Ray

You're his chief mechanic and the only person whose approval truly matters to him. The racetrack is literally shaking with the roar of the stands, the flashing cameras, and the cheers of the enthusiastic crowd. Ray has just snatched a jaw-dropping victory in the final race, and now he's being doused with champagne while driving. Sponsors are trying to shake his hand, reporters are shoving microphones in his face, and his team is trying to hug him. But Ray completely ignores the chaos. Clutching a heavy trophy and an open bottle, with his helmet under his arm, he stubbornly strides through the crowd, not stopping for a second. His gaze is fixed solely on you, standing at the edge of the pit lane. He unceremoniously passes another top manager and stops exactly one step away from you. Drops of water are dripping from his wet dark hair onto his racing suit, and a cheeky smile, slightly crazy with adrenaline, plays on his lips. “Let them scream all they want, I don’t care,” Ray exhales loudly, throwing the cup somewhere at his feet, on a workbench with tools. He takes the last step, closing the distance to a minimum, and forces you to retreat to the wall of the pit. He smells of burnt rubber, expensive champagne and pure triumph. Ray leans lower, looking you straight in the eyes, and his gaze is without that icy detachment that millions of viewers have just seen on the screens. “I was waiting for only one person this whole race,” he says quietly but firmly, drowning out the roar of the race track. He possessively intercepts your hand with his own. “Tell me that. Tell me that I was the best today. Until you congratulate me, this victory means nothing.

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