rookies + rivals pt.1
NASCAR Driver!Dennis x Fem!NASCAR Driver!Reader
★summary★ you’ve made a name for yourself at the top of the league, but someone’s ready to take that title—and your heart
★notes★ competitive reader, loverboy Dennis, enemies to lovers (duh), slow burn…. I will make a part 2 . If you all crave it.
⚠️ warnings⚠️ mdni!, inaccuracies, no proof read
Number 73.
That’s all your eyes can trail, despite the blur of 42 other racers attempting to keep up. Even if you’re watching the playback of the race on your phone, you can still feel the rumble under you—and your nerves boiling with frustration; even more so when it cuts to a grin plastered on your new enemy’s face. The worst part seems to be the fact he’s a heartthrob to a majority—the bright blue 73 on his jacket matching the exact shade of his eyes was definitely there to drive that point home.
“How’s your first NASCAR season?” A beaming reporter shoves a mic into Dennis Whitaker’s hand, who’s giving a sheepish smile back.
Dennis fucking Whitaker—a sickly-sweet rookie with small town charm who’s been climbing the ranks more than you’d like to admit.
“It’s been a great opportunity to really prove myself, I feel honored. I wanna bring my best, keep racing with the greats.” Dennis replies, which almost makes you gag—there’s not a chance he’s so kiss-ass off camera… well, that’s what you tell yourself.
The reporters eyes go wide and eyebrows shoot up, like a predator finally finding it’s prey,
“Are you prepared to race against #16? She’s held that number one spot for—“
“Three seasons, I know.” Dennis replies quick, enough to cut the reporter off, continuing,
“She’s absolutely amazing,” he compliments you, which fills your chest with disdain rather than delight.
“But no one rules forever.” He adds, his smile almost twisting into a smirk—but now you think you’re seeing things, quickly turning off the video and tossing the phone to the side.
For the next week, you have to try your hardest to completely shut out the thought of Dennis—yet you still find yourself surfing news articles and even his Instagram.
Your crew chief, Robby, even told you to block Dennis’s account when he caught you scrolling during practice;
“For someone who appears to hate this kid, you are pretty glued to him.” He muses, snatching the device from your hand and holding it above your head to taunt,
“Don’t let him interfere. You’re staying in that number one spot.” Robby adds, squeezing your shoulder while you sigh,
“Yeah, but no one rules forever…” you grumble, earning an eye roll.
“You really are watching too much,” is all he can muse back.
When you land in North Carolina, for the first time your nerves are high enough your hands are sweating—a habit you thought was long lost after your first season.
That’s immediately how you know he’s really in your head.
Not to even mention you scan the airport for him as you walk toward the taxi outside—Robby was right—too much was an understatement.
Even as you ride in the backseat with the colorful blur of the city rushing by, that stupid quote seems to linger, like Dennis himself left fingerprints on your mind. Instead of watching for your face on promotion material around town, you look for his.
Truly, at the hotel though is when it spirals, because who else would be checking in at the same time as you?
“Oh my god, hello—I didn’t think we’d cross paths until tomorrow,” a saccharine voice chirps behind you and when you turn, you see the smile attached.
You slowly drag your eyes down to his outstretched hand in disgust, shaking it with a limp grip,
“Yeah, that was my hope at least,” you reply in a dry tone, sighing softly—still you force a chagrin smile back.
He releases your hand and starts again,
“I’ll have to catch back up with you at some point—“
“Like on the track tomorrow?” You cut in, his eyebrows raising in surprise; his laugh is even uncertain.
“Uh, somethin’ like that I guess,” is all Dennis can shoot back before clearing his throat,
“My siblings back home asked me to get some stuff signed if we had any free time, so I would like to do that at some point.”
You nod slowly and clutch the straps of your backpack tighter, feeling the sweat in your palms start again.
“Yeah, maybe. Free time is rare for me,” you snap back, stepping toward your crew chief again.
“Why, can’t get anyone to keep up?” Dennis quickly muses back, not letting you disappear immediately—and for some ridiculous reason, you actually hesitate for the first time in a long time,
“Yeah, gotta stay top dog—see you, rookie.” You retort, fully evaporating from his eye line.
“What in the fresh hell was that?” Robby leans down, whispering with a smug expression. You roll your eyes, huffing,
“I dunno, banter? We’re… rivals? I guess?” You trail off, smacking the elevator button while Robby laughs. You continue, though it’s under your breath,
“Rivals implies he’s as good as me though.”
He shakes his head, sighing with a smirk,
“You’ll be frenemies soon, kid,” is all Robby shoots back.
You settle into your hotel room, even showering to totally refresh—and in attempt to drown out Dennis.
While you lie back in bed, already changed into pajamas, a knock raps at the door.
You scrub your face and set your phone to the side, switching it out for your race notes. You flip open the cover, opening the door without glancing up,
“I’ll be honest, I rather do notes in an hour or so but if you rather do now, that’s fine—“
You immediately cut yourself off when you see those bright blue eyes looking down at you, quickly you tuck the notes under your arm to give a disapproving look.
God fucking damnit—
“Is now a bad time to get some stuff signed?” Dennis blurts out, holding two folded teeshirts and a pile of Topps cards with your face. Yet, he continues with his signature smile,
“Rather do it now before bad blood starts.”
And that’s how you begin to spiral; speechless with a slacked jaw. You stammer before you can begin, your voice sharp,
“I—What? What are—That stupid shit isn’t true—I would…” you trail off with the shake of your head, flicking your tongue across your lip before biting it,
“Yeah, whatever—give it.” You snap, snatching the items from his hands. Dennis furrows his brows,
“Sorry, did that come off—I mean, I just—I know you get competitive, not a bad thing by any means,” he tries to save himself, weakly chuckling,
“I guess what I’m saying is—it’s a joke,” he sighs, while you continue to scribble your signature on the memorabilia,
“Well watch what you say.” You retort, shoving it back into his hands. You turn back into your room,
“Jokes are meant to be funny, by the way,” you murmur, reaching for the handle.
“I’ve been a fan of you.” He blurts out while you face away, though you quickly whip your head around.
The silent tension is at a standstill and a total high.
Still, he starts again—though it’s cautious,
“I don’t want you to think just because we’re competing it means we’re—”
“Enemies? I never said we were.” You snap in, but your voice is flat,
“But I don’t make friends,” you add, turning toward your room again.
“But you do make rivals.” He calls out behind you and of course you can hear is god damn grin, even more when he says,
“See you tomorrow, friend.”
When you turn around to reprimand him, he’s already long gone—thankfully so, because your face is red hot—whether is from embarrassment, anger, or amusement… isn’t something you dwell on.
In the morning, you start your day by staring at the ceiling and waiting for your alarm to sound. At breakfast, Robby’s race notes seem to float around your head—your eyes are fixated on his face, but you only seem to hear bits and pieces.
“Hello? We on earth? What is up?” Robby snaps, waving his hand in front of your face. You shove his hand away with a frustrated expression and a reddening face. You huff, shrugging,
“Dunno, first race of the season jitters,” you murmur, like a child getting reprimanded.
That feeling grows even more when you reach the track, making your way toward your trailer—but you keep looking for Dennis’s—your chrome sunglasses are carrying the cover of your terrible act.
With mechanics shouting, you weaved through the chaos in your usual hoodie up despite the morning heat.
Then you saw it.
Car 73 parked a few trailers down. Dennis’s trailer was easy to spot—smaller than yours, painted a soft cornflower blue with a peeling sticker of Nebraska’s state flower on the side. His number 73 gleamed under morning sun. Dennis’s crew was milling around—one guy adjusting the rear spoiler while another handed him a water bottle. And there he was: blonde hair peeking under his snapback, wearing that same dumb hopeful smile as last night.
He turned—and instantly locked eyes with you across twenty feet of asphalt and tension thicker than oil.
For half a second? Nothing.
Then he lifted his chin slightly and waved once with two fingers.
Your steps slowed without thinking.
Robby called from behind,
“Kid! Gear check!”
And just like that—the moment snapped.
Even when you’re actually at the wheel with the stands full, you can’t get away from Dennis—actually, you’re fighting everything in you to glance to either side, searching for his bright blue—even if just a hint.
But now? He was right there—in third place behind you and 32—and closing in.
Robby cursed under his breath, not enough to hear over the comms.
You bit down so hard on your lip it stung, eyes finally snapping to the left mirror—and there he was. Calm as ever. Focused.
Your blood burned—not with anger... but something worse;
Admiration.
You don’t imagine though is falling behind that blue.
Still with your teeth grinding together—you’re shocked they don’t snap, Robby barking in your ear; yet you only hear one thing—
‘See you later, friend.’
Oh, you’ll be friends by the end of this for sure. Your foot slams down even harder on the pedal, even with the wheel shaking.
The engine screamed—pushing past redline, tires smoking as you ripped through Turn 2. The crowd noise faded into a dull roar, replaced by the thunder of your V8 and Robby’s frantic voice in your earpiece.
“Ease off the throttle—you’re losing grip!”
But you couldn’t care.
All that mattered was him.
Dennis Whitaker—the rookie with Midwest manners and charm, was actually ahead of you. Not just ahead… he’d been climbing since Lap 10 like some quiet storm no one saw coming.
“And that’s the checkered flag!” Announcers call, confetti flies—but you’re still stuck behind Dennis.
Second place.
First race of the season, second place to the god damn rookie.
Your eye was starting to twitch while you exit your car, staring burning holes into Dennis’s cheering crew.
The confetti rained down in glittering bursts and swirled around you. Fans cheered, cameras flashed.
But you?
You stood frozen beside your #16 car, helmet tucked under one arm like a weapon ready to swing.
Dennis’s crew swarmed him instantly—jumping on his shoulders, hugging him tight.
And then—he spotted you.
Through all the noise and movement… those bright blue eyes locked onto yours across the chaos
He smiled—a real one this time—not cocky or teasing—but genuinely surprised you were looking at him.
Before you could react? He lifted a hand and waved. Just... waved. Like normal people do after good races.
Robby slid up beside you,
“Second place ain’t bad.”
You didn’t answer.
Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt almost as much as your ego.
Stood next to Dennis on the podium for photos, your forced smile is starting to falter—you can mentally read the headlines now.
‘#16 is Sent for the Season?’
‘No One Does Rule Forever Shows Recent Race!’
‘Whitaker Wins—Sets Precedent’
The camera flashes were blinding—strobe after strobe, capturing the two of you—Champion Dennis Whitaker, #73 in his crisp white firesuit with a golden smile… and you. Second place.
Dennis stood taller than expected—broad-shouldered under that suit—and he looked so damn happy. Like this wasn't just some win… it was everything he’d ever dreamed since growing up on a farm road where tractors outnumbered cars.
A photographer called out,
“Smile! Get close!”
And before you could react—Dennis turned toward you and slung an arm around your shoulders like old pals at a backyard cookout. His grip was warm through the thin fabric of your jumpsuit.
“C’mon,” he whispered with that stupid friendly voice only he could pull off genuinely,
“You made second—I mean c'mon,”
And for half a second?
You almost smiled back.
You start to peel away despite microphones still being shoved forward like a wall of noise in your direction—you chew your lip as the questions swarm around you.
Reporters shouting over each other like hungry dogs,
“How does it feel to finish second?”
“Was Dennis Whitaker faster than expected?”
“Are you disappointed? Any words for the rookie champion?”
You didn’t answer. Not at first.
Your lip stayed chewed—raw by now—and your eyes darted sideways where Dennis was still glowing under the spotlight, humbly signing a poster for some kid in the front row.
Reporters pressed closer, blocking your escape route. A camera light reflected off your sunglasses as you finally snapped,
“I’m fine.” Flat. Cold.
A reporter pushed back,
“But this is our reigning champ—the unbeatable number 16! Did he surprise you?”
You inhaled sharply through your nose as a familiar voice cut through,
"Hey!"
Robby was actually here to save the day,
“Give the kid some breathin’ room, we’ll catch up at the press junket tomorrow.” He sternly replies, steering your shoulders toward the trailer. He brings his lips down to your ear, whispering,
“It’ll be fine, just breathe, kid.”
Robby’s hand on your shoulder was solid—like an anchor in a storm.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t shove anyone. Just stood there, tall and unshakable as a brick wall.
The reporters hesitated—some even lowered their mics when they saw the look in Robby’s eyes: that calm-but-deadly glare of a veteran crew chief who'd seen every kind of drama this sport could throw.
“Back off,” he said again, quieter this time—but it carried more weight than any shout ever could.
Once inside the quiet metal shell away from flashing lights and shouting fans… he closed the door behind him softly—and pulled out two bottles from his cooler: one water for each.
Handing yours over,
“Breathe.”
You throw yourself onto the couch and groan, scrubbing your face,
“I want to rot in my hotel room.” You start to complain, Robby chuckling,
“Go celebrate, holding yourself to such a standard isn’t going to help—mingle for Christ sake.” He teases before flicking your forehead—hard enough to sting but not actually hurt—you swatted at his hand like an angry cat.
You groaned louder—dramatic, over-the-top—and thrashed like a petulant child.
Robby just smirked. He knew the drill: you didn’t lose. Not even second place sat right with you.
He leaned against the trailer wall,
“You can’t get into your head for second place. You need to keep yourself loose, when you’re tense—“
“Yeah, I know, we get it. Fine.” You huff, pushing up from the couch and toward your shower,
“I’m not going unless the crew is!” You add over your shoulder, Robby quick to reply back,
“You know they always are—a team of trouble.”
While you tear off your sweat stained gear and washed the grit away, your mind wandered to that stupid smile again. Actually, you do a double take in the mirror before you actually leave your trailer. The arena is well and empty, the press long gone, just cleaning crews in the stands.
“Hey! Where’s your go to celebration spot?” The voice hit you like a surprise breeze—soft, warm, and way too cheerful for someone who’d just stolen your win. You to snap your head to the source.
There he was. In dark jeans and a loose gray hoodie, his blonde curls slightly messy from the helmet’s pressure earlier.
You take a deep breath and shrug, trying your hardest to snap with something backhanded.
“I like this one club called The Garage.” You blurt out, tapping your foot,
“That’s probably where I’m going.” You add, twisting your neck and stretching—you were trying a little too hard to be casual, in all honesty.
Dennis’s eyes lit up—like you’d just told him the best news of his life.
“The Garage? Yeah, I’ve heard about that place,” he said, bouncing slightly on his toes.
“Robby mentioned it earlier when they were packing stuff up.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t invite himself along—not yet.
But then… after a beat of silence where only the distant hum of cleaning equipment filled the air…
“I was gonna head there too,” he admitted with a shy half-smile.
“If—y’know—that’s cool?”
His voice dipped at the end—damn those blue eyes and those stupid curls and that hopeful look like this whole night depended on whether you would say yes.
Slowly, you nod, cracking your knuckles,
“I guess. I’m not going to be out long. Not really in the mood.” You reply, keeping everything short and snapped—still an upgrade to the condescending comments the day before.
Dennis didn’t seem to mind your tone—not one bit.
In fact, he just nodded back and fell into step beside you as you started walking toward the exit.
No big talk. No bragging about his win—just… quiet companionship.
He pulled his hoodie strings tight against the evening chill, hands tucked in his pockets. The two of you walked under flickering stadium lights—the only sound being your boots on asphalt and Dennis occasionally clearing his throat like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
Then finally—after a full minute of silence,
“Thanks for saying yes,” he murmurs.
You chuckle, shaking your head,
“It’s not like you’re a charity case.” You blurt out, looking over to Dennis—who’s giving the perfect puppy pout to break your heart. You quickly clear your throat,
“I just mean… yeah I’m—I dunno—hard headed, but I’m not a dick.”
Dennis’s pout softened into something warmer—like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He starts laughing. A real, full laugh—bright and unguarded—and it echoed a little under the empty grandstands.
“Hard-headed? Yeah,”
he said, nodding like this was obvious,
“But you’re not a dick. You’re… intense.”
It wasn’t an insult.
Not even close.
If anything, he sounded impressed.
Then quieter—almost to himself:
“Most people who win races as much as you do? They act like they own the world.”
He glanced at you sideways now—the kind of look that actually sees someone instead of just their reputation.
And before either of you could overthink it…
Dennis reached out and gently bumped your shoulder with his—a small nudge.
Friendship level: achieved.
—————————————————————
Sorry I Dieded. I had A LOTTRR going on…….. I don’t even wanna list it, imma sound like a fool. Anyways. I will get cooking again. I miss cooking. 🧑🍳