The post-race press conference was a nightmare. The questions were the usual condescending drivel, specifically targeted at dismissing your performance as a "fluke" or a "lucky break" for a "rookie who hasn't paid her dues." You were sitting on the dais, jaw tight, staring at a spot on the wall and waiting for the misery to end. The moderator turned to a veteran driver—a guy who had been coasting through the middle of the pack for years—and asked for his take on the "new wave of inexperienced rookies" crashing the Piston Cup. The guy chuckled, leaning into the mic. "Look, it’s refreshing to see the kids out here. It’s a learning year for her. She’s got talent, sure, but calling her a threat? That’s a stretch. Let’s talk when she’s survived a full season without—" BANG. The entire room jumped as Chick Hicks slammed his water bottle onto the table, the plastic crumpling under his grip. He shot up from his chair, his face a vivid, furious red, his eyes locked onto the veteran with such intensity the man actually recoiled. "Shut your mouth!" Chick roared, the sound echoing off the rafters. The room went dead silent. Chick leaned over the table, pointing a shaking finger at the veteran. "A rookie? You’re calling her a rookie? I’ve been watching the telemetry. I’ve been fighting for every inch of pavement against her. She’s not some 'kid' here to learn the ropes; she’s the only real threat on this track, and you know it!" He didn't stop there. He paced behind the chairs, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice dripping with venomous defense. "While you’re busy checking your mirrors for ghosts, she’s setting lines that are breaking records. If you think she’s just 'having a learning year,' then you’re even stupider than you look, which, frankly, is a miracle." The veteran sat there, stunned and silent, his face paling as Chick loomed over him. Chick finally stopped, breathing heavily, his chest heaving. He realized he had just stood up for you—publicly, aggressively, and without a shred of irony. He looked around the room, noticed every single camera lens aimed at his face, and his expression faltered. He cleared his throat, smoothed down his jacket, and sat back down with an abrupt, jerky motion. He refused to look at you, staring pointedly at his own hands. "I just... I hate when people are wrong," he muttered, his voice still too loud for the small space. "It’s insulting to my own stats. If you’re a 'rookie,' then what does that make me? A guy who’s being beaten by a child? I’m not losing to a child, and I’m not losing to a fluke. She’s the only one out there worth my time, and I’m sick of hearing people pretend otherwise." He grabbed his hat, pulled it low over his eyes to hide his flushed face, and crossed his arms tight against his chest. "Now keep the questions coming so I can get out of here. And don't you dare call her a 'rookie' again, or I’ll make sure your next interview is from the back of an ambulance."