“Yeah. And I need to watch him,” she said, flicking her chin toward pit road.
“I’ll be back.”
“Adam,” she said after he’d turned away.
“Yeah?”
“You really will do fine.”
YOU REALLY WILL DO FINE.
Adam stared out at the windshield of the test truck, his hands clenching the steering wheel with such force the tips of his fingers started to tingle, though that might be in part because the motor revving beneath the hood felt like a jet engine.
Relax.
Yeah, right.
This was the biggest moment of his life, second only to when Lindsey had been born. No chance in hell that he was going to top that, so why not just relax?
“Okay, Adam,” Blain Sanders said right as Adam tried to scratch the back of his neck. “Just take it easy at first. Get a feel for how she handles. Becca tells me you’ve been racing modifieds and, as you know, they’re way lighter than trucks. I don’t think I need to tell you that it’s gonna feel way different than what you’re used to driving.”
So what the heck was he doing here?
But he wouldn’t go down that road. Nah. He owed it to Lindsey and to Becca Newman not to make a total ass of himself. So all he did was open the mic and say, “Roger.”
“Go ahead and take her out when you’re ready.”
He didn’t think he’d ever be ready. But he put the truck into gear, anyway, sinking into the padded seat that had been adjusted to fit his tall frame and easing the vehicle forward. It was a real race car—all right, truck. But he’d raced just about everything there was out there. He could handle this.
Adam shifted through the gears, the two walls that framed pit road quickly running out until he was suddenly there, out on the track.
At a speedway.
Holy shit.
To his right the dark gray posts that held the catch fence slipped by faster and faster. He’d seen the sight on TV a thousand times before.
But never like this.
And even though the track’s name had changed in recent years, it would still always be Charlotte to him—and it seemed surreal to be driving on it.
Easy,
he told himself.
Just be cool. Get a feel for it, like Sanders said.
Sanders. From Sanders’
Racing.
One of the most famous owners in the history of the sport.
The truck bobbled.
Concentrate!
He shifted into fourth gear. It didn’t matter who was watching him, he told himself. He wasn’t here for Blain Sanders, he was here for his daughter.
Taking a deep breath, he let the asphalt slip beneath him, faster and faster, bringing the truck up to speed. Down the backstretch again. Press the accelerator. Back off near the corner. Use the brake to throw into turn three.
Damn near the same.
It felt damn near the same as driving a modified, only faster and…different. Faster and yet slower because as his vision narrowed, the world outside became a blur so that speed became hard to gauge. He headed out of turn four, the grandstands unrecognizable now because he went so fast—his left foot hovering over the brake, right foot easing off the gas, but not a lot. He didn’t need to ease off because he was in control, the truck responding to his hands as if he’d driven race trucks his entire life.
Maybe in his dreams he had.
“How’s she feel, driver?”
Adam headed into turn two again, the back end breaking loose. They’d have to fix that if he wanted to improve his lap times.
“She’s loose out of the corner. And really, really tight going in.”
“The last driver thought the truck was loose going in and tight coming out.”
“Well I don’t know why he thought that when it’s pushing damn near into the wall.”
As if to illustrate his point, the truck drifted into the rubber marbles of turn one, Adam easing the truck down and back into the groove. Close. He’d almost lost it. And when he stabbed the accelerator, it broke loose yet again.
He tried to drive the truck that way for a couple laps, his spotter rattling off lap times—times that weren’t all that great.
“I’d like to come in early,” he said. They were given twenty laps to feel out the truck, but Adam didn’t see the point in hanging out.
“Roger that,” Sanders said after a momentary silence. “You can come in early if you want.”
Less than a minute later he was on pit road, the truck rolling to a stop in the makeshift pit stall.
“What kind of adjustments do you want?” Sanders asked, leaning into the window as the truck idled.
This was part of the test, Adam realized, because Sanders knew what adjustments to make. In fact, he probably knew better than Adam did—this was
his
truck.
“Loosen her up for me with a track bar adjustment, if you don’t mind. That ought to fix the tight going in problem.”
“Track bar? You sure you don’t want to take out some wedge first?”
“Nope. I don’t want to lose the forward bite. Let’s do the track bar first and see how that helps.”
He caught a glimpse of something in Blain’s eyes then, something that looked like approval. “Roger that,” Sanders said. “Loosen up that track bar,” he told the crew.
It wasn’t like a race day pit stop—this was a test session and so everything was more leisurely—but to Adam it felt real. No,
unreal
to be sitting on pit road, the speedway’s massive grandstands—empty—stretching up to his right like a giant bowl, the angle was so steep. There weren’t thousands of fans watching his every move, no TV cameras trained on his car, but Adam didn’t care. If he never drove a race truck again, he’d always remember this.
And that’s when he started to relax. Truly relax. He had nothing to prove to anybody, he realized. He was there by the grace of God and his daughter’s strong will. He hadn’t wrecked the truck and to be honest, he didn’t think he would. So if he went fast, great, if not—no big deal.
“All set,” Sanders said a few seconds later.
“Roger,” Adam answered, putting the truck into gear.
It was better. Still not great, but better. And his lap times were good, lower than the target lap times they’d set. Course, that probably didn’t mean much. He had a feeling that the target lap times were probably more like a goal and not anything else.
Two more trips to pit road and they had it the way he liked it. It felt fast, but that was only because he’d never driven a one-and-a-half-mile oval. He could have stayed out there all day.
All too quickly Sanders said, “Okay. Your twenty-lap session is over. Bring her in.”
“Do I have to?” Adam felt comfortable enough to quip.
“’Fraid so, buddy.”
“Shoot. And here I was hoping to stay out here until the next truck race.”
“NASCAR might have a thing or two to say about that.”
“You think so?” Adam asked.
“I think so.” Sanders joked back.
And so he brought it in, Adam studying the crew’s faces in the hopes of gauging how he did. Alas, he couldn’t tell a thing. He handed the steering wheel and helmet to the crew member who released the safety net, detaching himself from the audio system and the various safety restraints until he was free to wiggle out of the car.
“That was fun,” Adam said, catching the man’s eye as he pulled himself out the window.
“It
looked
like fun.”
“I might have to come back here and do that driving school just so I can experience it again.”
And it was funny, because it was only after he said the words that he finally noticed how the other crew members were staring at him. They hovered near the wall, looks of approval on their faces. Blain’s next words confirmed what he already suspected.
“Adam, you won’t need to
pay
someone to drive here,” Sanders said. “You drove faster than last year’s race winner.”
It felt as if he’d stomped on the brakes. His world came to a screeching halt, only to grind fast forward again. “Come again?”
“You were fast, Adam,” Blain said. “Real fast. That target time was set by last year’s race winner, and you shattered it to hell and back. We’ll definitely want you back for phase two tomorrow.”
He looked past Blain to the woman standing behind him—Cece Sanders, he recognized.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
“HE LOOKS AS SHOCKED as you do,” Cece said a few moments later.
“I can’t believe it,” Becca murmured for about the hundredth time.
“What I can’t believe is that he hasn’t tried out for a team before.”
“He couldn’t. Not while raising his little girl.”
“What a waste,” Cece mused.
“It wasn’t a waste,” Becca said. “I respect and admire his sacrifice.” Her words trailed off because she’d noticed the look on Cece’s face.
“Got you,” her friend said with a grin.
“You know, there are moments when I truly want to throttle you.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, her blue eyes all but twinkling. “You love me too much and you know it.”
Becca sighed, looking over at Adam Drake again. “I do.”
“The question is,” Cece added. “What are you going to do with him?”
I know what I’d
like
to do with him.
Becca closed her eyes, mouthing a silent curse. She hadn’t felt this kind of attraction to a man in years, and she couldn’t believe it was rearing its ugly head now. When she opened her eyes again Cece was staring at her in open amusement.
“Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We still have to consult with your crew chief and Blain. They might not have liked his lines or thought he was consistent enough.”
“Becca, he went faster than the target lap time we set—and you know that time was set by last year’s series champion. They’re gonna love him.”
“Okay, but even if they do love him, we don’t even know how his media testing will go. And we still have to see how he does on a short track.”
“He races short tracks every weekend. Dirt tracks, no less. Martinsville will suit him perfectly.”
“Yeah, I know,” Becca murmured, staring at Adam who was laughing at something Blain said. Golly, he was gorgeous. The dark blue firesuit that had seen better days was a bit snug on his tall frame—
Cece’s face suddenly blocked her view. Becca drew back. “What?” she cried.
“You’re cracking me up.”
“Why?”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
“You like him—and I don’t mean his driving. You’re attracted to him.”
“Yeah, well, so? It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
“Becca, it’s been four years.”
“I know, and I’m still not over him.”
The humor faded from Cece’s eyes. “Becca, Randy’s gone—”
“Don’t,” Becca said, holding up her hand. “Don’t say it. I’m not ready, Cece, and that’s all there is to it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Treat him like I would any other driver,” she said. “I can ignore how he makes me feel. It’s just physical, that’s all. I need a driver, damn it. And if he turns out to be good I can’t afford to let him go to another team, because you know with numbers like his someone will snap him up.”
“Blain will give him a job. We’re looking to expand and Adam Drake is just the sort of driver Blain would love to put into our development program. To be honest, Becca, if he does well at Martinsville, I think you’d be a fool not to snap him up, too.”
“I know,” Becca said, tipping her head back and staring up at the partly cloudy sky. It was getting hot. Well, it was always hot in North Carolina this time of year—she could feel sweat begin to trickle down her neck—but this time it wasn’t from the heat.
“Here he comes,” Cece hissed. And then, louder, “Well, I’m going to go give Blain my notes. See you in a bit.”
“Cece,” Becca hissed, not wanting to be left alone. Too late. Her friend had already fled, giving Adam a smile and a wave and a “good job” pat on the back as they crossed paths near pit road wall.
Okay, Becca. Put your game face on.
“Congratulations,” she said a few moments later. “The boys driving after you will have to work awful hard to catch up.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“Well,” she said. “I’m pretty certain we’ll want you back for media testing tomorrow. Course, we all have to weigh in on your performance, but I’m pretty sure you’re a shoo-in.”
“I didn’t reserve a hotel room.”