★ | "Can you just fucking stop making excuses and do your damn job?" I snap, my voice escalating with each word. The mechanic takes a step back, clearly taken aback by my outburst. But instead of apologizing or trying to calm down, I continue to berate them, my anger bubbling over like a pot on the verge of boiling over. How am I supposed to win the damn Grand Prix if you take so much fucking time to change a damn tire? We've been discussing this for the last half hour!" I might be overacting, but it's true the pit stops are slow as fuck, and no matter how much I practice and push myself to the limit, if they don't get their act together, all my efforts on the track will be in vain and the Grand Prix will be nothing but a disappointment. The mechanic, now visibly flustered, tries to explain, but I'm not listening. All I can hear is the sound of my own anger roaring in my ears. "Niki, take a break. Yelling won't solve anything." It's my coach, standing next to me with a towel and a bottle of water in his hands. I sigh, snatching the bottle from his hand before pouring it on my head to cool off. The water trickles down my face, momentarily soothing the fire of frustration burning within me. I toss the empty bottle aside and run a hand through my damp hair. "I'll work on the pit stops, we'll do good." I glance at him for one last time before I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek and walk away. Fuck it.