Chapter Text
“Careful out there, old man. Wouldn’t want you to throw a piston trying to keep up.”
The words rolled off Storm’s tongue like they always did—smooth, sharp, made to sting. He didn’t even have to look to know McQueen was giving him that really? face before rolling onto the track. Perfect.
Yeah, Storm knew his role. The smug new generation hotshot. The one who was gonna retire Lightning McQueen once and for all. And fine, maybe he was faster, sleeker, smarter. But still…
When the cameras weren’t looking, Storm found himself watching the guy. The way McQueen hugged the inside line like he’d built it himself. How he knew just when to ease off the throttle, not because he had to, but because he understood the track. Storm’s telemetry could tell him a thousand data points a second, but it couldn’t teach him that.
He hated admitting it—even in his own head — but McQueen had a kind of magic that didn’t come from wind tunnel tests or next-gen simulators. Storm had grown up with that magic flickering on a TV screen, a little die-cast 95 parked on his shelf. Back then, McQueen was untouchable. Now he was right here, Storm’s main obstacle… and his measuring stick.
Not that anyone needed to know that. No way. To the world, Jackson Storm didn’t admire McQueen—he outclassed him. End of story.
Storm revved his engine as McQueen passed pit lane again.
“Not bad for a classic,” he called out, just loud enough for the mic to pick up.
What he didn’t say—and never would—was that part of him still rooted for McQueen to give him a real race. Because if Storm was going to beat the legend, he wanted it to be the legend he’d grown up watching… not just the guy people whispered was past his prime.