by K. Bromberg
And there’s something about her right now—hair highlighted from the sun, a carefree sound to her laugh, and obviously in love with everyone around her. Something about her being with the boys, making life normal for them at a place that has never really been a home until now—until her—hits me harder than that fucking rookie Jameson did in Florida. Has me thinking about the forevers and shit that six months ago would have never once crossed my mind.
It’s just gotta be Becks getting in my head. Mucking it up. The bastard needs to shut the hell up about shit that’s not gonna happen.
Never.
So why the fuck am I wondering what Ry’d look like wearing white? Why am I wondering how Rylee Donavan sounds out loud?
Never. I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but they linger, spooking the shit out of me.
“So not gonna happen.” I laugh, not sure if I’m repeating the words to convince Becks or myself. I look back over at Ry for a second. Talk about jumping the gun when I haven’t even found the bullets to load it yet. Fucking Beckett. “Taming’s one thing, fucker. Ball and chaining?” I whistle out. “That’s a whole ’nother ball game I have no interest in playing.” I shake my head again at that shit-eating grin on his face as I rise from the chair. “Never.”
“We’ll see about that,” he tells me with that smirk I want to wipe from his face.
“Dude, do you feel that?” I ask, raising my arms out from my side and lifting my face to the sun before looking back down at him.
“Huh?”
“That’s called heat, Daniels. Hell can’t freeze if it’s still hot outside,” I toss over my shoulder before walking to the edge of the pool. Conversation over. No more discussion of marriage and shit like that.
Is he trying to give me a heart attack?
Fuck.
“Cannonball!” I yell before jumping in, hoping to create more turmoil in the pool than what Becks is trying to create in my head.
DÉJÀ VU HITS ME LIKE a runaway train as I step from the RV ahead of Colton. The humid heat of Fort Worth hits me instantly, but the sweat trickling in a line down my back has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the anxiety coursing through every nerve.
Over Colton.
And over the car we’re walking toward.
I know he’s nervous, can feel it in the tightened grip of his fingers laced with mine, but his outward appearance reflects nothing but a man preparing to do his job. People around us chatter incessantly but Colton, Becks, and I walk off the infield as one unit, completely focused.
I attempt to push away the memories bombarding my mind, to appear calm even though every fiber of my being is vibrating with absolute trepidation.
“You okay?” His rasp washes over me, the concern in it tugs on my guilt since it should be me reassuring him.
I can’t lie to him. He’ll know if I am and it will only cause him to worry more. The last thing I want is him to be thinking of me. I want him focused and confident when he buckles into the car and takes the green flag all the way to the checkered one.
“I’m getting there,” I breathe and squeeze his hand as we reach the pits and the mass of photographers waiting to record Colton’s first race back after the accident. The click of shutters and shouting of questions drowns out the response he gives me. And as I tense up further, Colton seems to relax some, comfortable in this environment like it’s his second skin.
And I realize that while all of this is uncomfortable and foreign to me, this is part of the blur that Colton used to permanently reside in. Surrounded by the shouts and the flashes of light, he’s one hundred percent back in his element. The utter chaos is allowing him to forget the worry I know is plaguing his thoughts, and for that I’m so thankful.
I step to the side and watch him answer questions with a flash of his disarming smile that gets me every time. And as much as I see the cocky bad boy shining through with each answer, I also see a man in utter reverence of the sport he loves and the role he plays in it. A man gaining back bits and pieces of the confidence he left on the track in St. Petersburg with each response.
As much as I’m dreading the familiar call of “gentlemen start your engines,” a part deep down within me sags in relief that he’s back. My reckless, rebellious rogue just found his footing and is stepping back in his place.
Silence descends around us—the constant noise fading to a white humming as the minutes tick away, bringing us closer and closer to the start of the race. I can feel Colton’s restlessness rising, can see it in his constant movement, and wish I could ease it somehow, someway, but fear he’ll sense mine and that will only make matters worse.
I see him toss his empty Snickers wrapper into the trash beside him as he goes over pit stop scheduling with Becks and some of the other crew members, his face intense but his body language fluid. I watch him step away and look at his car, his head angling to the side as he stares at it for a beat—a silent conversation between man and machine. He walks up to it slowly; the crew, still making last minute adjustments, steps back. He reaches a hand out and runs it up the nose to the driver’s cockpit, almost a caress of sorts. Then he raps his knuckles on the side, his customary four times. The last time he holds his fist there, resting against the metal for a second before shaking his head.
And even with the chaos of all the last minute preparations happening around me, I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I realize how wrong I was to hope he’d give this all up as I sat beside his hospital bed. How asking him to give up racing would be like asking him to breathe without air. To love without me being the one he’s loving. Racing is in his blood—an absolute necessity—and that has never been more evident than right now.
I wonder how different this race will be for him without the constant pressure of the demons on his heels, of the need to drive faster, to push harder to outrun them. Will it be easier or harder without the threat he’s had his whole life?
The PA hums to life shattering my thoughts and Colton’s moment of reflection. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes immediately lock with mine. A shy smile spreads over his lips, acknowledging that our connection is so deep that we don’t need words. And that feeling is priceless.
People scramble around us but with his eyes on mine, he wraps his knuckles two more times on the hood before turning and walking toward me.
“Starting a new tradition?” I ask with a quirk of my brow, a smile a mile wide and a heart brimming with love. “Two more for extra luck or something?”
“Nah.” He smirks, scrunching his nose up in the cutest way—such a contrast to the strong lines of his face—that my heart melts. “All the extra luck I need is right here,” he says as he leans in and presses the tenderest of kisses to my lips and just holds his mouth against mine for a moment.
Emotions threaten—war really—inside of me as I try to tell myself his sudden affection isn’t because the fates above are giving me one last memory with him because something bad is going to happen again. I try desperately to fight the burn of tears and enjoy the moment, but I know he knows, know he senses my unease, because he lifts his hands up to hold my face as he draws back and meets my eyes.
“It’s gonna be okay, Ry. Nothing is going to happen to me.” I force myself to hear the absolute certainty in his voice so I can relax some, be strong for him.
I nod my head subtly. “I know …”
“Baby, Heaven doesn’t want me yet, and fuck if Hell can handle me, so you’re kinda stuck with me.” He flashes me a lighting fast grin that screams everything I never thought was sexy—unpredictable, adventurous, arrogance—and now can’t help the ache it creates.
“Stuck with you, huh?”
He leans in and brings his mouth to my ear. “Stuck in you is more what I’m thinking,” he murmurs, his heated breath against my ear sending shivers down my spine. “So please, please, tell me you’re wearing some type of checkered flag I can claim later because fuck if I don’t want to throw you over my shoulder and
take a test lap right now.”
Every part of my body clenches from his words. And maybe it’s my heightened adrenaline and excessive emotion being back in the moment so precious yet stolen so brutally from us months ago, but fuck if I don’t want him to do just that.
“I love a man willing to beg,” I tease, my fingers playing with the hair curling over the neck of his fire suit.
“You have no idea the things I’m willing to beg for when it comes to you, sweetheart.” He disarms me with that roguish grin of his, his words causing my breath to catch in my throat. “Besides, my begging leads to you moaning and fuck if that’s not the hottest sound ever.”
I exhale a small groan of frustration, needing and wanting him desperately when I can’t have him … and I know that’s exactly why the ache is so intense. I start to speak, but am cut off by the opening chords of the Star Spangled Banner. Colton holds tight to the sides of my face and looks at me a moment longer before pressing one more kiss to my lips, and then nose, before turning toward the flag, removing his lucky hat, and placing his hand over his heart.
As the song plays on, its last notes sounding, I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the next few moments—to be strong, to not show him my fear’s still there, regardless of how certain he feels. And then chaos descends around us the minute the crowd cheers.
Colton gets suited up, taped down, zipped up, gloves on. Engines start to rev farther down the line, and the rumble vibrates through my chest. He’s in the zone, listening to Becks and getting ready for the task at hand.
Superstition tells me to make this race different. To step back over the wall without Davis’ help. To do anything to not let time repeat itself. And then his voice calls to me. Shattering all my resolve with the shards of nostalgia.
“Rylee?”
My eyes flash up immediately, the breath knocked clear from my chest with his words and the bittersweet memories they evoke, and lock onto his as he strides toward me, shrugging off a groan from Beckett about running out of time.
My mouth parts and my eyebrows furrow, “Yeah?”
He reaches out, the short barrier of a wall between us and yanks my body to his so our hearts pound against one another’s. “Did you actually think I was going to let you walk away this time without telling you?”
The smile on my face must spread a mile wide because my cheeks hurt. Tears pool in my eyes and this time it’s not from fear.
But from love.
Unconditional adoration for this man holding me tight.
“I love you, Ryles.” He says the four words so softly in that rasp of his, and even with everything around us—revved engines, a packed grandstands, the crackle on the PA system—I can hear it clear as day.
His words wrap around my heart, weave through its fibers, and tie us together. I exhale a shaky breath and smile at him. “I love you too, Ace.”
He smirks before pressing a toe-tingling kiss to my lips and says, “Checkered flag time, baby.”
“Checkered flag time,” I repeat.
“See you in victory lane,” he says with a wink before turning and walking back toward a crew standing motionless, waiting for their driver.
I watch them help him slide his helmet on, mesmerized with both love and fear, and then allow Davis to lead me up the stairs to the pit box so I can watch from an elevated level. I place the headset on as I look down over the sill and watch them fasten Colton’s HANS device, yank on his harnesses, and tighten the steering wheel down.
“Radio check, Wood.” The disembodied voice of Colton’s spotter fills my ears, startling me. “Check one, two. Check one, two.”
There’s silence for a moment and I look down as if I’d be able to actually see him through his helmet and the surrounding crew.
The spotter tries again. “Check one, two.”
“Check, A, B, C.” Colton’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“Wood?” The spotter calls back, confusion in his voice. “You okay?”
“Never better,” he laughs. “Just giving a shout out to the alphabet.”
And the nerves eating at me dissipate immediately.
“The alphabet?”
“Yep. A to motherfucking Z.”
Quinlan grips my hand as I look up at the ticker on the top of the screen counting down the laps left to go.
Ten.
Ten laps to go through the gamut of emotions—nervous, excited, frantic, hopeful, enamored—just like I have the past two hundred and thirty eight laps. I’ve stood, I’ve sat, I’ve paced, I’ve yelled, I’ve prayed, and have had to remind myself to breathe.
“He’s gonna pull it off,” Quinlan murmurs beside me as she squeezes my hand a little tighter and while I agree with her—that Colton is going to win his comeback race in a flurry of glory—I won’t say it aloud, too afraid to jinx the outcome.
I look down below to where Becks is talking furtively with another crew member, their heads so close they’re almost touching as they scribble on a piece of paper. And I don’t know much about racing, but I know enough that they’re worried their fuel calculations are so slim in margin that Colton may literally be running on fumes on the final lap.
I watch as the lap number gets lower, my pulse racing and heart hoping as it hits five. “You’ve got Mason coming up hard and fast on the high side,” the spotter says, anxiety lacing his usually stoic voice.
“Ten-four,” is all that Colton says in response, concentration resonating in his voice.
“He’s going for it!” the spotter shouts.
I glance at the monitor in front of me to see a close up version of what I’m seeing on the track, and my body tenses in anticipation as they fly into turn three, masses of metal competing at ungodly speeds. I swear that everyone leans forward from their position in the booth to get a closer look. I fist my hands and rise up on my toes as if that will help me see more, quickly pushing my prayers out to Colton as Mason challenges him for the lead.
I hear the crowd the same time my eyes avert back to the monitor, just in time to see rear tires touching together, Mason overcorrecting and slamming into the wall on the right of him, while Colton’s car swerves erratically on the bank of asphalt from the force of their connection.
Everyone in the box is on their feet instantly, the same sound, different track, wreaks havoc on our nerves. My hands are covering my mouth, and I’m leaning out of the open-windowed booth to see the track.
“Colton!” Becks shouts out as I gasp, a blaze of red car sliding out of control onto the apron. Colton would normally reply instantly, but there is absolute radio silence. And I think a little part of me dies in that instant. A tiny part forever lost to the notion that there will always be this trickle of unease and flashback of the riotous emotions from Colton’s crash every time I see smoke or the wave of the yellow flag.
I see Beckett pull on the bill of his baseball cap as his eyes fixate on the track. Anxiety rules over my body right now, and yet I still feel those seeds of certainty Colton planted with his confidence earlier ready to root and break through. And I can’t imagine what’s going through his head—the mix of emotions and memories colliding—but he doesn’t let up. The car doesn’t slow down one bit.
And yet he still hasn’t spoken.
“C’mon, son,” Andy murmurs to no one in particular down the line from me, hands gripping the edge of the table he stands behind, knuckles turning white.
Only seconds pass but it feels like forever as I watch Colton’s car aim erratically toward the grass of the infield, heading straight for the barrier, before miraculously straightening out.
And then the whole booth lets out a collective whoop when the telltale red and electric blue nose of the car flies back up the apron and onto the asphalt, under control. And still in the lead. Colton’s voice comes through the speaker. “Fuckin’ A straight!” he barks, the overflow of emotion breaking through both his voice and the radio, followed by a “Woohoo!” The adrenaline rush hitting him full force.
>
“Bring it home, baby!” Becks shouts at him as he paces below us and blows out a loud breath, taking off his headset and hat for a moment to regain his composure before putting them back on.
Four laps left.
I feel like I can breathe again, my fingers twisting together, my nerves dancing, and my hopes soaring to new heights. C’mon, baby. You can do this, I tell him silently, hoping he can feel my energy with the thousands in the stands pushing for him to claim this victory.
Three laps left. I can’t stand it anymore. My body vibrates from more than the rumbling of the engines as the cars pass us one after another in an endless sequence. I shove back from the counter and shrug at Quinlan when she gives me a questioning look about where I’m going. I want to be as close to him as possible so I make my way to the stairs and start running down them.
“Two to go, baby!” Becks shouts into the mic as I make it to the bottom step and stay close to the wall below on the inside border of the pits. I can’t see the track very well from here but I smile as I watch Becks look at the monitor and shake his head back and forth, body moving restlessly, energy palpable.
I look up at the standings and see that Colton is still in the lead before my eyes are drawn to the flag stand where the flagger is getting the white flag denoting last lap ready. And then it waves and my heart leaps into my throat. Becks pumps a fist in the air and reaches over to squeeze the shoulder of the crew member next to him.
Someone brushes against my shoulder and I look over to see Andy beside me, cautious smile ready to light up his face when the checkered flag takes flight. I look back up but my view of the flag stand is obstructed by the row of red fire suits standing atop the pit row wall, watching, waiting, anticipating.
And then I hear it.
The crushing roar of the crowd and the jubilant whoops of the crew as they jump off the wall hooting and hollering in victory. I’m so overcome with emotion I don’t even remember who grabbed who, but all I know is that Andy and I are hugging each other out of pure excitement. He did it. He really did it.