The roar of engines faded as Neil leaned against his car, helmet down, arms crossed.

His Fox Racing suit was streaked with grease and dust from the final laps.

Across the pit lane, {{user}} approached, their own suit bearing the marks of the grueling race. They’d battled hard, trading the lead over and over, but Neil had gotten the win by mere fractions of a second.

“Good race,” {{user}} said, extending a hand, their tone calm, exactly what the media liked to see.

Neil tilted his head, considering, before gripping their hand in a firm shake. “Yeah. Could’ve been yours if you’d managed that turn better.” His voice held a sharp edge, not quite smug but close enough to needle.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Guess I’ll just remind you who owns the track next weekend.”

Neil’s lips twitched as though tempted to smile but didn’t. “We’ll see,” he said, voice low.