raced down his spine as hot air touched his cheek, accompanied by a low growl. It happened in a splitting second; however, when his eyes went for the source, Jackson had already walked past him, leaving him with a deepening frown. What just happened? A wave of cold sweat washed over the veteran as he blinked rapidly. Did... Did Jackson just sniff him?! No—no that couldn't be it. It was probably his mind playing tricks on him. After all, no Alpha would stoop to such behavior, especially not toward another Alpha they despised.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

As the qualifications ended, Landon's fingers trembled from where they gripped the steering wheel. His eyes, caked in unshed tears, stared in disbelief at Jackson's car doing the victory donut. Jackson had crossed the finish line at record speed for a rookie, earning first place along with bragging rights for years to come. It reminded Landon of himself in his younger years when he became the first rookie to win the Daytona 500. And although he came in second once again, it felt like he was getting replaced.

"Hey McCoy, you okay?" Bobby spoke through the earphones.

Immediately Landon snapped out of his dilemma and answered with a defeated, "Yeah, yeah—I'm okay."

"Good racing out there," Bobby said. "We'll try harder next time."

Landon had been trying hard for the past three months. If anything he'd gotten worse since—like how Jackson pointed out. He had lost to not one, but two other rookies.

He tugged his helmet off and replied, "Yeah, we'll try harder."

The minute Landon stepped out of his car when he arrived at the pitlane, Jackson's smug smile in his direction was the only thing he noticed despite the flock of racers, the three reporters and five photographers. Everyone's attention was mostly on Jackson, swooning over the rookie, phrasing and congratulating him for his accomplishments.

Landon sighed before walking over to shake the rookie's hand. "Congratulations," he said with a tight smile. Jackson looked at him, his face expressionless before his fingers crushed down on Landon, forcing a gasp past his lips. When a couple of reporters started addressing Ladnon, Jackson's grip loosened and the veteran pulled away:

"McCoy, this is your fifth loss this season, what's your next strategy now that Blaze is the leading racer?"

"Are you taking new steps to secure your win in the Daytona, Mr. McCoy?"

Landon smiled despite his heart racing as he stepped away from Jackson. "It's just a minor setback, people—everything is going to be alright," he said before stepping away without waiting for a reply.

No one asked any more questions; no one seemed to care. And right now, he didn't care. He felt defeated as tears clouded his eyes, threatening to spill. He felt like a failure—a pathetic loser, and when his eyes drifted to Brandon with his arms crossed by his sides, standing in the corner by the DriveEase tent, the older man seemed deeply disappointed in him—he could tell this much despite the shades hiding Brandon's eyes.

Landon sped-walk toward the entrance building reserved for only the racers, wanting to get away from everyone and everything. He thought of going straight home to take a hot shower, maybe watch TV—anything to get his thoughts at bay. He couldn't though; it was unethical for him to do so, so he decided to make his way toward the washroom stalls, the only place he would find peace to clear his spirling thoughts.

"Landon, are you alright?"

Vanessa's stern, worrisome voice caught his attention, and Landon stilled in his movements right before he could open the washroom. Was she following him? How long had she been here? Did she see him lose for the fifth time? He didn't look over his shoulder because his eyes were caked in tears. Instead, with slumped shoulders he answered, "I just need some time to think."

"You don't look so good," she insisted, suddenly behind him with her hand on his shoulder as she let loose her calming Omega scent. "Wanna talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about? I'm failing—I'm losing, I'm not good enough."

"It will get better."

"No—it won't!" The moment he yelled, he regretted it. He didn't mean to lash out, really he didn't. He just needed some time to be alone. "I'm sorry. Please just give me a minute."

Vanessa sighed before she caved, "Okay... Alright, I'll be at the tent, don't take too long okay?"

"Okay," he muttered.

He glanced over his shoulder to watch her leave. However, then he caught sight of Jackson coming up to him. Bloody hell, not again. The veteran quickly wiped his eyes before turning to look at the younger man. He was ready to leave; however:

"Are you crying, old man?" Jackson asked, his tormenting voice carrying laughter in them.

"It's none of your business," he bit out.

For some reason, this response seemed to anger Jackson, whose lips thinned into a straight line. He clenched his fists by his side so tight, they turned as white as snow—and his eyes grew agitated, perhaps wild. Landon's throat suddenly turned dry; he believed Jackson might try to hit him. It happened before with a veteran racer seven years ago. Instead, Jackson took a step closer and asked with biting poison, "What are you doing here?"

Landon arched a confused eyebrow. "What?"

"I can smell it. You and your Omega whore; what were you two doing," the rookie repeated. "Were you two making out where no one can see? Don't you have any dignity?"

That was it; Landon saw red.

Before he could stop himself, he struck the first punch that landed on Jackson's jaw.

Immediately after, the room went quiet.

Jackson's eyes doubled in disbelief for a second before regaining his composure. "You dare hit me, old man?" he hissed. "I'll teach you a fucking lesson."

Landon's eyes doubled when Jackson suddenly moved toward him—his footsteps stomping while his eyes were fiery red. At that moment, he knew he messed up big time.

He backed away, fear clouding his thoughts. He might've been an Alpha, but he was never the fighting kind, and he definitely didn't spend hours in the gym like Jackson. Before an apology could leave his mouth, the rookie's hands were on both sides of his shoulders as he shoved him against the wall with a piping force in the blink of an eye. Landon groaned at the unexpected push, a lightning ache soon shot up in his back.

"I can fucking crush you," Jackson growled near Landon's pained face. Jackson's words sounded like a threat, so the veteran shuddered from head to toe as his breath caught in his throat.

"I'll call security," he quivered, panicked when he realized he couldn't move from Jackson's pressing touch.

Jackson laughed—a burst of maniac laughter before yelling with annoyance, "Go ahead. You started it first—who do you think will end up in trouble?"

It took Landon a moment to ponder only to realize with dread that Jackson was right, he started it. If security came, he'd be in big trouble and most likely attract bad press where the committee would be forced to remove him from this season's race for assaulting a rookie. People would say his rage was a result of jealousy, he couldn't have any of that—especially not in a time like this. He found himself unmoving in Jackson's grasp.

"Alright, I won't say anything," he settled on. "Am sorry... If you can just let go, so we—"

"What if I don't want to let go?" Jackson muttered, his face suffocatingly close to Landon's.

"You can hit me back if you like," he reasoned.

When Jackson chuckled again, Landon frowned. "Don't you know I'm your biggest fan, Mr. McCoy? Why would I wanna hit you?" Jackson said in a mocking tone. And then he pressed up against Landon, the veteran's eyes doubled when he felt the bulge of the rookie's frighteningly hardened cock straining against his soft one. What the fuck? "It's understandable you only hit me because you're jealous of me—I'm better than you."

"I'm not," Landon strained, barely putting any effort to squirm away. "Why would I be jealous of you? You're just a kid—you don't know what you're talking about."

A deep-rooted rage appeared on Jackson's face as his nails sank into the veteran's shoulders before he shoved Landon harder into the wall and yelled, "I'm not a kid!"

Landon bit back a groan. Despite the hammering in his chest, he knew he needed to de-escalate the situation. The last thing he needed was for both of them to end up in prison and be disqualified from future races.

"Right, alright. You're not a kid," he muttered. "Look, maybe you going through some stuff, just let me go and we can talk if you—"

An embarrassing whimper left Landon's lips before his body went lax in Jackson's grasp. It felt as though the air got punched out of him; his tongue went numb and he didn't understand how this could happen.

He watched with growing fascination as Jackson's scent had turned feral—a strong potent of a raging Alpha. It choked him. The rookie had released his scent before to intimidate him, he couldn't breathe then, either. However, this time it came with a powerful rawness—this time he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. He felt weak to his knees, and when his delirious eyes met Jackson's, the younger man seemed unfazed. He tried to snap out of it, he was an Alpha goddamnit! Yet no matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't. How strong was this young Alpha?

He stilled when Jackson leaned into his ear and whispered, "You feel that? How strong I can be? I'm not a kid–I'm a man. Do you understand me, old timer?" Suddenly his stomach coiled in a knot. He knew his entire body was shutting down from Jackson's suffocating closeness, yet he had no answers as to why this was happening. Jackson leaned closer, his breath fanning against Landon's throat, and repeated, "Do you understand?" It was then he whimpered and unknowingly bared his throat for the other Alpha to mark.

It was the ultimate act of submission.

Bloody hell, why was he willingly doing this?!?!?! Shame colored his cheeks.

Jackson smiled, although he didn't press into Landon's neck despite the offering to do so. "Do you always bare your throat after picking a fight you can't win?" he asked near his ear, his tone taunting.

Landon gritted. "No."

"You're so small for an Alpha, are you sure you're not secretly an Omega?"

Landon frowned. He wasn't small. Shorter, yes, small, no. Jackson was just taller than average.

Jackson pressed on. "You're so weak, I can easily snap you in half."

"If you hit me, you'll get locked up."

"I already told you, I don't wanna hit you, old man," Jackson replies smoothly. "If only want you to—"

"Hey guys! We're just chilling by the pit—oh, what's happening here?"

Goddammit. It was Damon Tylor, a fellow racer.

Immediately Jackson drew back, a faint flicker of tension crossing his features before he smoothed it away. Landon, still in a haze of deliriousness, instinctively followed Jackson's lead, subtly adjusting his position to appear less conspicuous.

Despite the interruption, there was an undeniable coolness in Jackson's demeanor as he turned to face Damon. His smile was easy, almost disarming as if he hadn't just been caught amid something potentially incriminating. "We're coming," he answered coldly.

"Oh, okay," Damon said with a confused smile, his eyes going from Jackson to Landon.

When the racer didn't move to leave, Jackson rolled his eyes in annoyance before turning to look at Landon. "You okay?" he asked, surprisingly gently.

Landon nodded. "Yeah, I ain't know why—damnit. Can we forget this ever happened?" he asked, hopeful.

Jackson chuckled, amused. "Not a chance."

Landon watched as the rookie walked away, still unable to process what just happened. How could he allow his instincts to submit so easily to a youngster who despised him? It might've been the stress. He had been going through a lot lately.

When Jackson and Damon were out of sight, he glanced down and realized with dread, his cock had gotten hard—straining against his suit from the awkward encounter. "Shit," he mumbled before pushing past the washroom door next to him. "Shit, shit, shit."

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Three days later.

Bing.

Landon reached for his phone before reading the text message:

Brandon Miller: Come down by the office today. We need to talk about your retirement plans.