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Valentino Rossi's ranch was not just a place — it was a separate universe, woven from the roar of engines, the smell of scorching asphalt, burnt grass, and youthful ambitions. The year 2015 was special: it was then that the core of the Academy was formed, and its first students instantly turned into something more than just teammates. They became a family, a chaotic and loud one, where even Valentino himself — a legend, an idol, almost a deity — felt more like an older brother than a strict mentor. He could spend hours racing with them on the track, and then argue with just as much passion about the best pizza topping. However, being Rossi's student meant not only a privilege but also a constant, invisible pressure: everyone had to prove that they were not just a talented kid, but a future champion, ready to sacrifice their entire life on the altar of speed.
That day turned out to be especially exhausting. The sun stood at its zenith, seemingly for an eternity, melting the air above the track into a shimmering haze. The summer heat was merciless. They lapped the track over and over, and no one could say how many laps they had done. Their racing suits, usually so familiar, had turned into personal torture chambers, sticking to their sweaty bodies, and their helmets seemed to weigh a ton. Their strength was running out, but their pride wouldn't let them stop. No one wanted to be the first to give up. It was already getting dark when Valentino, realizing that these lunatics were ready to run themselves to death, literally fished them off the track, grabbing them by the scruff of the neck like kittens.
"Basta! Enough for today!" his voice cut through the fading rumble of the engines. "Overloading yourself is also unprofessional. Besides, the pizza is probably already cold, and I personally am not going to eat a cold piece of cardboard instead of a real Margherita."
The magic of the word "pizza" worked flawlessly. The Academy students, barely alive from exhaustion just a moment ago, instantly flocked to the house.
At the long wooden table, lit by a soft, warm light, there was an incredible uproar. They were all teenagers, hungry and excited, so conversations were flowing simultaneously, intertwining into a cheerful cacophony. Someone was arguing about racing trajectories, someone was laughing loudly, stuffing pieces of pizza into their mouth. The center of attention quickly became Luca Marini — he had finally gotten a girlfriend. When the conversation turned in that direction, Valentino, with a barely noticeable smile, got up and left without a word, tactfully leaving the "chicks" alone to discuss their first personal dramas. And the guys, sensing freedom, attacked Luca with questions.
"So, what is she like? Is she pretty?"
"Does she even know who you are? Or are you just 'a guy on a motorcycle' to her?"
"Have you tried kissing in a helmet? They say it's awkward!"
Questions were flying from all sides, mostly silly, childishly goofy, just to get a laugh and keep the conversation going. And only Marco Bezzecchi, who was usually the life of the party, an inexhaustible source of jokes and infectious energy, sat unusually quiet. He was slowly, almost mechanically, chewing his pizza, and his normally cheerful, sparkling eyes were staring somewhere to the side, as if trying to hide. No one noticed — everyone was too caught up with Luca. And Marco felt as if he was the only one who had come to an adult party while still being a child. He was sixteen, and it seemed like he should already have at least some experience by now. But he had none. Absolutely none. He would rather, without a second thought, kiss the gas tank of his bike than dare to approach a girl closer than three meters. It had always seemed funny to him, but now, amid the noise of the general discussion, it felt somehow... wrong. As if he had fallen behind in life.
The conversation dragged on for an eternity, and when everyone finally started yawning and heading off to their rooms, Marco exhaled with relief.
Bezzecchi and Francesco had always shared a room at the ranch. It had been that way from the very beginning. It was the cheerful and confident Pecco who had helped him adapt here. Their friendship was a quiet harbor for Marco, a place of absolute trust. When they entered the room, no one was in a hurry to go to bed. The silence that hung between them was not like their usual, relaxed one. Pecco, changing into a loose T-shirt for sleeping, was the first to break it, trying to lighten the mood.
"Listen, what kind of idiot bit you? You look like the engine on your bike seized up right in the middle of the track." He started laughing, sincerely, kindly, but when he saw that Marco didn't even smile, he stopped abruptly. "Hey, what's up? Is something really wrong?"
Marco sat down heavily on his bed, staring at his hands.
"You know... I felt really uncomfortable there. You were all talking so excitedly about Luca's girlfriend... and I felt like an outsider. Like a kid at an adult table."
Pecco sat down opposite him, looking at his friend attentively.
"And why is that? Are you jealous of Luca or something? Don't worry, he'll still be desperate to compete with you on the track, no girl is going to change that. This is Luca we're talking about!"
"No... you don't understand," Marco felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "I've never had... well, any experience at all. And you were so engaged in the conversation, speaking so confidently, as if you've already had a bunch of relationships."
Pecco smiled a warm, understanding smile that immediately eased some of the tension.
"Well, it's not like there were a bunch of them... although I do know a thing or two." He suddenly stopped, and a spark of realization flashed in his eyes. "Wait. Hold on. Are you telling me that you... haven't even had your first kiss?"
Francesco raised a finger to his own lips, pointing at them somewhat theatrically, as if hinting at the sheer incredibility of this fact. Marco flushed such a bright shade of red in response that it was visible even in the semi-darkness of the room.
"Well, I haven't, okay!" he blurted out, hiding his face in his hands. "But is it really that bad? Is no one going to love me now because I have 'no experience'?"
This whole scene seemed incredibly endearing to Pecco. He looked at his friend — so grown-up and brave on the track, and so scared and defenseless right now.
"Oh, Bez, you're already so grown up, but you're afraid to even approach a girl. What are you going to do if you really like someone? Are you just going to stand there, blushing and stammering?"
At that moment, for Marco, Francesco looked exactly as he always did — an incredibly cool and experienced friend to whom everything in life came easily.
"I don't know! I really don't know!" he cried out in despair.
"Then, maybe you should try?" Pecco stood up, and his voice sounded quieter, more intimate. "Try what it's like — to kiss? I'm not the girl of your dreams, of course," he paused, smiling mysteriously, "but I definitely know how to kiss. And I could teach you a thing or two."
He smoothly moved to Marco's bed, causing it to dip, and their shoulders almost touched. Marco felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest; he flinched away, covering his face with his hands even tighter.
"But... but you're a guy!" he whispered through his fingers. "And you're dating Domi! That's... that's cheating! She'll hate both of us!"
Pecco gently placed a hand on his shoulder. His touch was calm and confident.
"Domi is not my girlfriend. It's not cheating, relax. I am a completely free person and can do whatever I want."
"But how?" Marco finally took his hands away from his face, staring at his friend with a surprised, incredulous look. "You're always together. You hug, you talk like... well, like you're in love with each other. A guy and a girl can't just be friends like that!"
Pecco laughed quietly, shaking his head. He was always amused by this common belief. He and Domizia were indeed great friends, and it had never crossed a romantic line. Because Domi liked girls just as much as Francesco liked guys. Once, after drinking quite a bit, Domi confessed to him with drunken, absolute honesty: "I'm sick to death of all these men, Pecco. I would never in my life date any of them." He found it hilariously funny, because in reality, they had already kissed long ago — just out of curiosity, without any obligations — and had become friends with a sort of quiet, unnoticed "privilege." Their close friendship was a perfect, safe cover. No one would understand their real preferences, and their families might even reject them. So they just didn't deny it when everyone around them assumed they were a couple.
"Still... it's so embarrassing," Marco muttered, snapped out of his thoughts by Pecco. "I won't be able to look you in the eye afterward! You're my best friend!"
"Marco, don't be so stiff," Pecco said softly but firmly, looking into his eyes. "Everything will be fine. Trust me."
Slowly, as if deciding on the riskiest maneuver of his career, Marco uncovered his face. His cheeks were burning. Pecco didn't wait any longer — he took the initiative. Carefully, almost weightlessly, he took Marco's hand, intertwining their fingers, and gently touched his lips with his own. It was a light, dry, and tender kiss, just a touch to let him get used to it. But for Marco, it was like an explosion. A siren went off in his head, the world tilted, and he couldn't understand how he was still sitting in place and not running out of the room. Pecco didn't let go of his hand, holding them together like a life-saving anchor.
The second attempt was more awkward. Pecco tried to deepen the kiss, but Marco had his mouth shut tight from nerves, and it felt more like a silly licking of lips than a real kiss. When Pecco pulled back, there wasn't a trace of mockery on his face, only a slight thoughtfulness.
"Well, why are you so tense, as if I'm going to eat you? Try to relax. You're supposed to like it."
"Ugh... fine," Marco exhaled, gathering all his willpower.
Now the initiative was his. He abruptly leaned forward and pressed his lips against Pecco's; it was a kiss full of determination, but so desperate and clumsy that Francesco could barely stop himself from bursting out laughing. It felt as if someone was trying not to kiss him, but literally to eat him. But he endured it, and for a first real attempt, it was actually pretty good.
"God, Bezzecchi, you're as red as a ripe tomato from the farm right now," said Pecco when they finally broke apart. He spoke calmly, like a teacher after a lesson. "But now you know what it's like. Just remember: your tongue shouldn't move so fast and chaotically, as if you're trying to catch a fly. Imagine it's a slow, smooth dance. But for a first try — not bad at all."
Marco sat there, unable to utter a word. He just nodded, gasping for air.
"And now, sleep," Pecco got up, stretching sweetly. "There's training in the morning, and if you don't fall asleep now, you'll be crawling around the track like a sleepy corpse."
With a completely calm soul, he dove into his bed and fell asleep almost instantly. What had happened didn't bother him at all. For him, it was just helping a friend.
But Marco couldn't sleep. He lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, and his heart was pounding in his chest at the speed of a racing engine. Silly, hot thoughts were swarming in his head, keeping him awake. How could Francesco sleep so peacefully? They had literally just kissed! Within minutes, Marco had experienced a reassessment of everything: his life, his approach to relationships, and, most terrifyingly, his own orientation. He replayed the moment in his head over and over, and realized with horror that this... this was exactly what he had actually wanted. He liked it. He liked Pecco's gentleness, his confidence, his warmth. He thought about what a wonderful friend Francesco had always been, how handsome he was, especially when he laughed, how sunny and joyful it felt to be around him. Maybe he liked Pecco. Really liked him. Had for a long time. But Marco hadn't wanted to admit it, even to himself. Because it was all so complicated. Did Francesco even like guys? And even if he did, would he like someone as clumsy, naive, and stupid as Marco? Would Pecco be willing to go out with him? Or was it just a friendly favor?
These thoughts gnawed at him all night. When the sky outside began to lighten and the first rays of sun gently touched the face of the peacefully sleeping Francesco, Marco suddenly felt a quiet, unexpected joy blooming inside him, despite the whole storm of doubt. Looking at his friend, whose features were now childishly serene, he realized one simple thing. Maybe he didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Maybe he was afraid. But that first, awkward kiss was not just a lesson. It was a beginning.
He slowly, barely noticeably, smiled to himself. And when Pecco opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was this sleepy, slightly embarrassed, but incredibly warm and soft look from Marco.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" Francesco rasped in a sleepy voice. "And why are you smiling so strangely?"
Marco blushed, but didn't look away. For the first time all night, he felt truly brave.
"I'm thinking that today is probably going to be a good day," he said quietly.
Pecco stared at him for a moment, and then his face broke into that familiar, wide smile, which made Marco's heart feel completely light.
"Oh, of course it will be, Bez," he replied, winking. "Especially when I wipe the floor with you on the track. Don't think your tender reassessments will give you a head start."
They both laughed, and this quiet morning laughter, full of warmth and unspoken understanding, was the best start to a new day. Their shared day.