Chapter Text
“Welcome to Italy,” Shane said, voice flat in a way that betrayed nervousness and a slight uncomfortability with standing in front of a camera crew, every bit the perfect Canadian boy-next-door he was. He was standing in the middle of a cluster of buildings in a dark-wood, Dolomite style that formed a small, secluded square. The air was warm, and the fragrant flowers of the square seemed to give off a peaceful glow. It was a perfect shooting location, and the camera crew seemed to know it, for they had dragged Ilya and his husband to shoot some promotional material as soon as they were able, something about “not letting the evening sun go to waste.” Ilya didn’t mind too much - it seemed like this would be the only promotional material they would have to do before the actual motorbike trip started, and the filming was short enough that he would still have plenty of time to fuck his husband goodbye before they left. Not that there was much “leaving” to be done, Ilya knew, for Shane would follow them in his own car with Lucretia - but still. It was the intention behind it all, and Ilya could be enough of a man to admit that he would miss his husband, who would doubtless be tracking Ilya’s every move with a newly-purchased GPS that was much too technical and over-engineered for what would essentially be a highway ride.
Said husband, who was currently acting like he’d never seen any cameras before, despite being a professional hockey player, with professional hockey player media obligations, for more than a decade. “I’m Shane Hollander, and I’m joined here with Emilio Laveroni,” he swept his hand to the man on the side (who also, despite his professional sports obligations, also looked like he’d never seen a camera before in his life), “and Ilya Rozanov.” Shane gave a small smile to Ilya, who couldn’t help but melt internally at the sight.
Ilya could feel the camera pan towards him, and with it, could see the director of the shoot start making motions to end the scene. A boring, predictable scene. Which wouldn’t do at all. Luckily, Ilya had spent almost his entire life being a menace to one Shane Hollander, and he was not afraid of using that skill for good (or evil, depending on your point of view). Ilya rolled his eyes dramatically and huffed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offence. “Ilya Rozanov? What happened to being your husband?” Ilya sighed, shaking his head. “And I thought Italy was the land of romance.” He could hear some of the camera crew members chuckle at Shane’s reddening face, and Ilya smirked internally. Perfect .
“Oh for - are you seriously doing this in front of the cameras?” Shane replied - most likely instinctively, Ilya knew - and turned to face his husband. “And my husband, Ilya Rozanov. There.”
“Oh, moy zaichik ,” Ilya crooned, “if you wanted to be possessive about me, you should have said so. I know I’m a catch.” He winked at a sputtering Shane, who rolled his eyes, hand over his face. “I know it’s difficult being married to such an amazing and talented and hot hockey player, but I’m not going anywhere.” The last part was said with perhaps a bit more sincerity than Ilya intended in front of a camera audience, but it slipped out of Ilya subconsciously, perhaps an echo of reassurance for Shane’s earlier worries.
“You wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. Anyone would return you after three minutes,” Shane muttered. “Actually, no. Three seconds.” His hand no longer covered his face, but he looked upwards, exasperated, as his face started to redden at a concerning pace.
“Not everyone can deal with such greatness,” Ilya responded faux-solemnly. “But it is your duty as my husband.”
Suddenly, he heard a snort, and Ilya and Shane both whipped around to the source of the sound. To their surprise, the sound came from Emilio, who looked surprised himself (or what probably counted as surprise - his eyes were slightly rounded, and his eyebrows rose), as if the sound came out without his knowledge. In the evening light, with his face of surprise a rapid departure from his regular appearance (or, as much as Ilya knew, for meeting someone over a dinner and your husband’s obsessive TV watching), Emilio looked softer, approachable. Like something approaching human, rather than the enigma caricature the media portrayed him like. This was, of course, good news for Ilya - they did not need to be anything more than professionals at the shoot, but it was in any case more pleasant to be spending hours on the road with someone with whom you could have a conversation, or at least steal a cigarette off of in companionable silence.
“Were you - did you laugh?” Shane blurted out, somewhat awkwardly, caught off-guard at the sound and not knowing how to react. Ilya winced inside as he saw Emilio shutter off, face returning to impassiveness. He looked, for a small, split second, like a snail crawling into his shell, like those extremely small, brown snails that only existed in the muddy ponds in datchas on the outskirts of Moscow, who were so small and so unnoticeable that you wouldn’t notice them at all, unless you looked really carefully at the waters, unless you said fuck it to the cold water and plunged your your hand in and felt for the little critters.
Ilya knew how to look for snails in summer. And in that moment, in the split second it took for Emilio’s eyebrows to return to their normal position and his eyes to narrow somewhat, Ilya realized something. Perhaps Emilio wasn’t an enigma after all. He would never have a Canadian, or even American, niceness, particularly since they were nothing more than temporary coworkers - he didn’t expect the man to be like Hazy, who could be best friends with anyone he could meet. But maybe, Emilio was in fact more like Troy, if he had to make a guess - someone with a shell, but perhaps something more beyond that.
And Ilya loved cracking shells. (Hence, the husband.) And sue him, he could never back down from a challenge. There was only one logical thing left for him to do.
Ilya once again took on an exaggerated, offended position. “Are you laughing at my greatness?” he mourned. “I understand that not everyone can be me, but it is mean to laugh at - what did you call me last night, Shane?”
Shane’s look of surprise quickly turned into one of annoyance. “Ilya, no .” Ilya took a glance at Emilio, whose face seemed to return to passivity, but whose eyes were tracking their every movement. Ilya could work with that.
“Oh, I remember. Yes, it is mean to laugh at a miracle, because I am a miracle.” Ilya smirked at his husband, who had thrown his hands up again, huffed, and, face beet-red, had decided to walk away from the shoot, muttering something about Impossible assholes . The camera crew behind the camera laughed, and the mood of the shoot seemed lighter. “Did you know that I was a miracle?” he said to Emilio, who once again had that slightly surprised face on.
“No,” he said, dark eyes blinking under his bushy eyebrows.
Ilya was going to get a response out of that man if it killed him.
“Well, I am a miracle, because I am a great hockey player, among other things,” he smirked at Emilio, lilting his voice in a way that Shane couldn’t help but snap back at, and hoped that Emilio would snap back, too.
“I see,” Emilio said. He paused, and seemed to think. Ilya partially expected this - Emilio seemed to be a harder - what was the phrase Shane used? Right, harder nut to crack, so it would make sense it would take longer. Ilya shrugged internally. There were still other moments, and things seemed promising. No need to rush.
He turned to the camera and started talking, segwaying into his pre-written script about Ducati, about their plans in the mountains, and other details that Ilya was sure would probably get cut on the editing floor. At the end of his speech, he turned to look at Emilio and asked if there was anything else to add. By now Shane had returned, and had stood next to Ilya - not touching, because Shane wanted them to be professionals - but still close enough that Ilya could feel his warm, comforting body heat that felt like home.
“Well, yes,” Emilio said, somewhat hesitantly. Ilya made a motion to go on. “Generally, we need to be careful, and we will be careful to avoid any of the dangerous routes for our journey. But perhaps we don’t need to worry about that.”
“And why is that?” Ilya could almost feel Shane’s anxiety radiating from that sentence. Ilya reached over and squeezed Shane’s hand - they could ask to edit it out in post, later, if Shane objected.
Emilio smiled - a small, mischievous smile - and Ilya felt the smooth keratin shell of a brown snail underneath the murky water. “Because riders rely on miracles to be safe, and it appears that a miracle will be riding with us tomorrow.”
Ilya laughed, filled with barking surprise, as Shane’s face went red again (it was a wonder there was still enough blood to get to his head). Ilya heard his husband sputter something along the lines of stop encouraging him and Emilio responding with a polite I’m not sure what you mean , face contouring into a smile, eyes shimmering with what almost looked like mischief.
In the corner of his eye, Ilya caught Lucretia looking at him with an unreadable, seemingly stormy, expression on her face. She noticed Ilya’s glances, and much to his surprise, her face broke out in a radiant smile, and she nodded in approval, blond tresses bobbing a honey-pink gold in the twilight sun.
Huh. Maybe he should try looking for more snails more often.
Ducati @DucatiMotors
A behind-the-scenes moment with two-time MotoGP World Champion Emilio Laveroni @emiliolaveroniofficiale, Ducati lover Ilya Rozanov @rozanov_hockey, and Shane Hollander @shanehollanderhockeyplayer. Miracles do happen!
LEONOV IS (no longer) REAL @delululemon
Leonov is dead, all hail Emilya
#1 Laveroni Protection Squad @DeepGoatQueen
@delululemon for once I don’t think you’re delusional
#1 Hollanov Stan @begaywinhockey
Guys we went over this. Hollanov ONLY
I’m tired of this boss @smoothbraingang @DeepGoatQueen first The Incident, and now this?? What is happening to our man why is he becoming so adorable
(Meanwhile, in a leafy London suburb:
“Owen, mate…do you think Emilio Laveroni is adorable?”
“...I swear to God, Leo, I don’t know what bullshit has gotten into you, but what the fuck?”
“Yeah, what the fuck? This is why you should stop using Owen’s coke.”
“Hey! Fuck off.”
“Nah, man, Nathan’s right. Your supply is terrible. Tastes like it was mixed with laxatives.”
“Shut up, Moreau. I don’t want to be told about taste from someone who has google news notifications on like a teenage crush”
“Hey, fuck you, it’s research. We’re going to be working on a deal together and Rob’s going to kill me if I fuck it up. I do it all the time with my work. Did it with Rozanov, doing it with Laveroni. You know. Professionally .”
“Right, like that helps your case…whatever, mate, let’s just get back to FIFA.”)
Lucretia cornered Emilio as soon as the shoot was over. Emilio, for his part, looked part resigned, and part mildly exasperated. He expected some sort of response from his sister as soon as he finished filming; he didn’t miss Lucretia’s beaming smile towards Rozanov, nor did he forget how excited she seemed to be after the shooting director wrapped up the scene. Emilio could admit that he was mainly at fault for her behavior; he didn’t mean to be like that ( so much like himself , Lucretia’s voice echoed in his head) at filming, and Lucretia appeared to have thoughts on the matter. Lucretia, on her part, waited to corner Emilio until it was just the two of them walking around the plaza, everyone else dispersed before a grueling week-long adventure into the alps; it was for this display of discretion that Emilio knew that Lucretia had no good intentions in talking to him.
“So Ilya Rozanov is more your type?” Lucretia said, eyebrow raised in mock curiosity. Both siblings knew it was mostly an act - Lucretia would get her answers, or more likely, confirm everything she already knew.
“Gods be good, Luetta,” Emilio complained, but the creeping redness on his cheeks betrayed his feelings. “Seriously?”
Lucretia translated this as to mean yes, he more or less is . Which was a bit surprising for the blonde. Not the type part - Lucretia still remembers the embarrassing way her teenage brother couldn’t stop staring at the delinquent high-schoolers that occasionally loitered around the racetrack, smoking cigarettes in fake boredom, playing cards near the fences, and staring at her, only scattering when yelled at by the groundskeeper. Her brother rarely confessed to crushes, and his tendency to be all-encompassing on racing - although good for podium results - also meant that he tended to be guarded when it came to matters of the heart. The fact that he was willing to say anything was surprising - but then again, the fact that he opened up for the cameras at all was also surprising, so perhaps Lucretia should limit her surprises after all.
“I guess it makes sense,” she mused, snickering at Emilio’s nonplussed glare, “Damiano was also pretty witty.” Damiano was a cute mechanic Emilio regrettably had a thing for. They were going out for a while, but it ended as all sports romances did - Damiano got a new job at Asprilla, and took Emilio’s heart with him. It wasn’t that Emilio didn’t want to find love; but in-between the new upgrades and the season starting, it was hard to find someone, and next thing he knew, over a year had passed. “So you like funny guys, got it. Ilya is pretty tall and buff, and Damiano was too, so I guess you like someone who’s tall? And of course, we can’t forget the douchebag behavior. I still remember how you pretended to smoke in high school, even though mama would kill us.”
“Luetta, please ,” Emilio cut her off in what could only be described as a pitiful whine.
“I won’t give up until you tell me your answer,” Lucretia replied with great benevolence (in her opinion).
“And you’ll guess it all anyways, so what’s the point of me answering?”
“Because,” she said with emphasis, “I’m trying to get you out of your shell! Get over Damiano! Help my baby brother get some!”
“And having Shane Hollander hate my guts because I flirted with his husband will help me?”
“No, but actually getting the idea of romance through your thick skull will. Besides, you weren’t flirting with him. You were showing yourself to the camera, which I think is a good thing, Emile. You weren’t as nervous as you normally are, and if it means you need a hot man in front of you - (“hey!”) - then that’s what it takes. But don’t feel bad about your behavior, or that you stepped over any lines. You didn’t, but you did take a big step forward that you’re not used to. And I’m proud of you for that.” She smiled softly, and the siblings shared a quiet moment of ease.
“Speaking of romance…” she nudged Emilio, whose face of foreboding horror got worse. “What did you think of those messages by Leo?” Her brother scoffed in annoyance, but his ears tinged pink, and Lucretia knew an opening when she saw one. “Don’t play shy, I know you saw my texts. The fans call it the incident ,”
“The only reason why it even became an incident is because you sent it to me in the middle of a press conference - ”
“Well you had the option to not click on my messages -”
“Of course not, you’re my assistant, what if something important came up -”
“And you don’t really care about social media things anyways, and I think this was notable enough for you to know, so I let you know, like a good executive assistant.” She ignored Emilio sputtering out what sounded like I should fire you and why did you bring it up now, that was back in June. It was the end of July, barely a month old, so she was well within her rights as a sibling to mercilessly tease her brother in good faith, as any sibling was wont to do. She ignored Emilio’s complaints and went on. “But honestly it’s not the end of the world, I think it’s good that someone is acknowledging my Emile for the catch he is. Even though the person in question is a complete douchebag and an asshole. And an idiot who has a love affair with the paparazzi.” She pretended to sniff, and smiled teasingly at Emilio, who seemed to relax.
“I know right? Of all the people to crawl into my DMs. Some football hotshot who probably flirts with everything that breathes.” Emilio shook his head and sighed.
“...So Leo Moreau is not your type?”
Emilio looked at Lucretia, nonplussed. “Luetta what the fuck.”
She looped her arms with Emilio and guided them towards dinner. “I mean, we just went over the fact that you tend to be more like yourself whenever there is a hot guy around. He’s not tall, but he’s muscular in that football player way, and he’s also got brown hair and honey-brown eyes, and he’s cute. And he’s pretty funny in those Instagram reels that show up on my feed occasionally. He’s a little bit similar to Rozanov, if you squint, so it makes complete sense to ask. Well, hm… less similar, more like on different planes of existence? Although…”
“Luetta, and I repeat, what the fuck .”
“Wait, don’t tell me… do you like the Leo Moreau variant of hot, athletic asshole, than the Ilya Rozanov variant?”
Emilio unwittingly thought of the footballer player’s messages - simple and basic, some generic pick-up line followed by a generic ask about his “favorite places in Bologna,” and his sister’s text messages to it. He thought of Leo Moreau’s most recent picture - Leo getting ready for some event, a candid caught mid-conversation with a stylist off to the side. A nice conversation, if the way the stylist’s wavy curls shook in laughter and Leo was grinning, looking proud of himself. Although maybe not entirely - there was something artificial about the smile, all cocksure and confident, even when there was nothing to truly be that confident about. Surely no one was ever always that confident? Or maybe that was something that came with being an international superstar, and that was just a skill that Emilio had yet to learn with people that were not his family and on top of his motorcycle. Leo grinned like he always perfectly hit the apex and tilted his body just right so that he could pass by a rival rider on the inside. Emilio himself had felt that way many times on his motorcycle, but - and as he was just as often reminded in his races - there were countless times where he missed it, crashing off his bike and skidding into the gravel. The feeling of hitting the apex is only powerful when you also feel the grit of stone; and yet here Leo was, grinning like that over something inconsequential he must have said to a stylist he probably would forget within moments. Emilio saw the picture and for a second felt the need to stand next to the stylist, to listen in on their conversation. What would it feel like, he wondered, to have that attention, that grin faced towards you -
Luetta grinned and spoke, interrupting Emilio’s train of thought. “But you’re not denying it. And you spaced out there for a second after I said his name!” Emilio groaned, and Luetta shrieked in laughter. “So you do find him to be your type! Emile, I can’t believe you actually thought Leo was cute! You have such terrible taste. He’s awful,” she laughed harder, and Emilio resisted the urge to screw his eyes shut in frustration and embarrassment. “Well, Rozanov is also a bit of an ass, so I guess it makes sense.”
Emilio knew he had to immediately deflect, else things would get worse. “I thought you hated Leo Moreau.”
Lucretia responded too quickly for Emilio’s comfort. “Well, of course.”
“And so why are you bringing him up?”
“Well, that was before I saw how well my brother performs on screen with some eye candy around.”
“ Please don’t say that with Shane Hollander around,” Emilio said, voice a full-on whine at this point. “I’m just glad he doesn’t understand Italian.”
“He’s cute,” she continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil (which was a complete act, he knew his sister better than that). “You could do worse. You should respond back to his message.”
Emilio turned, shocked, at his sister, who looked serious, before breaking out into a Chershire grin, and laughed sharply as if it were one big joke. “I’m just joking. I know you wouldn’t actually do that.”
Emilio laughed in relief. “I thought you were serious for a second. Hah! Imagine me responding to his message, what, over a month late? I don’t want to be seen as that desperate. Although I’m pretty sure he’s used to having men be desperate for him.”
Lucretia whipped her head at him sharply. “What?
“...What?”
She shook her head, but the glint in her eye promised nothing but trouble. The strange phrasing of her brother’s sentence seemed to suggest something deeper - and something that Emilio himself may not have realized. She pressed on. “That’s just a very specific thing to have said out of the blue, that’s all.”
Emilio bristled. “Don’t take words out of my mouth! I’m just saying what everything is thinking. That it’s bad to be seen as desperate.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Besides, his good looks are completely ruined on someone who was so stupid as to get blackout drunk and then crash a motorbike into the Thames River.”
“Right.”
“And of course, a man like Leo Moreau would surely make mama happy. She would love nothing more than to feed him pasta and tell him how much she loves Arsenal. I’m sure he’d be thrilled as well. Very much the domestic type, with all the guys he seemed to be photographed with.”
”I never said anything about dating, Emile. I just said he’s a cute guy, maybe your type. Unless… you’re thinking about dating?”
Emilio blushed, flustered. “Shut up.”
The sibling’s cottage was approaching, and Lucretia knew that she had only a few minutes of the conversation left; she didn’t want to overwhelm her brother, and knew pushing bounds too far would only result in a complete shutdown of his emotions. An idea started forming in her head. “Aw, so you do want love! With your prince charming and everything.” Well , she thought, of course you do . Her brother was a romantic. Ignoring his terrible taste in men, she knew it was this romanticism that was the reason for his coming out so early in his career. Coming out when he did in his career, before he was even a world champion, was something that could cause extreme damage for him and his brand; it was a miracle that the damage was relatively minimal, thanks to a slew of other scandals that competed for the media’s attention. Beyond the words of self-acceptance and whatnot, Lucretia suspected the real reason was because her brother wanted the fact that he was gay to be so normalized, such an expected part of who he was (or as much of an afterthought it could be in high-stakes, macho-posturing sports), was so that he could have the unhindered ability to fall in love and have a family, and do other equally as nauseatingly romantic things, like any other rider on the paddock. That was the romanticism of Emilio Laveroni: he liked good, simple things, and would make his life unbearably complicated (that is to say, Lucretia’s job to clean up) for it.
She pinched his cheeks and cooed. “You’re such a big baby.” She continued to pinch at his cheeks, oblivious to Emilio’s inner turmoil. Emilio knew his sister’s behavior was a complete act, but went along with it anyway. “You know what? I changed my mind. I don’t know why, God help me, but you seem to do better with some assholes in your life. I’m being serious now. You should go for it. Write back.”
Emilio pushed Lucretia’s hand away, mouth open in shock. “What the fuck, Luetta?” He looked at her like she was insane. But she knew her brother better than that. Knew him beyond the reticence, beyond the rider. Knew him from when he was a small boy, who couldn’t resist a challenge, who kept getting on the bike over and over again because he liked the daring of it, the stupidity of taking the turn and the awe of actually pulling through with it. Emilio liked stupid boys, apparently, and stupid machines that could kill you, and the stupid confidence to pull it all off.
So what if it was insane? In the grand scheme of things, Lucretia knew, it would be harmless. Emilio liked good, simple things like cute boys who wouldn’t shut up, and Lucretia was always her brother’s keeper. Besides, she’d get good gossip, and a good excuse to crucify Leo Moreau at the filming set that didn’t involve having to be in between whatever duels for honor Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov would engage in as a form of foreplay that no one needed to see, really. She pushed her suit harder, confident in her brilliance (and slightly insanity, but then again, there was a reason why they were siblings beyond appearance). “Come on, what’s the worst that can happen? You send each other a couple of texts, you embarrass yourself for a couple of messages, everyone moves on. It’s all in good fun. Although who knows, maybe you’ll both fall in love like some great star-crossed lovers and you’ll find yourself a nice boyfriend for Christmas.”
”This isn’t a romance novel, Luetta. And no, why would I date him? He’s English . And he lives in London. And also, he’s Leo Moreau, let’s not forget, not some random dude on Grindr.” Emilio trailed off, suddenly at a loss for words. He seemed hesitant, but it was the kind of hesitance that ultimately pushed Emilio to get on the bike and embrace his destiny. “Anyways, I won’t do it. I’m not looking to get my heart kicked by Arsenal’s resident playboy,” he deadpanned, trying to change the topic one last time. “I hear he’s got a good conversation rate. Best in the league.”
”Oh Emile,” Lucretia softly tapped her brother’s arm. “This is what I mean. It would do you good to get over Damiano already. Alright, I admit it, Moreau is an ass. But he’s also bold, and talkative, and it’s all online, no harm done. I think it would take you out of your comfort zone.”
”So I flirt with him, and what? We meet in person, it’s terribly awkward, and we pretend nothing happened?”
“Yeah, basically. You both know it’s all meaningless in the end, so in a sense, it’s easier to pretend nothing ever happened” Lucretia replied. “So what, he’ll make a free kick. So you just be like Tancredi, block all of his shorts. He’s cute, you can flirt with him. You say he won’t take it seriously, so just do the same. Just to get you back into it, Emile. It’s only for a little bit, and then Leo Moreau will be gone, and he’d be playing for Arsenal, and you can use your newly-rediscovered flirting skills to find yourself a good Italian boy that mama will love, and you can adopt as many grandchildren as she wants once I personally stake Giorgia’s head on a stake and change the laws myself.”
Emilio looked uncertain. “I don’t know, Luetta. I don’t really respond to generic pickup lines from playboy football players. Or from anyone, really.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she responded, “you haven’t really done anything stupid, but I know you, and I think you want to be stupid, just a little, and it’s getting to you.” She grinned, but Emilio could hear the underlying worry behind her words. “And if you really do start catching feelings, just remember his Thames River scandal.”
Emilio paused, deep in thought. He had to admit, the idea was tempting, and he knew Lucretia was right: it seemed stupid, and insane, and the sort of thing Emilio might have let himself do in another life. It was something he did, from time to time, where he imagined his life were he not a rider. It probably wouldn’t change much in the grand scheme of things - he would have barely graduated from high-school, dropped out of his first year at uni, and rode a motorcycle across Italy while working odd jobs and occasionally dropping in to take care of his mother and sister. But things might have been different, also - in a world where he didn’t worry about cameras and their mocking stares, where he didn’t have racing to steady him though all that he was, where he was just Emilio… “Don’t… don’t you think this is a terrible idea?”
“Oh, as your assistant I would normally think it’s a terrible idea to flirt with people you’re working with. But if Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are getting away with it, I think you’ll be fine.”
Emilio snorted, somewhat breaking him out of his melancholy. “They’re married , Luetta.”
“And you never would have known, with how competitive they are with each other.” She shook her head. “Look, Emile, life isn’t just about motorsports. Sometimes life is about reminding your little brother that he’s allowed to have stupid little online nothings because he’s human, and that not everything is so serious. It doesn’t even have to be flirting, if you want. Just some quick messages back and forth. So what if you think Leo Moreau is attractive? That’s life, and I want you to feel it, little brother. When you’re sad, I’m sad. When you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Emilio couldn’t help but feel the rush of warmth flooding his veins. He knew Lucretia cared, and she was right. Damiano was sweet, but he wasn’t coming back, and a year had come and gone. Leo Moreau was attractive, and maybe a harmless indulgence could be the thing that gets him back in the mood for love again. “Alright,” he conceded, “I guess I will truly suffer and allow myself to flirt with Leo Moreau, but only because I’ll be able to use my newfound skills on someone better, and mama will be sad if I don’t have a cute boy she can brag to her neighbors about. And besides, who knows. Something to distract me from the cameras might make me a better actor when they start filming again.”
Lucretia laughed, guiding her brother towards their room. “That’s the spirit! But also, Emile, you’re not an actor. It’s okay. As I said, be natural, think about some cute hot assholes if that helps. Be yourself, and it will be okay.”
Ducati @DucatiMotors
New! Check out our two-time MotoGP World Champion Emilio Laveroni @emiliolaveroniofficiale show off our unique Ducati Panigale V4 to certified Ducati lover Ilya Rozanov @rozanov_hockey, Happy riding!
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DUCATI MOTORS | Speed Demons: Ilya Rozanov Takes on Two-Time MotoGP Champion Emilio Laveroni in the Dolomites: Day 1
[Captions: ON. Subtitles: ENGLISH]
#1 Hollanov Stan @begaywinhockey
I’m surprised Shane let his husband do donuts on a bike that DOESN’T STAND UP. how tf do the riders not fall off?? Are they insane or????
Next Year Is Our Year @rossiismyfavoritekindofpasta
@begaywinhockey First time?
rcb my forever failsons @pancakedeeznuts
Not Emilio’s face at 2:45 at Ilya’s bike dick joke. Someone please stop this man