“Doesn’t sound like nobody,” Lindsey muttered.
Her dad ignored her. “I’m going to get something to drink. Lindsey, you need to find someplace out of the way where you can watch.”
“How about on top of the hauler?” Cece asked, waving toward the race car transporter they’d just climbed down from.
“On top?” Lindsey said.
“Cool.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you how to get up there.”
“I thought you needed to use the bathroom,” Becca said.
“I will. In a minute,” Cece said, waving Lindsey her way.
“Speaking of the restroom,” James said, turning away.
That left Adam and Becca alone.
“I, um…I hope you’re not nervous about this afternoon,” Becca said into the silence that followed everyone’s departure, well, silence but for the sudden clang of a dropped wrench.
“I’m not,” Adam said.
Becca clasped her clipboard in front of her, that awkwardness she’d felt last night suddenly returning. “Good luck,” she said softly.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I mean that,” she added, clutching the clipboard tighter. “Whatever happens, thank you for agreeing to come.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And for paying me,” he added. “Even if I don’t make it, that money will come in handy.”
Which reminded Becca that if he did make it, his sudden pay raise would dramatically change his life.
The question was: would he change hers?
CHAPTER NINE
HE COULD DO THIS.
Adam’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his body so tense it felt as if his helmet was digging into his temples.
He’d climbed into the truck again, had spoken a few words to Lindsey via his radio, then hooked his window net on the closing latches. Despite what he’d told Becca, he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life.
Just a few laps around a track. Nothing to it.
But this was it.
This was
it.
If he could just hold on to his truck in traffic, he might win the thing.
Holy crawdad, he might win.
His breathing echoed in his ears, the bars of his HANS device digging into his shoulder so that he could feel every beat of the pulse near his collarbone. His helmet suddenly felt too tight, pulse points pounding wherever the inner liner made contact with his head.
Becca had looked upset.
He’d wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. But he couldn’t do that. They were just friends. That’s all they’d ever be.
“Start it up,” he heard John say.
Becca’s image faded as Adam flipped the on/off switch with a hand that shook.
How’d it happen?
he asked himself. Two months ago he’d been working his fingers to the bone, trying to race and still make ends meet with a job at the local repair shop. Today he sat in the driver’s seat of a race truck owned by none other than Randy Newman’s widow.
“Everyone take two or three to warm up,” John said. “Then we’ll see what your lap times look like.”
Two or three to warm up. No problem.
But behind him were three other drivers who wanted to impress the team owners, one of them Sam Kennison who followed directly behind him, his truck’s red and white paint scheme a familiar one, though different from the red, white and blue trucks they’d driven on Monday. They were using real race trucks this time, not the trucks specially made for the first day’s testing session. The Snappy Lube decal was affixed on the hood of Sam’s truck. Adam’s boss hated the nationwide string of oil change stores, claimed they’d stolen business from him. And yet here Adam was in Martinsville, racing against the same race truck featured in their commercials. But what was even more surreal, what made it feel even more like a dream, was the logo on his own truck. Travel Time Hotels.
Un. Real.
Concentrate, Adam,
he told himself after they told him to start the truck. He cruised down pit road, the engine so powerful he could feel its vibration down to his bones. On his left, the pit wall raced by like a white stream of paper, faster and faster. The grandstand began to blur, too, as he brought the truck through the gears. But unlike Monday, when he’d shown up at the track expecting to fail, today he knew he might have a shot. Everything seemed sharper somehow—the color of the infield grass, the empty blue seats, sunlight arching off the building’s glass. His own truck’s dark blue hood, the gold logo in the center refracting sunlight.
“Drop the hammer, boys,” John said when they’d brought the trucks up to speed.
They’d been asked to start single file, Adam in front, followed by Sam, Tate and Jordan. But Adam backed off a bit just before slamming down the pedal. Sam had to check up. So did Tate and Jordan. It was an old racer’s trick, one Sam should have been expecting, but judging by how close he got to the rear of Adam’s truck, Adam figured he’d been caught off guard. Good. The kid needed to remember he was up against a veteran.
Kid.
Carl’s kid. What the hell was he doing racing against Carl’s—
No.
He wouldn’t think like that. Instead he concentrated on steering his truck out of turn two, the back end breaking free. He had to work to keep the truck from spinning, but years of driving on dirt tracks stood him in good stead. At the last moment he found some traction, the back end hooking up and shooting him forward.
Close.
“How’s it feel?” John asked.
“Loose.”
“We’ll fix it during the first scheduled break.”
“Okay,” Adam said, the pads of his fingers tingling thanks to his death grip on the wheel. His gaze shot toward his mirror. Sam was right on his rear spoiler and behind him he could see the front end of another car, one that had ducked down low. Tate was trying to pass Jordan. Well, good. Maybe that would keep them occupied while he worked to keep Sam off his ass.
They flew toward turn three and Adam’s stomach knotted. He’d have to try to hold on to it. Backing off and letting Sam go by just wasn’t an option.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought, shooting into the corner like a ball tied to the end of a string. His body slammed into the seat cushions. Gravity pushed against him, his head tipping to the left. The back end began to break free. Adam felt his breath catch as he inched closer and closer to the marbles. But instead of fighting the truck this time, he simply let it drift. And instead of the back end losing its grip, it sank down, seeming to squat as the traction bars kicked in, allowing the back tires to find some grip.
Sam fell back. Not a lot, but enough that Adam breathed a little easier.
“Nice line,” John said, Adam catching a quick glimpse of everyone on pit road before entering turn one again.
“Thanks,” Adam said.
“And nice lap time.”
Adam almost asked what it’d been, but he didn’t want to know. As long as he didn’t wreck the truck and as long as he held off Sam, that’s all that mattered.
But Sam gave him a run for his money. The kid was always there, pushing and pushing, looking for a mistake that he could capitalize on to pass Adam. The other two drivers, Tate and Jordan, were involved in their own battle, causing them to fall farther and farther back. Adam didn’t have time to worry about them. He had his hands full. The kid ducked down low at one point so Adam had to force his truck to stay down on the apron, something that caused his back end to pitch sideways. That almost lost him the lead. Almost, but not quite.
“All right,” John said after the first twenty laps. “Let’s see how well you guys pit.”
Adam’s chest tightened, his heart squeezing so hard he could barely breathe.
Here was another test. And it was the one he most dreaded. Yeah, he had experience bringing a car down pit road, but never with as professional a crew as this. It’d be different.
Or maybe not,
he thought as he spied the sign-board bobbing up and down, the blue-and-gold 61 glowing in the sun. He hurled toward that colorful board as if he planned to bust through it.
“That’s it,” John said. “3,500 RPMs. Just bring her in nice and easy.”
But it wasn’t as easy as all that. His timing needed to be perfect. Fast enough that he didn’t lose valuable seconds by being overcautious. Slow enough that he didn’t violate the mandatory speed limit. And while this wasn’t an official race and he wouldn’t be monitored by NASCAR, he would bet someone else was keeping a watchful eye.
“Five, four, three,” John counted off. Adam kept an eye on the dancing sign, slamming down the brake pedal at the last minute and sliding to a stop with his nose against the plastic board.
Perfect.
Or at least he thought so. Hard to tell how close he was to the line without getting out of the truck. But it was already being hiked up on the right and Adam told himself to focus. He needed to be ready when John gave the signal to go. He kept an eye on the crew, especially John. The crew chief watched from near the front of the pit stall, upper body leaning forward, face as tense as if this were an actual race. Down went the right side and a split second later, up went the left. Fresh tires that were lower in air pressure replaced the worn tires that’d been on his truck before. He saw a tire changer duck down, the air hose snaking through the air as if alive.
“Go, go, go,” John said.
Adam glanced in his mirror as he stabbed the gas. Sam’s pit stop was a little slower, but not by much, the two of them heading out almost together.
“Nice stop, everybody,” John said to the crew. “That means you, too, Adam,” he added.
“Thanks,” Adam said, although he was pretty certain John said that to all the drivers. The crew chief was the laid-back type, his voice constantly in Adam’s ear. That was a good thing because it calmed Adam down, helped him to focus.
He brought the truck up to speed, but something felt off. “Think those were the wrong adjustments,” he told John.
“Roger that. We’ll work on it some more during your next stop.”
Suddenly it was all Adam could do to hold Sam off. Adam had to duck down low to block him, then drift up high. He battled Sam so hard he began to feel a vibration a few laps later.
“Think I’ve got a tire going down,” he told John.
“You think?”
“Pretty sure,” Adam said, wondering if this were part of the test. He backed off the gas and ducked toward the inside. Sam and the other two drivers roared past, Adam feeling as if he’d been passed by a multicolored rainbow.
“Damn,” he heard himself mutter.
And then the truck pitched left.
“Shit,” he cursed as he fought the front end, trying to keep the truck from careening into the wall. He wasn’t going all that fast, thank God, but it was fast enough to send the car sideways. He felt the three good tires chatter in protest as they slid across the track. Smoke rose up around him, obscuring the view out of the front windshield. He flinched, waiting for a collision with the wall and when none came, glanced left and right so he could get his bearings.
He got his bearings, all right. He was facing the wrong direction. Turn two, the turn he’d just exited, sat in front of him. Adam felt a chuckle build then, then a bizarre urge to stay there so he could wave at the other guys when they rounded the corner.
“Unless we’re racing in England, I think I need to turn this thing around,” he said.
“You all right?”
“Didn’t hit the wall, but the tire probably tore the fender all up.”
Silence. Then, “Do you need a push?”
Adam flicked the starter switch. The engine roared to life with a puff of exhaust smoke. “Nope. But I’m going to nurse her in. Warn everybody there’s probably debris on the track.”
“Ten-four.”
It was the slowest trip to pit road he’d ever had, compounded by the sound of the tire’s outer liner beating against the fender wall.
Blam. Blam. Blam.
Over and over again. Not good.
“How’s it look?” Adam asked when he came to a stop on pit road, trying to see for himself if the front fender had been damaged beyond repair. But he couldn’t see anything other than the top.
“Like a dog’s chew toy,” John said. “But it’s nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.”
He relaxed.
“We’ll probably need to tighten it up. The damaged front end will make me loose.”
“Ten-four,” John said.
And then because he knew Lindsey was probably worried about him said, “Just be sure you leave some of that duct tape for me afterward. I could use it for my daughter’s mouth when she gets out of line.”
There. That should reassure her that he was feeling fine. He could practically hear Lindsey’s “Hey!” from on top of the hauler.
But as he stared down pit road, he felt the first twinge of disappointment. Sam was good. Better than good.