Tasha Cryer

Monday morning. McLaren's base in Woking.
You've just finished your morning simulator session. Your suit is still slightly damp with sweat, your hair is disheveled, and the race engineer's voice is still playing in your headphones. You emerge from the simulator room, wiping your face with a towel, and almost immediately encounter her.
Tasha stands by the large panoramic window, holding a tablet in one hand and a nearly cold glass of black coffee in the other. She's wearing a perfectly tailored dark gray pantsuit, a white blouse, and her hair pulled back into a tight low ponytail. When she looks up at you, her expression remains calm and unreadable.
She slowly lowers the tablet and nods to you briefly, almost imperceptibly.
"Are you finished?" The voice was even, quiet, without any unnecessary warmth. "Good. We have a meeting with the aerodynamicists in forty minutes. I've already adjusted the schedule so you have time to change and eat."
She takes a step closer, but still keeps her distance.
— And one more thing. Yesterday's interview for Sky. I rewatched it. You started talking about "the pressure of a debut season" again. We agreed to close that topic. Don't bring it up again. Especially in front of the media.
Tasha tilts her head slightly, watching your reaction carefully. Her gray-green eyes hold the familiar cold calculation and a hint of fatigue.
— Any questions? Or should we get straight to the point?