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The smell of fuel, the electric hum of the beverage coolers, and the muffled flicker of a neon sign that was long past its prime. That had been Marc’s domain for a couple of months.
If you’d asked him a year ago, he never would have imagined himself behind the counter at his grandfather’s gas station. But the years don’t pass in vain; the old man’s knees could no longer handle ten hours on his feet selling lubricants and receiving tanker trucks, and the family had to divide up the counter. Álex, who had always had grease-stained hands and a knack for engines, fit right in at his father’s auto repair shop on the other side of town.
Marc, by default and thanks to a patience he didn’t even know he possessed, was left to mind the gas station.
At first, he thought he’d die of boredom among the shelves of potato chips and cash register totals that never added up on the first try. But it didn’t take him long to discover that the station, especially as the sun went down, was a magnet for nocturnal characters. In just one month, he’d seen it all: from a guy who tried to pay for gas with a live rooster to women in leopard-print pajamas arguing with the coffee machine at three in the morning. Marc took it in stride; the work was grueling, but the parade of local eccentrics provided the daily entertainment he needed to keep from falling asleep on the cash register keyboard.
However, of all the colorful characters who walked through the automatic doors, there was one who was in a league of his own. A regular customer who had become the bane—and, secretly, the most entertaining headache—of his closing shifts.
He first showed up three weeks ago, just as Marc was already holding the mop to clean the floor. The sound wasn’t that of just any car, but the deep, clear, and arrogant roar of a high-displacement engine that came to a stop right in front of the store’s large window.
Marc looked up from the wet floor and saw him get off the motorcycle. The guy wasn’t exactly a young whippersnapper, but he moved with a confidence that really threw off the vibe. He took off his helmet with practiced nonchalance, shaking out some unruly curls where a few gray hairs were already peeking through, and fixed his bright blue, mischievous eyes directly on Marc’s through the glass.
When the store door beeped as it opened, the smell of cheap gasoline was completely overwhelmed by a whiff of expensive cologne and the rustle of black leather.
“Good evening, piccolo,” the man greeted him, resting both arms on the counter with a smile that Marc found utterly brazen. “ “I’m here to have you fill up my tank… and to see if you can recommend something to sweeten the night.”
Marc simply rested his hands on the handle of the mop, looking him up and down with a raised eyebrow and as much apathy as he could muster on his face.
“The gummy bears are in aisle two, sir. And for the gas tank, pump three is open. Move along before I charge you for the floor I just cleaned.”
The old man’s laugh was loud, hoarse, and—unfortunately for Marc’s pride—damn magnetic. That’s when the ordeal began.
Marc thought that with the tap on the shoulder and the curt reply, the guy would pay and go home to sleep off his low blood pressure. But no. Valentino had a PhD in the art of wasting time and stretching things out until the rubber snapped.
Instead of heading straight for the pump, the man began to wander through the aisles with the leisurely pace of someone strolling through an art gallery, dragging the spurs on his boots and making his leather jacket creak. Marc watched him from the register, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
“You know what, piccolo?” said Valentino from the motor oil aisle, holding up a container as if he were reading the ingredients on a bottle of expensive wine. “I think my baby needs a little lubrication. What do you say? Do you prefer synthetic, or are you more into thrills?”
Marc snorted, resting his fists on the counter.
“Sir, this is a gas station convenience store, not a confessional. Pay for the gas at pump three if you’re going to fill up—I have to close in fifteen minutes.”
“Valentino,” the older man interrupted, returning to the counter without the oil but with a strawberry popsicle that he dropped onto the scanner. “My name is Valentino. Calling me ‘sir’ makes me feel like the grandfather who left you this place, and I assure you I have a lot more energy than he did.”
Marc swiped the popsicle through the scanner with a sharp flick. The beep sounded like a complaint.
“That’ll be two euros and fifty, Valentino. The rewards machine isn’t working at this hour, in case you were going to ask.”
“What a shame. I was hoping to rack up some miles with you,” the Italian winked at him cheekily, pulling out a twenty and letting it roll across the counter, making sure his fingers brushed lightly against Marc’s as he handed it over. Marc’s skin experienced a microsecond of short-circuiting from the other man’s heat. “Keep the change. That way I’ll make sure you remember me tomorrow.”
“I’m not working tomorrow,” Marc lied brazenly, fixing him with a steady stare as he put the bill in the cash drawer.
“You’re a terrible liar, piccolo. Your eyes dart to the left when you’re making things up.” Valentino picked up his popsicle, popped it into his mouth with a smug smile, and turned on his heel. “See you tomorrow at the same time. Make sure the floor’s clean.”
Marc stood frozen, watching as the guy got on his motorcycle, revved the engine with a hellish roar that surely woke everyone within three blocks, and disappeared into the darkness of the road.
“What a ridiculous old man,” Marc thought, wiping his hand on his pants, even though his heart was beating just a little faster than usual.
The problem with Valentino’s threats was that he followed through on every single one.
From that night on, the Italian became just another part of the gas station’s decor, right next to the broken ice machine and the map display that no one ever used. Worst of all—or best, depending on Marc’s mood when he woke up—was that Valentino knew the schedule by heart. He didn’t show up in the afternoon when the steady stream of trucks kept Marc busy. No, that damn engine always roared at 9:55 p.m.—just when Marc was counting the cash from the register, his eyes red from exhaustion and his mind already on his bed.
It turned into the most bizarre routine.
On Monday, he showed up complaining that the air in his tires “was too cold” and wanted to know if Marc had a manual tire pressure gauge so they could check it “together.” Marc threw the bathroom keys in his face.
On Wednesday, he showed up with real Italian coffee in a thermos, claiming that the coffee from the store’s machine tasted like “umbrella water” and that he couldn’t let his favorite cashier fall asleep before he arrived. Marc drank the coffee (because it was delicious, to be honest), but he charged him for parking.
On Friday, he spent half an hour trying to convince him that the blue gas station uniform was too big for him and that he had a leather jacket at home that would show off his back better.
“Don’t you have a job, a family, or a life of your own to take care of at this hour?” Marc snapped at him one Thursday night, fed up with seeing him leaning against the cigarette display case while he finished entering the sales records.
Valentino, who was playing with a Zippo lighter, clicking it open and closed over and over, looked up with a lazy smile.
“I’ve got all that, piccolo. But my favorite part of the day is coming over to watch you try to hide how much you love having me here.”
“Keep dreaming, man. Tomorrow I’m filing a restraining order.”
“You couldn’t. Who’s going to bring you that warm croissant from the bakery on the corner?”
Marc clenched his teeth because, unfortunately, the croissant Valentino had left on the counter was still steaming and smelled like heaven.
•
That Tuesday, there were no revving engines or dramatic screeches of brakes. Valentino’s motorcycle pulled up with an almost ghostly smoothness at 9:40 p.m. When he walked through the store’s door, Marc knew immediately that things were different.
Valentino wasn’t smiling. His jaw was tight, his curls slightly tousled, and a line of genuine exhaustion etched between his eyebrows. His leather jacket was open, and his tie—since he’d just come from some boring business meeting—was a little askew. He didn’t say, “Good evening, piccolo.” He just walked up to the counter, dragging a heavy, dense vibe that changed the atmosphere of the place.
“A pack of Marlboro Reds,” Valentino asked. His voice sounded lower than usual, a deep rasp that made the hairs on the back of Marc’s neck stand on end.
Marc stared at him, his hands resting on the counter.
“I didn’t know you smoked, man. I thought athletes took care of their lungs.”
“Only when the day is a fucking mess, piccolo,” Valentino replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. He pulled out the exact change, no finger tricks this time. “Give me a lighter too, please.”
Marc turned around, grabbed the pack and the black plastic lighter, and handed them to him. Valentino didn’t even wait to step outside; with the dexterity of a seasoned smoker, he tore open the plastic wrapper, pulled a cigarette out with his lips, and lit it right there, breaking the sacred “No Smoking” rule that adorned the wall in giant red letters.
“Hey, put that lighter away—you’re at a gas station, genius,” Marc protested immediately, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, I hate the smell of tobacco. It’s disgusting.”
Valentino exhaled the first puff of gray smoke, but he didn’t blow it toward the ceiling. He leaned over the counter, invading Marc’s personal space, forcing him to back up a millimeter, and gently blew the smoke close to his face.
Marc was about to protest, about to insult him, but the words got stuck in his throat.
Normally, the smell of tobacco turned his stomach. But this… this was different. The cigarette smoke instantly mingled with the smell of old leather from Valentino’s jacket and that expensive, woody cologne he always wore.
It was a dirty, masculine, fucking intoxicating combination. Marc had to clench his fists, hidden beneath the counter, so Valentino wouldn’t notice how his pupils dilated at the scent. He liked it. God knows why, but he liked how that damn vice smelled on this man.
Valentino stared intently into his eyes through the thin veil of smoke, with an intensity that was almost searing. The tension in his features seemed to soften slightly as he watched Marc’s silent reaction.
“You don’t like cigarettes, piccolo… but you don’t dislike me,” Valentino murmured, with a slow half-smile, regaining that dangerous, drawling tone. “Your expression changes when I get close. Did you know that?”
Marc swallowed hard, feeling as though the air in the store had grown too hot. He held his gaze, refusing to let himself be intimidated by the Italian’s magnetism.
“You’re imagining things, man. It’s the smoke that’s making my eyes water,” Marc blurted out, his voice a little hoarser than usual. “Put that shit out before I douse you with the fire extinguisher.”
Valentino let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle and dropped the half-smoked cigarette onto the floor of the entrance, stamping it out with the tip of his leather boot.
“I just wanted to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth from today,” Valentino said, turning toward the exit. “It worked. See you tomorrow, Márquez.”
When Marc opened the door to his house a little after 10:30 p.m., the smell of tobacco and leather was instantly replaced by the aroma of homemade stew and the deafening noise of his family.
In the dining room, the TV was on in the background with the news, but no one was listening. Seated at the table were Julià and Álex, gesturing with their forks in hand as they argued heatedly about a truck’s clutch that had been giving them trouble at the shop all afternoon. Roser was coming and going from the kitchen with a platter of food.
“I told you so, Álex!” “If the hydraulic press doesn’t go down straight, you’re going to ruin the plate,” said Julià, his voice hoarse from shouting so much in the workshop.
“No, Dad! The problem was the thrust bearing—it came defective from the factory,” retorted Álex, with a grease stain still visible near his ear despite having taken a shower.
Marc set his backpack on the coat rack in the entryway with a heavy sigh. He was exhausted, his body aching, but above all, his mind was still drifting amid the smoke at the gas station and Valentino’s blue eyes.
He sat down in the empty chair next to his brother, slumping into it like a sack of potatoes. Usually, at that hour, Marc would just eat in silence, too tired to get caught up in the endless loop of conversations about nuts and bolts and engines that his father and brother were having.
Roser came in from the kitchen, served Marc a hot plate of food, and gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Then she sat down across from him, completely ignoring the other two’s technical discussion. She knew her eldest son’s expressions well.
“Good evening, sweetheart. You look absolutely exhausted today,” Roser said, looking at him with maternal concern. “Too much work at Grandpa’s store?”
Marc picked up his fork, stirring his food halfheartedly.
“The usual, Mom. Dealing with supplier paperwork and cleaning the aisles.”
“Did you run into a lot of crazy people today?” Roser asked with a smile, knowing that Marc usually found the nighttime characters amusing.
Julià and Álex toned down their argument a bit, paying attention out of the corner of their eyes.
“Well…” Marc paused for a second, and the image of Valentino leaning against the counter, exhaling smoke with his lips slightly parted, flashed through his mind. He felt a sharp wave of heat in his stomach and cleared his throat quickly to hide it. “Yeah, the usual nuisances.” There’s this guy who… who shows up every night late to cause trouble. An annoying old guy with a motorcycle.
Alex burst out laughing, earning a warning glance from his mother.
“An old guy on a motorcycle? Watch out, Marc—he might try to steal the cash register,” Alex joked.
“I don’t think he needs to steal anything; the motorcycle’s worth more than the whole gas station,” Marc retorted too quickly, plunging his fork into the meat.
Roser raised an eyebrow, noticing the subtle change in her son’s tone. Marc never got chatty with customers; he just served them and that was it. But for him to know the value of the motorcycle and to be so aware of it… that was suspicious.
“So what does that man want? Why does he come by so often at your shift?” asked Roser, resting her chin in her hand, with that motherly intuition that always made Marc a little nervous.
Marc felt his ears burn slightly. He took a long sip of water to buy some time.
“Nothing, Mom. Just stuff that lonely old guys do. He just wants to talk and annoy the teller because he’s got nothing better to do with his life,” Marc lied, staring intently at his plate and starting to eat quickly to change the subject.
Roser didn’t say anything else, but she kept a sly little smile on her lips as she watched her son—who normally devoured his dinner while recounting the day’s gossip—now eating with his gaze fixed on the floor, as if he were reliving a scene in
•
It had become a ritual. It didn’t matter if the sky was clear or if an icy wind was blowing that chilled him to the bone; at ten o’clock at night, the gas station’s roll-up door would close, the padlock would click, and the matte black helmet would appear floating in front of Marc’s face.
“Hop on, piccolo. The seat’s heated today,” Valentino would say, winking at him from behind his visor.
“I’d rather the earth swallow me up, Valentino. Get off the sidewalk.”
“Look, it’s a long walk, and your legs look tired...”
“And yours are going to get cold if you don’t start that piece of junk. Walk.”
Marc passed by his side, dodging the helmet with a practiced move, and Valentino shifted into first gear to escort him at a leisurely pace down the dark avenue. It no longer felt like harassment; it had become a strange truce between the night, the asphalt, and the two of them.
But we humans get bored quickly, and Marc, no matter how much he acted like a tough, aloof guy, was a natural psychologist when it came to other people’s lives, thanks to the crazy folks at the shop.
One Thursday night, after riding three blocks in silence broken only by the purr of the engine, boredom got the better of pride.
Marc didn’t look at the Italian; he kept his eyes straight ahead with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, but he fired the question into the air:
“Come on, man… Where the hell do you get all that money?”
Valentino let out a hoarse laugh, adjusting the handlebars with one hand.
“Well, well, the cashier is finally taking an interest in my life. “I thought you only had eyes for your bank figures.”
“It’s just out of sheer boredom—don’t get all worked up,” Marc snorted, rolling his eyes. “It just doesn’t add up. You show up here dressed like a high-end catalog model, on a motorcycle that costs what I make in fifteen years, to hassle some college kid at a seedy gas station.” What are you up to? Are you a mobster? A corrupt politician?
“Almost,” Valentino joked, slowing his pace to come right up beside him. “Let’s just say I spent twenty-something years of my life racing around in circles really fast on two wheels. They paid me pretty well to break my bones and win championships.”
Marc frowned, pausing for a second at a corner before crossing. He glanced sideways at Valentino’s posture on the motorcycle; the way his body fit the machine wasn’t that of an amateur. There was perfect muscle memory, an aggressive elegance that only the racetrack could instill.
“Racing? Are you a race car driver or something?”
“Former racer, little guy,” Valentino corrected, with a subtle hint of pride in his voice, expecting the typical reaction of shock or surprise he got from everyone. Now I’m just a boring businessman who signs papers, manages his own brand, and makes a living watching others race. But you can’t get speed out of your blood that easily. That’s why I’m still looking for a rush… although now my favorite rush is seeing how long it takes you to tell me to fuck off every night.
Marc stared at him. His eyes didn’t widen, he didn’t ask for an autograph, and his jaw didn’t drop. He just let out a dismissive snort and resumed walking.
“Well, what a waste of your time. With all that money, you should be on a beach in Ibiza drinking champagne, not reeking of diesel on my sidewalk.”
Valentino blinked, genuinely taken aback, and then let out a clear, resonant laugh that echoed off the alley walls. The fact that Marc didn’t give a damn about his status as a motorcycle racing legend struck him as the most refreshing and damn exciting thing that had happened to him in years.
“Ibiza is boring, Márquez. People there say yes to everything,” said Valentino, accelerating just a millimeter to gently cut him off at the end of the sidewalk, forcing Marc to stop right in front of his front wheel. “I’m more into challenges. And you’re the toughest nut I’ve had to crack in my entire career.”
The black helmet was passed around among them again, but this time Valentino wasn’t laughing; his blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the streetlights, fixed on Marc’s lips.
“Last offer of the night. Hop on. I promise you, I can handle this better than anyone in this damn country.”
Marc looked at the helmet. His heart gave a strange flutter—a mix of the curiosity aroused by this man’s mysterious life and the undeniable attraction he felt toward the Italian’s danger. He was this close—a millimeter away—from reaching out and grabbing the helmet.
But remembering the family dinner—his mother looking at him suspiciously and his brother talking about vulgar engines—brought him back down to earth. He couldn’t bring a guy like Valentino into his reality.
“Keep trying, racing champ,” Marc said, dodging the motorcycle with a nimble step and heading into the pedestrian alley where Valentino couldn’t follow him. “ “Tell me another story about your trophies tomorrow.”
Valentino stood there, helmet in hand, watching Marc’s back recede into the dimly lit shadows of the alley. A sly smile spread across his face.
Valentino stood there, helmet in hand, watching Marc’s back recede into the dimly lit shadows of the alley. A sly smile spread across his face.
“Tomorrow I’ll tell you whatever you want, piccolo…” he whispered to the engine. “But you’re getting on my bike, and that’s that.”
On Friday afternoon, the gas station was chaos. There was a line of cars, the ice truck was unloading, and Marc felt like his head was going to explode amid the noise and the heat of the day. This wasn’t his usual quiet, nighttime setting; this was purgatory.
Suddenly, a deep, futuristic, and absurdly imposing sound drowned out the noise of the ordinary engines. It wasn’t the motorcycle. It was the roar of a late-model Lamborghini, in a matte military gray that looked like a fighter jet on wheels, which parked sideways, taking up nearly two spots in front of the store out of sheer ego.
Marc looked up from the box, frowning. The car door swung upward (of course it opened upward—you’d expect nothing less), and out stepped Valentino.
Marc nearly choked on his own saliva. The Italian wasn’t wearing his leather motorcycle suit; he was dressed in dark designer jeans, a white linen shirt slightly unbuttoned at the chest, and dark sunglasses, which he removed with exasperating slowness as he entered the store. He smelled of success, money, and that woody cologne that turned Marc’s head.
“Good afternoon, Piccolo,” Valentino greeted him, leaning against the counter with a beaming smile. “I told you I exist during the day, too. Did you miss me?”
Marc forced himself to roll his eyes, even though his heart had given a silly little skip in his chest.
“So now you’re coming in a spaceship? You’re so subtle, man.”
Before Valentino could answer, the store’s door beeped again. A tall girl in tight gym clothes walked in to pay at pump number five. When she saw Valentino leaning against the counter, she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening in surprise.
Obviously, she knew exactly who the man with nine world titles was.
The girl paid with her card, but instead of leaving, she tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned brazenly toward Valentino’s space, completely ignoring the fact that Marc was standing there with his hand outstretched, handing her the receipt.
“Excuse me… you’re Valentino Rossi, right?” the girl asked in a voice as sweet as honey, looking him up and down with wide, wide eyes. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. I’m a huge fan. That car out there is yours, right? It’s amazing… just like you.”
Valentino, who was a professional snake charmer, put on that perfect, diplomatic smile he used with the press.
“Hi, beautiful. Yeah, it’s me. Thanks so much for the compliment—the baby roars well,” replied the Italian, in a friendly, seductive tone that Marc had never heard him use at the gas station.
Behind the counter, Marc’s face underwent a complete transformation.
His jaw tensed so much that his teeth almost chattered; his eyebrows knitted together into a straight line of pure annoyance; and his brown eyes glared at the woman with an intensity that could have set the potato chip aisle on fire. Marc tried to hide his reaction; he grabbed a rag and began cleaning the counter with brutal force, almost breaking the wood, pounding the cash register keys in anger.
He was an open book. His jealousy was so obvious, so expressive, and so visceral that you could even tell by the way he was breathing.
“Are you just passing through? We should grab a coffee—I’d love to hear about your races,” the girl insisted, lightly touching Valentino’s arm.
Marc let out a loud snort, slamming the rag down on the counter with a sharp thud.
Valentino, who hadn’t missed a single move the cashier made, looked away from the girl for a second to fix his gaze on Marc.
Seeing Marc’s unfriendly expression, his clenched fists, and that all-too-obvious sneer, Valentino’s blue eyes lit up with immense amusement.
He was absolutely delighted. His ego soared to the heavens when he saw that the piccolo cared more than he would admit.
“I’d love some coffee, really,” Valentino told the girl, but without taking his eyes off Marc, relishing how the boy’s ears were turning red with rage, “but my owner back here gets in a really bad mood if I get distracted. He’s very territorial when it comes to his regular customers.”
The girl blinked, confused, glanced at Marc (who looked like he was about to jump over the counter to bite someone), and, sensing the electric tension between the two men, hurriedly gathered her things.
“Oh… I see. Well, goodbye,” the young woman said, practically running out of the shop.
As soon as the door closed, the silence in the shop grew thick. Marc crossed his arms, staring out the window, refusing to look at the Italian.
Valentino let out a low, hoarse laugh, full of smugness. He leaned over the counter, trying to catch Marc’s evasive gaze.
“If looks could kill, piccolo, that poor girl would have exploded in hallway three,” Valentino teased, grinning widely. “I didn’t know you had such a… passionate temper.” “You look gorgeous when you get jealous.”
“Me, jealous? Of some plastic chick and a ridiculous old man who thinks he’s the king of the world?” Marc spat, turning to face him with a flushed face, pointing a finger at him. “Keep dreaming, Rossi. I don’t care who you roll around with. Just get your car out of my sight—it’s blocking the entrance.”
Valentino quickly reached out and grabbed the finger Marc was pointing at him with, squeezing it gently. Marc tried to pull his hand away, but Valentino wouldn’t let him, forcing him to hold his gaze.
“You’re lying, Márquez. It’s written all over your face,” Valentino whispered, his voice low and thick, causing Marc’s jealousy to suddenly transform into unbearable sexual tension. “I didn’t come on my motorcycle today, so I don’t have a helmet. I’ll be waiting for you at ten. You’re getting in that car with me, even if I have to carry you in.”
Marc was on the verge of a breakdown for the rest of the afternoon. He had a rumbling in his chest that nothing could quell—a mixture of anger, heat, and some stupid jealousy that he flatly refused to call by that name.
Every time he remembered that dyed-hair woman touching Valentino’s arm and the old man smiling at her like a soap opera heartthrob, he scanned the barcodes with such fury that the machine screeched.
At seven o’clock that evening, the soda delivery truck arrived. The supplier, an older man who’d known him for months, stared at him in shock when Marc snatched the pad of invoices to sign in one swift motion.
“Damn it, Marc, calm down—it’s not the paper’s fault,” the man said, throwing up his hands. “What’s gotten into you today? You look like you swallowed a high-voltage cable.”
“Nothing, Andrés. It’s just people—they’re idiots,” Marc spat, roughly handing the pen back to him. “Look, just leave the boxes right there. I’m closing up early today. After all, I’m the one running this place. I’ll come in tomorrow and open up earlier to make up for it, but today I’m out of here.”
As soon as the supplier left, Marc didn’t think twice. His head was pounding with sheer annoyance, and the thought of it being 9:55 p.m. and seeing that matte gray Lamborghini pull up made him sick. Was Valentino going to come by and mock his outburst again? No way. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him with a scowl on his face.
He pulled out his phone and looked up his brother’s number.
“Alex? I need you to do me a life-or-death favor,” he blurted out as soon as Alex answered, without even saying hello. “Come pick me up right now at the gas station.”
“Now? But you’ve still got like two hours before you’re done, you little runt…”
“Just come already, damn it. I’m closing early. And don’t take me home yet—let’s grab some burgers or whatever around here; it’s on me. Just get me out of here.
“Ooh, fat wallet. Alright, I’ll wipe the grease off my hands and be right there.”
Marc shoved the money into the safe as fast as he could, tossed the mop into the storage room, and started turning off the interior lights. He was so desperate to get out of there, so focused on listening for Alex’s engine in the parking lot, that he slapped at the main switch panel in the dark.
He rushed through the security gate, locked the double locks—almost trembling with haste—and jumped straight into his brother’s car the moment it pulled up in front of the entrance.
“What a look on your face, man,” Alex teased, shifting into first gear. “You look like you just committed a crime.”
“Just start the car and shut up, Alex. I’m hungry, and when my stomach’s empty, I get grumpy.”
What Marc didn’t notice—in the rush to escape and the mental fog clouding his mind—was that, in his desperation and the darkness behind the counter, he’d left the switch for the large outdoor neon sign on. The gas station’s enormous sign continued to glow brightly against the night, announcing “Open”—a complete lie.
The Lamborghini’s V10 engine roared softly as it pulled onto the gas station’s pavement. Valentino had a smug smile on his lips—the kind he’d practice when he knew he’d already won the race. He’d spent the whole afternoon thinking about Marc’s murderous glare, how transparent the guy was when he got angry, and how damn fun it would be to finally corner him inside the car that night.
From the avenue, he saw the sign lit up, glowing with its usual neon light. Everything seemed normal.
He parked the gray beast right in front of the main window. He turned off the engine, the music stopped, and the silence of the night engulfed the place.
Valentino smoothed out his linen shirt, ran a hand through his curls, and reached for the scissor door to open it.
But when he looked up to search for the cashier’s silhouette through the large window… he stopped dead in his tracks.
The outdoor sign lit up the asphalt, yes, but inside the store it was pitch black. The refrigerators’ displays were off. The counter was empty. There were no aisle lights, no background music, no security guard leaning against the wall. And worst of all: the metal roll-up door was down, sealed shut with two heavy padlocks.
Valentino got out of the car slowly, frowning for the first time in weeks. He walked up to the entrance, pressing his face against the cold glass, trying to make out the darkness.
“What the hell…?” he muttered to himself, glancing at the watch on his wrist. 9:52 p.m.
Marc never closed up early. Marc was a slave to his grandfather’s punctuality.
Valentino took a step back, looking up at the bright sign on the ceiling and then at the deserted store. It took him exactly three seconds to connect the dots: the Lamborghini, the scene from that afternoon, the boy’s obvious jealousy… and the cowardly escape.
A slow, enormous smile, laced with dangerous fascination, began to spread across the Italian’s face amid the darkness of the parking lot. He crossed his arms, leaning against the hood of his million-dollar car, gazing at the empty gas station with his blue eyes sparkling with pure amusement.
“So you’re playing hide-and-seek, piccolo…” whispered Valentino, letting out a hoarse chuckle that was lost in the night breeze. “You left the sign on so I’d know you ran away because of me. How sweet.”
Marc thought he’d won a battle by escaping, but all he’d managed to do was fan the old man’s obsession.
•
The burger joint downtown was noisy, but for Alex, it was paradise.
He had a grin from ear to ear that barely fit on his face as he devoured his fries. Marc, for his part, forced himself to take a deep breath. Seeing his brother so genuinely happy brought him back to reality: it was true—they hadn’t sat down to talk like the best friends they’d always been in weeks, caught between their father’s workshop and the grueling hours at the gas station.
Marc tucked his phone away at the bottom of his backpack. He decided that tonight, Valentino Rossi wouldn’t exist in his mind.
“Seriously, little guy, you have no idea how happy I am that you called me,” said Álex, wiping the sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Between Dad breathing down my neck about the budgets and you holed up in Grandpa’s cave, I felt like we weren’t even seeing each other anymore. Cheers to closing early!”
Marc smiled genuinely, clinking his soda glass against his brother’s.
“Cheers, Alex. I really needed to get out of there, too.”
“Hey, I’ve got to tell you something incredible,” Alex blurted out, leaning over the table with his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You know I’m not the type to have a lot of friends, but this week a customer came into the shop… a kid our age, with an amazing track bike that had a problem with the fuel injection.” Man, we started talking about telemetry, tires—and the guy is a total cool guy. Super laid-back, polite—nothing like the weirdos who always show up at the shop.
“That’s great, Alex. I’m really, really happy for you,” said Marc, taking a bite of his burger. “So what’s the kid’s name?”
“Luca. Luca Marini,” said Alex, almost reverently. “He’s a Moto2 rider. But here’s the big part… Marquito, you have no idea who that kid’s brother is! I almost fainted.” He’s The Doctor’s very own brother. Yeah, man, the MotoGP legend, the guy with nine world titles. Turns out he’s spending a few days here in town for some business with his clothing brand, and the kid just happened to drop by the shop by pure chance. Now he’s my regular customer! He spends all his time hanging out there with me, talking about engines.
Marc chewed slowly, mulling over the nickname. “The Doctor”? It didn’t ring a bell at all. He knew his dad and Alex watched races on Sundays, but to Marc, motorcycles were just vehicles that made too much noise—he was more into soccer.
“Oh, the guy from the World Championships? That’s crazy, Alex. Well, as long as he pays the garage bills, he might as well be the Pope,” Marc joked, brushing it off, completely oblivious to the fact that the so-called “Doctor” was the same old guy in the leather jacket who was blowing cigarette smoke in his face.
Dinner continued amid laughter, stories about Marc’s crazy customers, and plans for the weekend. For a few hours, Marc managed to forget the smell of tobacco, the gray Lamborghini, and the blue eyes that haunted him in his dreams.
On Saturday, Marc kept his promise. He arrived early, organized the shelves, and by nine o’clock that night, he was ready to begin the regular closing routine. He figured that since Valentino was coming on his motorcycle, he’d stick to his 10:00 p.m. schedule.
He was wrong.
At 9:05 p.m., the deep, crisp, and arrogant roar of the Italian motorcycle echoed through the empty parking lot. Marc froze behind the counter, a wad of bills in his hand. It can’t be. He’s an hour early.
The store door beeped, and Valentino walked in. This time he was wearing his black leather jumpsuit, helmet in hand, and a smile of pure mischief split his face. His blue eyes were filled with the gleam of absolute victory.
“Good evening, my little runaway,” Valentino greeted him, resting his helmet on the counter and fixing his gaze on Marc, who was desperately trying to regain his poker face. “Well, what a surprise to find you here. I thought you’d have an emergency today that would make you dash off at eight o’clock tonight, too.”
Marc swallowed hard, tossed the bills into the cash drawer with a scoff, and crossed his arms, shooting him a defiant glare.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, man. Stop making stuff up.”
“Oh, really?” Valentino leaned forward, crossing his arms on the counter, invading his space with that insufferable confidence. “I got here at ten to ten yesterday, Márquez. And I found a dark store, locked with a double padlock… but with the ‘Open’ sign glowing on the ceiling like an invitation.” Were you waiting for me, or did you just panic over what happened this afternoon?
Marc’s ears burned. Damn it! He’d left the sign on. The old man had figured it out completely.
“I had plans with my brother, Rossi,” Marc blurted out, lifting his chin, using the real excuse as a shield. “We went out for burgers because we hadn’t caught up in a while. The world doesn’t revolve around your gray car, genius. I closed up early because I felt like it. I run this place.”
Valentino let out a low, hoarse laugh, relishing Marc’s desperation to justify himself.
“Yeah, right. A family commitment right after you got all riled up because a girl asked me out for coffee,” Valentino teased, reaching out to give Marc a playful tap on the tip of his nose. Marc swatted his hand away furiously. “Fine, I’ll believe you about the brother. Just this once.”
Marc snorted, turning around to grab his backpack, since it was 9:15 p.m. and he didn’t want to drag things out any longer. He stepped out from behind the counter, turned off the lights (making sure this time to turn off the outdoor sign), and pulled the metal roll-up door shut.
When he turned around, Valentino was already on the motorcycle. The engine was purring, and, as always, the Italian took the matte black helmet off the hook and handed it to him with a fluid motion.
“Well, since you don’t have to run away with your brother today… hop on the bike, piccolo. I’ll give you a ride. Come on, the night wind is blowing hard.”
Marc looked at the helmet, then looked at Valentino and twisted his mouth into that telltale grimace of indestructible pride.
“No way, Valentino. I already told you yesterday: I’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass than be seen riding up there with you. Keep your helmet.”
Marc gave the helmet a gentle tap to push it aside, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and began walking briskly along the sidewalk. Behind him, the motorcycle’s engine revved in first gear, keeping pace with him under the streetlights.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, baby…” Valentino shouted over the roar of the engine, smiling beneath his visor. “But I love long races!”
•
For the first two days, Marc tried to convince himself that it was a relief. On Monday at 9:55 p.m., when the silence of the avenue wasn’t broken by any engines, Marc looked down the aisle of motor oils and thought, “Finally, the old man got bored.” He cleaned the counter, closed up right on time, and walked home alone, enjoying the peace. Or so he told himself.
By Wednesday, the peace already felt like an empty house.
At ten o’clock at night, Marc caught himself standing motionless by the window, mop in hand, staring at the flickering streetlight in the parking lot where Valentino used to park his motorcycle. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerators. His stomach churned with sheer frustration as he realized a crucial detail: he didn’t have his number, he didn’t know his real last name, and he didn’t know where he lived.
If Valentino decided not to come back, Marc had no way of looking for him. He could have asked Álex or his father—who surely even knew which side of the bed Valentino slept on—but his damn wounded pride wouldn’t let him. If the old man had taken off without saying goodbye, he wasn’t going to go around like a sycophant asking about him.
Friday and Saturday were psychological torture. Marc was in a lousy mood. He served customers with one-word answers, counted the register three times because he couldn’t concentrate, and, completely unconsciously, left the store door ajar to listen for the sound of a motorcycle in the distance. Nothing. Valentino had vanished from the face of the earth.
“Screw him,” Marc repeated to himself every night as he walked alone down the dark alley, feeling a strange and unsettling emptiness in his heels where an engine had once vibrated. “I hope he never comes back.” That was a lie. He was going crazy.
On Sunday night, Marc was turning off the lights in the aisles, his spirits at rock bottom. He’d already accepted that the game was over. Just as he was slipping his hands into his pockets to head to the cash register, the air on the street vibrated.
It wasn’t the Lamborghini. It was the deep, heavy, familiar roar of the Italian motorcycle.
Marc’s heart skipped a beat so violently that he felt a jolt in his ribs. He sat up straight immediately, trying to wipe away the look of pure relief that must have been written all over his face. The store’s door beeped, and the creak of black leather filled the room.
There he was. Valentino. His curls were a little more tousled than usual, and he had that cheeky smile, but Marc—who already knew every one of his expressions by heart—noticed a subtle flicker of pain in his eyes. Besides, he was holding his helmet in his left hand; his right hand was hidden in his jacket pocket.
“Good evening, my piccolo,” Valentino greeted him, his voice a little lower but his flirtatiousness intact. “I know you missed me—don’t deny that you were crying in the corners.”
Marc clenched his teeth, swallowing the urge to yell at him for disappearing for a whole week without saying a word.
“You wish, old man. I was happy not to see your con artist face around here,” Marc snapped, crossing his arms and forcing a cynical tone. “Where were you? Did your old clunker break down, or did they commit you to a nursing home?”
“Business in Italy, piccolo. I had to fly out on short notice,” Valentino smiled, pulling his right hand out of his pocket to rest it on the counter. “But I did everything I could to get back today because I knew that…”
Marc didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. His eyes were fixed on Valentino’s hand.
His knuckles were completely swollen, scraped raw, and the palm of his hand had a horrible purple bruise that extended up toward his wrist. Valentino tried to move his fingers to hide it, but a muffled groan escaped his lips.
“What the hell happened to your hand?” Marc interrupted. All the pride and irritation vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by genuine, piercing concern.
“Nothing, just a little miscalculation in the workshop with a chain,” Valentino downplayed it, trying to hide his hand again. “It’s nothing, babe.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Valentino, that looks awful,” Marc moved with a speed he didn’t even realize himself. He stepped out from behind the counter, grabbed Valentino by his uninjured wrist, and forced him to sit on the stool in the corner of the shop. The Italian really did wince in pain this time. “Stay still.”
Marc ran to his grandfather’s storage room and fetched the first-aid kit. He returned, knelt down in front of Valentino, and, with a care and gentleness that didn’t seem typical of his rough-and-tumble nature, began cleaning his scrapes with gauze and antiseptic.
Valentino was completely speechless. He stared at the top of Marc’s head, at the focused way the boy was gently blowing on his knuckles so the alcohol wouldn’t sting, and at how his eyebrows were drawn together in concern.
“Okay… move your fingers,” Marc asked, gently holding the older boy’s hand.
“It hurts a little, but it’s not broken, piccolo,” Valentino murmured, with a tenderness in his voice that made Marc look up.
They were just a few centimeters apart. Marc could smell the cologne, the leather, and the antiseptic. Valentino’s blue eyes looked at him with a pure intensity, without his usual teasing, focused solely on him. Marc felt the heat rise up his neck; he cleared his throat and began wrapping an elastic bandage around the injured hand, tightening it firmly but without causing him pain.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Marc said in a low voice, finishing securing the bandage with a clip. “Riding that motorcycle with your hand like that. You could have killed yourself on the highway.”
“I was in a hurry to get here by ten,” Valentino replied, with a slow, half-smile. “I didn’t want you to close early again.”
Marc finished putting things away in the first-aid kit, stood up, and walked over to the cash register to turn off the last few lights. His heart was racing. He unlocked the roll-up door, they stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the cold of the night enveloped them.
Valentino climbed onto the motorcycle with a bit of difficulty, adjusting his position, and with his left hand reached for his now-famous matte black helmet. This time, because of the bandage, he had a hard time stretching his arm out to hand it to her.
“Well… you know the drill,” said Valentino, trying to regain his playful tone, though his fatigue was evident. “Hop on the bike, piccolo. Today I really need you to watch my back—I’m limping.”
Marc stood frozen on the sidewalk. He looked at the black helmet. He looked at Valentino’s bandaged hand clenched tightly around the handlebars.
He thought of the days of despair spent staring at the empty streetlight, of the fear he’d felt at the thought of never seeing him again, and of how much he hated the idea of letting this old man go off alone and injured into the darkness.
Marc Márquez’s steely pride finally cracked and crumbled to the ground.
He let out a long, resigned sigh, and a wry smile—laden with that irony so characteristic of him—spread across his face. He walked over to the motorcycle, reached out his hand, and, for the first time in weeks, grabbed the damn helmet.
“You’re a damn emotional blackmailer, Rossi,” Marc growled, pulling the helmet over his head. The visor snapped down with a sharp click, but his brown eyes shone with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. “Move up front. And ride slowly—because if we crash because of your hand, I’ll finish you off myself.”
Valentino let out a hearty laugh, his blue eyes ablaze with pure happiness. He settled into the seat, and Marc climbed in behind him. At first, Marc timidly held onto the rear handgrips of the motorcycle, but as soon as Valentino shifted into first gear and the bike gave a slight jolt, Marc had no choice but to stretch out his arms and wrap them firmly around Valentino’s waist, pressing his chest against the Italian’s leather-clad back.
Valentino smiled beneath his own helmet, feeling the boy’s firm grip, and gently accelerated, the two of them disappearing into the night.