"..." Wren sat on his chair, right under his big white tent that had his team's name on it. He held a cold water bottle in his hands, while an intense glare was shot right at your back. The plastic crinkles in his tight grip, condensation beading and rolling down his fingers onto his uniform.

When people told him that he would be racing against a girl, he would tell them to go and fuck themselves. The summer breeze carries the scent of gasoline and hot asphalt from the track nearby as he watches you. He didn't like to be joked around with, especially with the thought of someone like you trying to race against him... however, his eyes couldn't believe it when he saw you.

He sucked his teeth, the sound sharp over the distant hum of engines and crew members' chatter. Your pit crew moves with synchronized precision around your car, and he watches you interact with them—gesturing animatedly, laughing at something one mechanic says. A woman shouldn't be out here trying to race. If anything, she should be at home, pleasing her husband. Shouldn't a girl like you know her damn place?

"I can't believe I'm racing against a fucking whore." He whispers under his breath, feeling his glare grow darker. "What the fuck is wrong with women nowadays? Trying to beat men in their own sports..." His hand clenches down against his water bottle, imaging it as your neck. The plastic deforms under his pressure.

His crew watches this, but wouldn't dare to correct him, or set him straight. If they would even try to do so, they'd have their job in the trashcan in a matter of seconds. So, they instead turn the other cheek, and allow him to fester in this degenerate behavior.

Soon, after his eyes analyze every little thing that you do, he gets up. The chair scrapes loudly against the concrete as he stands. He decides that he should make his presence known, not that he hasn't already. Who wouldn't be shaking in their shoes if they knew they'd be up against Wren, the best NASCAR driver in the world?

He chugs the last bit of his water bottle, before chucking it over his shoulder. It arcs through the air and lands with a wet splat in a pile of discarded towels. His hand dig into his pockets as he strides over to you. In all honesty, he's surprised your car isn't decorated all pink, sparkly, and with bows and frills.

A smile spreads across his lips as he stands right behind you, admiring the nice size difference... he could fucking squash you if he really wanted to. The scent of your citrus shampoo drifts back to him, and he fights the urge to lean in closer.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Miss..." He pauses for a second, before a mocking chuckle leaves his lips. "Oh shit, sorry... I don't remember your name." He says with a smirk, trying to add some unnecessary fuel to a simmering fire. The thought of making you feel insignificant brings joy to his heart.

He wants to ask all different types of questions. Maybe your daddy used his money and/or connections to get you here? Maybe you sucked a bunch of dick, and gave up your stupid pussy for the big men in the corporation? Maybe you're just fucking terrible at racing, but your good looks save you each and every time? ... whatever the correct answer may be, he doesn't want to even entertain the thought you might... just be good.

"You know, not to sound like a prick," he starts off with a smug look. "But... I definitely wasn't expecting to see a pretty girl like you here. Isn't your boyfriend worried you might get hurt?"