What Ozzie was saying made a lot of sense, but it was hard to motivate herself knowing that heads or tails both gave the same result.
She walked out into the pit lane just to get some air. It was an overcast day, and probably lighter in the garage than outside. She jumped up onto the pit wall, and pondered the black asphalt — the blank canvas against which so many of her colorful battles had taken place.
The more she thought about it, the more right she realized Ozzie was. She had to drive at her best, and not just for the sake of pride — there was another element to this. She HAD to be able to say that she was forced to slow down. Make the jerk use those team orders. Make him feel the burn of knowing that she was faster than him, and that he only won because of his wallet.
If she gave up now and drifted through the remaining two races, then it would look like he was the deserving winner anyway, and the team orders would look like insurance. In fact, no-one else would even know they’d existed. All they’d see was a driver finishing way behind their teammate and conclude that there was a gap in talent between them. No, she had to gird up her loins. Wipe the floor with him. Let everyone know what the score was.
Renewed, she walked back into the garage, her head held high.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s rip this circuit a new one.”
“Atta-girl.”
Two hours later, and she had pole position under her belt.
“You know, that’s one of the best single laps I’ve seen you do while you’ve been with us,” said Ozzie. “I’ve been doing this for years and I’ve seen some mega-talented drivers fail to make the grade, purely because of their attitude. That’s a proper good attitude you’ve got, right there.”
If pretty much anyone else had said that to her, she’d have spat back out the line she’d said so often to guys who accosted her after the race, who patronized her as a way of showing that they were somehow still the experts, despite the fact that she was the racing driver and they were just beer-guzzling spectators: “I don’t need your approval.”
They never came up and said it to Drake — or any of the other guys for that matter. Just her. But Ozzie was different. His opinion did matter. She liked him and trusted him, and she knew he wasn’t gaming her.
“Thanks.”
“Now you go out there and nail that marker so high he’ll need a stepladder to reach it. Or at least an even bigger sackful of cash.”
She smiled and offered him a high five.
“Nah. You don’t get that till you finish the job.”
Race day. The tension would be almost unbearable if it weren’t such a foregone conclusion. As it was, she felt maybe the most relaxed she’d been since she’d joined. All the pressure was on him — he’d be desperate not to invoke those team orders.
And so onto the parade lap, and circulating around the sinuous curves of a circuit that definitely favored Drake. Around they went, swerving from side to side to warm the tires, slamming on hard periodically to keep the temperature in the brakes. Damn it, she was really starting to get good at this. In learning terms, she was still so much on the up, and she was so damn hungry. It wasn’t fair that her career was about to hit the skids.
The pace car brought them around onto the main straightaway, peeled off, and away they went, her mirrors full of cars darting this way and that — a frenzy of movement. She was focused, but calm. Position the car just right. Give anyone following the sense that either side was a bad side to try and pass on; that her car was pretty much the width of the track.
The pressure must have been telling on Drake — despite this being his kind of circuit, he’d only managed fifth on the grid. She could see the blue of his car buzzing about in the melee.
As they hit the first corner, she was still in lead, and she could see Sam Daniels was following her around in second. Why couldn’t he be her teammate? Come to think of it, why couldn’t he be lover, too? Damn it, it would be so convenient. He was a gentleman, and a bit of a pushover in racing terms. She could compete with him and win at a canter, and still have a love life. Except for the small matter of her not actually wanting him. Damn it, why couldn’t you choose these things?
She snapped out of it and focused back on the race. By the end of the first lap she had a gap of a second. By the fifth, she was seven seconds up. She just kept her head down, kept focused, and kept putting the times in. For a while she even forgot all about the team orders — she was so deep into her rhythm. She was just doing what she loved, and what she did so well. Forty laps down, and out of nowhere the radio crackled into life.
“Callie, sorry, but you’ve got a fuel problem,” said Ozzie.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
Why could his car be plucked off the track, mid-lap, by some kind of magnetic anti-asshole crane? Or far less complicatedly, why couldn’t it just break down? That would make life so much easier for everyone. But the former, despite being like something from a cartoon, was still probably more likely than the latter — the car was built like a tank, and mechanical failures were few and far between.
For a lap she just ignored it. Then for another lap. Damn it, she simply didn’t want to; wasn’t going to.
That was another thing that was easier said than done. It’s hard enough coming to terms with the idea of slowing down for your teammate while standing in the garage, but it’s even harder when you’re in the car and driving. It would be about as easy as stopping having sex because you think you’ve heard the nurse outside. Your body is flushed with all these competitive juices and you’re just in full don’t-mess-with-me combat mode. You don’t feel it at the time — you just feel focused — but then you get out the car and you realize that you’re completely wired. You can’t sit still. You can’t rest. You can’t sleep, not for hours. Adrenaline is quite a thing.
“Callie,” said Ozzie again. “Fuel.”
She continued driving at full speed.
“Callie,” came the voice. This time it wasn’t Ozzie — it was the unmistakable voice of Travis, the team manager. “You need to slow down right away, or you really will run out of fuel.” She could practically see him giving the world’s biggest nudge and wink at the other end. “Please confirm you understand.”
Silence.
“Please confirm”
Silence.
“Callie?”
Silence.
“Callie?”
Silence.
More silence.
“Yeah. Confirmed.”
Oh well, it had been good while it lasted. Every sinew in her body wanted to keep braking on the limit but, gradually, reluctantly, she started changing her driving. Lift and coast, they called it. You take your foot off the throttle earlier than normal on the straightaways and let the aerodynamics slow the car down — which they do quite a lot — before you hit the brakes yourself. It changes all your braking points, it’s actually quite a complex task to get your head around and it genuinely does save fuel. In fact, it was a great skill to be practicing — one befitting the very top drivers. Such a shame she’d never get to become of them.
Eventually, the yellow of Sam Daniels came into her mirrors. It must have been something of a surprise to him to catch her, given the way she’d strolled away. How far back was Drake, then? It was bad enough having to give up her place to him, but just how far down were they both going to have to finish, just so he could be allowed to finish ahead? Daniels swept past her, in what must have been the easiest pass of his career. Then the familiar blue came into her mirrors. She knew she was just imagining it, but to her it had that look of guilt about it, like the family dog always did when it had torn something apart.
She toyed with the idea of trolling him — of aiming to let him through and then closing the door. Or speeding up again for a bit. Or even of colliding with him like he’d done with her all those times. But that wasn’t her style. Besides, it would have been the racing equivalent of throwing a game board up in the air and storming off because things weren’t go
ing your way. Ozzie was right — it was important she went about this the right way, and didn’t spit the dummy out. So, as they came onto the straightaway again, she pulled right across and pointed very openly, meaning ‘pass me on this side’. The racing equivalent of holding the door open and saying, “After you.” A gesture of open acquiescence, so that no-one could be kidded into thinking this was a genuine overtake.
She felt herself wincing as she waited for the car to come through. It was so painful, and seemed to last an eternity. Yet the moment never came — then the corner arrived and he still hadn’t gone past, so she went in first and he followed behind.
“Jesus,” she said to herself. “This idiot can’t even make a clean move when it’s handed to him.”
On the next short straight she did it again, only this time she went slower. He pulled alongside.
“Finally.”
But then he braked earlier than her, and once again she went into the corner first. What was this? The world’s slowest driver competition? Or was he just trying to rub it in? She seethed at the thought. Was it not enough to beat her? Did he have to try and humiliate her, too?
“What are you two playing at?” came the voice of Travis on the radio.
“Ask him!”
Going into the next corner — a slow, right-handed hairpin — she made it as open and clear as possible. She braked early and pulled over onto the dirty part of the corner, where the cars rarely go. It was as wide open an opportunity as she could give him — the racing driver equivalent of laying your cloak down on a puddle. This time he did slip past, taking the inside track she’d left available to him. But then out of nowhere...
SMACK
He swerved into her, bumping the open face of his wheels against hers. What the...? Asshole! She looked across at him and gesture with her hand — what was he doing? He must be toying with her — why else would he behave like his. But then he hadn’t done it in a place where there was a risk of her going off, and he hadn’t done it hard enough to cause her a problem.
Wait — was he trying to provoke her?
She looked across to find him doing the same, though his eyes were hidden behind the mirroring effect of the light on his visor. He gestured across to her, as if to say “Well?”
Well what, asshole?
Then he swerved across and did the same thing again...
SMACK.
He gestured at her again.
Oh, wait a minute — maybe he was trying to tell her they should...
She put her foot down, leaving a pair of black tracks behind her. She checked her mirrors — he was right on her tail and racing. Well, what did you know? Maybe he had a conscience after all. Either way, if it was a race he wanted, he’d got one.
She felt the adrenaline surge in her body, her whole body buzzing like... like when she was partaking in that other activity they did so well together. The next corner he wasn’t close enough, but the following one at the end of the short straight, he was. She slammed the door shut — a slap in his face if there ever was one — and caught a glimpse of his tire smoke as he locked-up in avoidance.
“What the hell’s going on out there?” squawked an irate Travis.
She ignored it. Not her problem, for a start, but also she didn’t really know herself. Not that she was complaining — she was apparently in a genuine race, and she wasn’t going to question it. It just felt right, and sometimes — in fact generally — it really was best to be guided your instincts.
Coming down the main straight, he moved to the inside position to try to make the pass. But she read it perfectly, covering him off. Only to see that he was no longer there. He’d sold her the dummy, feigning to go one way but immediately switching to the other — she was blocking thin air.
As she went into the corner on the slower, inside line, he swept around the outside. But there was no way she was letting him past that easily. Side by side they went, locked in position all the way into the next corner, a left -hander, this time with her on the outside.
This was it. This was exactly the kind of circumstances where he’d banged her off the track previously. She flinched, ready for the impact; for the sucker punch double-bluff signature asshole move of the century. Any moment now...
It never came.
Damn it — maybe he really had grown a conscience.
As they came into the third successive corner, wheel to wheel, she took the apex of the corner, squeezing him out as she exited, pushing him back. Completely legal, but just about as firm as you can get while still being fair. This was exactly his kind of circuit, but she had track position, and that was the thing that mattered most. If he was going to get past her, it would take something special.
The only place on the circuit he hadn’t tried was also the most dangerous. It was almost a mirror image of the corner they’d gone off on in the wet. A high-speed corner after a straight, with only room for a single car there.
He made a better exit from the turn preceding turn, and pulled out from beside her and slowly eased alongside. Something instinctive in her told her to look sideways, only to catch him doing the same thing at the same time. For a single, surreal moment, they were lost in time together, staring across the asphalt at each other at something like 180mph. He nodded. She nodded back. And just for a moment, they weren’t battling — they were together.
Turns don’t care much for feelings, however, and the next one was approaching rapidly. The two of them arrived absolutely neck and neck, both determined not to give way, her with the inside line, him with the outside line, and with a whole load of gravel and then a tire barrier ready to collect them, and a couple of hospital beds waiting for them — if they were lucky.
The corner arrived, and neither would back down. The gasp of the crowd could probably have been heard miles away. It was begging for another accident, as had happened almost every single time they’d gone wheel to wheel. Only this time it was different. She kept her line and left him room, and he, with the marginally better line but the harder job, swept majestically around the outside, braking into the slow corner that followed and taking the lead.
It was a moment of absolute trust, not just in each other’s abilities, but in each other’s intentions.
“Nice move,” she said to herself.
Time was running out for Callie. It was time to get her head down and focus, not let him get away, but he was in his rhythm now on a circuit that favored him. Callie could only watch, frustrated, as he slowly eked out a lead, enjoying an advantage over her that he deserved for a change. She hated losing — despised it — but at least it wasn’t married up to the burn of injustice for a change.
Daniels celebrated on the podium, and understandably so — the victory kept him in with a real chance of winning the title. All three were all on even points now — whoever won in the final round would claim the title.
As they stood on the podium waiting for the ceremony, she turned to Drake.
“What made you change your mind?”
“I just thought...” he struggled to find the right way to put it, before settling on something far simpler. “It was wrong. You deserve better. Hell, I deserve better. It’s not the way I want to race. And it’s definitely not the way I want to live.”
He looked deep into her with those baby blue eyes, and some part of her melted.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” she said, “that was a great move. Well, you know, an okay move. It’s a shame, obviously, because I’m going to whip your ass in the next race.”
“Maybe I’ll whip your ass,” he said with a glint in his eye. “And maybe I won’t even wait until the next race.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes, mutual admiration shifting into something more basic — pure, visible lust.
Sam Daniels wasn’t quite in the same mood as them. “Get a room!”
“We should wait, shouldn’t we,” said Callie. “We’re professionals.”
“I suppose so,” said Travis, lust still drippi
ng from his facial expression.
“‘Professionals,’” said Daniels, using his fingers as quotation marks, but the two were too busy devouring each other with their eyes to pay much heed.
Callie and Drake’s gaze was broken as they both noticed Travis standing off to one side with aggressively folded arms and a face like a storm. This whole thing wasn’t over yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Travis Hutton, manager of Travis Hutton Racing, the team he’d started sixteen years ago, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“The thing is,” said Bill, “I’m paying you, my good man, for my driver to win the title.”
“He beat his teammate — what more do you want?”
“He was lucky. I want there to be no luck involved, as we agreed.”
“Well there’s not much I can do if he doesn’t want to take advantage of his preferential treatment, now, is there?”
“Oh, I think he does, Travis. I just don’t think he realizes yet,” said Bill, fiddling with his bow tie.
They both stared at each other a while. Travis was an old hand, and knew when to keep a strategic silence.
It fell to Bill to break the silence once again. “Drivers should know their place. They’re not the real players, after all. They’re just pawns. But I can hear what you’re saying — ultimately, you’re not in control of your own employees.”
“Are you trying to manipulate me, William?” said Travis. He liked using the longer version of Bill’s name; he felt like it shifted the power subtly in his direction.
“Not at all!” he said, affecting a look of mock-annoyance. “How could you ever imply such a thing?”
“Firstly, I’m fully in control of my employees,” said Travis. “And secondly, let’s not forget that you’re the one who’s allowed his driver’s judgment to be clouded by emotions. Fancy getting romantically involved with your own teammate. What kind of amateurs are you supplying me with here?”
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