Page 6 of Wrecking Boundaries (SteelTrack Racing #2)

“197 to go,” says Derek.

“This is great. I need a spotter who will count laps for me. I always forget. Keep it going,” I say.

Three laps into the latest season, and I’m buzzing. I qualified tenth and plan an even better finish.

“You two can shut up,” says Mike. He’s a great pit chief, serious about his job, passionate about racing, and disinterested in everything else. Our relationship is strictly business, which suits me fine because his professionalism makes me better. “How’s the car?”

“Good handle. The tires are nice and soft. Taking the throttle to sixty.” This race is an endurance test, not a sprint.

“Save your fuel for later,” Mike says.

It’s not the most exciting racing, but it’s the smarter strategy.

“19 coming up. Left rear. Sitting in the lower groove,” warns Derek. “38 behind him. The 9 and 48 follow next. Following close. The 38 joining.”

“Repeat that.”

“Five long, one on your left. Gaining.”

They’re using air to gain speed.

“Decrease throttle,” says Mike. “You only need one to get loose.”

Shit. “Throttle to 40,” I say .

“38 losing it,” Derek says, his voice rising. “The 38 going loose on the turn. The 9 is out.”

“Throttle to 10,” Mike barks. “Now.”

“9 going. Dammit,” says Derek.

Something slams into my back left, and my body jerks. Arms cross my chest, and I count the spins. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

My car stops. How far did I travel? I’m on the green, near the 19.

Six laps. Six fucking laps.

“I guess that’s it then,” I say, reminding myself to smile. “It was a good run.”

Mike ignores me. “Can you drive it?”

“She’s running. See you in a minute.”

I limp my car back to its pit box and climb out.

Six. Fucking. Laps.

∞∞∞

Chris Williamson is waiting as I exit the medical center. “We have Jake Knowles here, driver of the 24, just coming out of the medical center. How are you feeling, Jake?” Chris is a long-time NASCAR fan and reporter. In his way, he’s as big a legend as Tom Rivers or Robert Deere.

“Pretty darn good. Doctors looked me over and sent me on my way.” My smile is warm. Unlike me, some drivers need to work on the PR aspect of the job. The public matters to what I want, which means getting them on my side.

“Do you have any thoughts on today’s wreck you want to share?” Chris asks. His bald spot shines under the sun’s glare .

“Well, honestly, I’m not sure what happened,” I start. After climbing out, Mike let me know the accident wrecked eight cars. “I saw a snake forming, six cars drafting for speed. I don’t know the strategy, but they probably wanted to gain spots on the straightaway. Someone got loose. You might know more about it.”

“The 38 got loose,” Chris says. I already guessed that, but stay silent. “Will you be speaking to him later?”

“There’s nothing to say. It’s racing. You make a move; sometimes it works out, but sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll see what’s on the tape.”

That’s not true. Alec McAllister drives the 38. What little skill he has is due to a considerable amount of money. His record includes a single win and one of the highest DNF rates for all active drivers. I bust ass to keep sponsors happy while his family name provides him with one.

The only difference between him and Boone Rivers is that Boone has skill and works at his craft. Daddy’s last name takes care of the rest.

“Well, I’m sure your fans feel disappointed about the early exit,” Chris says.

I chuckle, wanting to make light while appreciating his mention of fans. Sure, it’s my race, but none of it matters without them. “I’m sorry too, but hey, it happens. It’s the season’s start, and that means more racing. I have a great pit crew. Engineering has done amazing work to make this car the best it can be. Despite this early finish, I’m proud of what we did today, and looking forward to Atlanta.” I smile to let him know my speech is done.

“Thanks so much for your time, Jake. We’re all glad to hear it wasn’t anything more serious.” I return the thanks and walk away, listening to Chris’ voice fade behind me. “That was Jake Knowles, sharing his experience at Daytona today. ”

Everything I said was true, but it was not the entire story. Six laps are a heck of a start, and not in a good way. My plan to speak with Bert is postponed for at least another week.

It’s one week, one race. There are over thirty races to go, which means a lot of points, wins, and plans.

With my smile back where it belongs, I walk back to my RV to watch the rest of the race.

One setback isn’t a season, right?

∞∞∞

“Jake.”

I barely stop myself from running into her. “Hey, beautiful. You’re looking extra sexy today. Is that for me?”

Sarah is wearing another black hoodie with her brother’s number and baggy jeans. She’s wearing it for me, considering last night’s request that she wear something sexy.

“I’ll catch up to you shortly,” she says. Maddie only smiles knowingly and walks away.

“Are they engaged yet?” I ask, surprised by my curiosity.

Sarah doesn’t answer my question. Her lips droop as she crosses her arms. My decision to take the extra long way to my RV was wise. “I’m sorry about today’s results. Six laps, and you had a good car out there today, too. How are you feeling?”

“I’m not injured.”

“That wasn’t my question,” she pushes back.

I drop my smile and decide to be honest. “It’s not how today was supposed to go. That McAllister kid thinks he’s better than he is.”

“Boone once said he asked for a new car for his birthday, and they gave him an entire charter instead. He’ll be in that car until he gets bored.”

I often forget how knowledgeable Sarah is about NASCAR. She’s so busy dismissing the sport that it’s easy to miss how much she understands it. If she ever decided to get serious, Sarah could run a team.

“You should work for NASCAR,” I say unthinkingly. Sarah’s resume sitting out the previous night tells me she is looking.

Her eyes narrow, and I realize that statement might give it away. Several hastily taken pictures sit on my phone right now, all giving me clues about what she is up to. I’m unsure how to resolve her new career plans yet, but I can figure that out.

The dating part, however….

“Why do you say that?” she asks.

“You’re smart,” I say, adding, “Come watch the rest of the race with me.”

“There’s no point,” she says, like I knew she would.

“You’re going to fall in love with me,” I say.

“No, I’m not.” Her frown deepens into a scowl.

“By the time the season is half over,” I say.

I also warned her the previous night, and she didn’t believe me. Luckily for us both, I don’t quit. Sarah believes it’s a mocking joke, or worse, a promise.

“Goodbye, Jake,” she says and walks away, leaving me standing alone.

In my trailer, I quickly change clothes and turn on the TV to discover that Boone Rivers won the first stage.

“Fucking hell,” I mumble, even though there is no one around to hear my annoyance.

Sitting back on the couch, I open my laptop and set my phone beside it. Those pictures were hard to see on my phone but much easier to make out on the laptop’s larger screen.

Her dating app profile was a surprise and a disappointment, but Sarah’s new career plans were not. She’s tackling the entire effort like a project manager would. There is even a list of job descriptions, with titles ranging from teacher to financial analyst.

“My girl is too young for a midlife crisis,” I tell myself.

Sarah is unhappy, and I suspect her family doesn’t realize it, or at least not to the full extent. She thinks I’m being flippant with her when I mean every word. What is required is to prove it.

The career part of her plan will take work since I’m unsure how to help. Her dating life, though, is easy. Halfway through the season wasn’t a joke. It was a promise and a warning.

I stare at my own newly created dating profile. The photos are fake, but at least the model has blond hair. I even chose the perfect name. Sarah’s roadmap and desire made creating the thing relatively easy.

People can sometimes dismiss stock car driving, or they think our aggression only comes out on the straightaway. That isn’t true. We’re always competing, and we do not take losing well.

I open up a direct message and tap my fingers against the laptop. The first message matters. She’ll block me if it’s the wrong one, and I’ll need to start again. Luckily, I already know what kind of man is perfect for her.

Me.

Sarah gave me a clue while we were at her vacation cabin. Her romance books featured dukes and pirates, nothing modern.

I start typing.

Martin: If you were to write a book, what genre would you pick? I’ve always wanted to write historical fiction.

I press send, knowing the wait won’t be long.

If she doesn’t want to date Jake Knowles, I’ll find another way.