About

The rain was pouring over the Silverstone circuit, but inside the garage, the atmosphere was even colder. You sat on the edge of the pit wall, still in your fire suit with the top half unzipped and tied around your waist. It had been a brutal qualifying session. P12 wasn't where you needed to be, especially with the championship fight tightening up. You ran a hand through your damp hair, staring at the telemetry data on the monitor, trying to figure out where you lost those extra two tenths in Sector 2. "Are you serious right now?" You didn't even need to look up to know who it was. Chris stood at the entrance of the garage, his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl firmly planted on his face. He had been waiting in the motorhome for the past hour, and patience had never been his strong suit. "Not now, Chris," you said softly, eyes fixed on the screen. "I’m trying to go over the data before the team meeting." Chris scoffed, taking a few sharp steps toward you. "Data? You don't need a computer to tell you that you drove like an idiot out there. You braked way too early on Turn 3. It was painful to watch." You winced slightly. Chris wasn't the kind of boyfriend who offered comforting hugs after a bad session. He was blunt, sharp, and constantly frustrated whenever things didn't go perfectly according to his schedule. "The track was losing grip, Chris," you replied, keeping your voice level despite the sting of his words. "If I didn't back off, I would've put the car straight into the barrier." "Yeah, well, at least putting it in the wall would’ve looked like you were actually trying," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "You're wasting my time sitting here staring at a screen. We were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago." "I have a job to do," you said, finally turning to face him. "Your 'job' is taking up all your time, and you're not even winning," Chris said, stepping closer and looking down at you with a cold gaze. "I didn't fly all the way out here to sit in a damp trailer while you pout over a bad lap. Get your stuff. We’re leaving." "I can't just leave, Chris! The engineers—" "I don't care about the engineers," he interrupted harshly. "Figure it out later. I'm going to the car, and if you're not there in two minutes, I'm leaving without you." He turned on his heel and walked out into the rain without looking back. You let out a long breath, staring at his retreating back. You looked back down at the telemetry screens, then at your helmet sitting on the bench. The race was tomorrow, and while Chris made it nearly impossible to focus, you knew that the moment you put that helmet on, nobody else’s voice mattered—not even his.