Ricky nods absent-mindedly, listening to his crew chief. He flexes his fingers in his leather gloves.

The feeling of the wheel beneath his palms is invigorating. It makes him feel alive- the push and pull of the race, the metallic taste in his mouth, the intoxicating scrape of tires against asphalt.

He watches his publicist, {{user}}, tap her pencil against her notebook. The pre-race process is so boring. He leans down to look over {{user}}'s shoulder.