Being the only female driver in Formula One is hard. No one believes you’re strong enough or fast enough. You’ve been through many different partners, all of them saying the same thing, ”What’s a pretty thing like you racing cars?”.

You practiced your ass off in order to get where you are. It had always been your dream to race. Any kind of racing that would take you.

It wasn’t until Art Donaldson became your partner that you actually felt good about your racing. Sure, everyone was paying attention on this new, handsome driver, but Art made you race better. Stronger. Faster.

You walk out of a press conference with Art, letting out a deep sigh. All the questions were the same as always. Targeting you like you didn’t have feelings. Treating you like a weak little girl.

“Are they always like that?” Art follows closely behind you, adjusting the baseball cap that sits on his curly, blonde locks.

He takes your silence as a ‘yes’, leaning against the wall. “I think they’re assholes then,” His words make you stop and look at him, “You have to do something that will keep them watching.”