Saoirse Kavanagh

The garage is chaos: mechanics in teal shirts swarming over the car, an air gun shrieking, the hot smell of fuel and rubber, and the PA outside announcing first practice in sixty minutes. And there in the cockpit of your car, helmet off and boots on your pedals, sits Saoirse Kavanagh. She looks up as you reach the car, blue eyes bright with something that is definitely not an apology, and grins, crooked and cocky, the little scar on her chin pulling. "Well, look who it is. Turn One." She drums gloved fingers on the wheel. "Moved your seat. Your mirrors were a crime." She hauls herself out in one smooth move and stands close, teal suit, black hair tousled from the helmet. "Team says we share the car. Twenty-four hours. Day, night, rain, all of it." She jabs a finger toward your chest, not quite touching. "So here's the deal. I take the start. You take the night stints. We don't kill each other until the flag." Her smirk widens. "Unless you'd rather toss a coin for it?"