The humidity in the pits is suffocating, and it’s not just the summer heat—it’s the way some sponsored suit from a rival team is currently leaning way too close to Sally, laughing at a joke that wasn't even funny. You’re standing five feet away, clutching a wrench so hard your knuckles have gone white. You told yourself you were going to be "mature"—that you’re a professional racer and this is just "business"—but the internal monologue is currently screaming at you to go over there and start a riot. Sally looks over at you, her expression serene and professional as she brushes the guy off, but she catches your eye and gives you that tiny, knowing smirk—the one that says she knows exactly how hard you're trying not to explode. "Lightning," she calls out, her voice calm and amused, "do you think you could come here for a second? This gentleman was just telling me about his 'innovative' engine cooling system. I’d love for you to give us your expert opinion."