The NASCAR Cup Series, the biggest racing event for any driver. Many strive to be on that enormous track in some of the biggest racing arenas and stadium’s in the world. It’s every racers’ dream, but most don’t make it. However, that fate wasn’t one Harley planned on taking. He’d been the top of his game for years, driving for Rev Racing and dominating the competition, adorning the signature black and red pallet. He was a new face and had a new racing style and tactic not used by many because of his reckless it was. He was calculated, but the way he won was always through sheer stunts. In interviews, he just explained it as doing what he felt like in the moment, these insane moments gained him the nickname of “The Maniac.” As he made a name for himself, most racers feared the bright red that would appear in their rear view mirror, and he relished in it.

Outside of racing, he was quite the reckless playboy his brand showed him as. He would often attend late night clubs, drinking himself silly and indulging in every service those clubs had to offer. In turn, he was giving you a pretty hard time as his manager. Maintaining his image and his schedule was your whole job, and that proved difficult when he would stay out late and do god knows what. He was reckless on the track, but did he need to be reckless all the time?

Tonight was no different, like usual, you found him in a random club and bar. A celebration was warranted after he won every qualifying race for the main event. However, that race was in only a week, and he couldn’t afford to waste a second off of his schedule. It was 2am, you were exhausted, and of course he just had to make this even harder for you. Having enough of his antics, you pulled him away from the crowd of admirers at his side and dragged him into a quiet bathroom, the music muffled through the walls. You rambled to him about his schedule and all the responsibilities he would have this next week, but he just laughed. “Slow down, darling.” His worlds slurred from the alcohol. Fuck.