by Audra North
“What, your victory lap? Yeah, because no one would notice that at all.” She cocked her head to the side. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I was just kidding.” He made sure that jovial smile was still plastered on his face while he nodded.
He couldn’t let anyone see what was going on inside. He didn’t want any reporters to even suspect that something might be up with Ty Riggs. If Dad wasn’t going to come clean to the media, Ty didn’t have to like it, but he would do his best to support Bobby—to maintain the pretense that everything was fine.
Kerri snorted. “No, you weren’t.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Just . . . look . . . whatever you’re feeling, I’m not going to tell you not to feel that way. I’ll say it again, for the record. I don’t believe that bullshit going around. But right now you can’t do anything about it, and you won this race fair and square. I know that. Don’t let this stupid gossip ruin a truly great moment. And if that’s too hard, the best thing to do is get in the car and get it over with.”
Damn. He hoped she was the only one who saw that something was off with him. Maybe it was just because they were such good friends. He stared at her for a second, then gave her a mock salute and turned to slide back through the window into his car to take a victory lap that felt burdened with frustration and anger.
A lap that felt a lot like defeat.
Chapter 2
Cori missed seeing the victory lap. She was too busy trying to keep pace with the scrum of reporters heading over to the pressroom after the race.
She should have worn something other than heels to trudge nearly half a mile across the motorway, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She loved heels. She loved skirts. She loved her femininity, and while it might have been more practical to don khakis and sensible ergonomic shoes . . . she just couldn’t.
The stubbornness that made her defy her parents’ wishes that she become a doctor instead of “wasting her life” on journalism was the same muleheadedness that kept her hanging on to these small marks of womanhood in a man’s world. Of course, she didn’t miss the irony that the only reason she was here was precisely because she was the only woman in the office.
We need someone to get close to Ty Riggs. We’ve got a tip that he’s involved in something shady, and I want you to go after the story. Do whatever it takes.
Her boss and editor-in-chief, Alex Crawford, had pitched it to her that way right after the fight erupted between Ty and Gilroy.
Whatever it takes.
She’d known exactly what he meant.
She’d balked at first, though. Getting too personal was a bad idea on its own between a journalist and a sports figure. Getting personal specifically to get inside information?
Even worse.
She’d even refused to do it . . . at first.
Alex had commanded her to attend this race and tomorrow’s Media Day in order to lay the groundwork for something more than professional with Ty, that would help them dig into his background and follow the lead they’d been given.
She’d told Alex, in no uncertain terms, that what he was suggesting was unethical and she wouldn’t have any part of it.
But at the same time, she was six months out of J-school and still all she’d been doing at Gold Cup Sports was ordering lunches, serving coffee, and logging interviews.
Meanwhile, her fellow junior reporter, Blake, who had started the same day as her, had been sent out on assignments pretty much nonstop since his second day on the job.
That wasn’t even the most humiliating part. That was reserved for the weekly phone calls with her parents, in which she had to confess that, no, she still hadn’t actually covered a single sporting event yet. Dad had humphed with disdain, and Mom had commiserated with her, but Cori had heard the unspoken I told you so in her mother’s voice.
Rather perversely, their reaction had only made Cori’s stubborn streak even stronger. She’d resolved to do anything—anything—if it meant making headway in the career that she’d chosen. That she’d annoyed and disappointed her parents by pursuing. She’d already paid the price to become a journalist. But how much longer would she have to wait before she actually got to do what she’d worked so hard to do?
It was exactly that desperation—to finally, finally be able to go out in the field—that her boss had taken advantage of.
Maybe I need to be clearer. This is your only shot, Bellowes. Take it or leave it.
She’d stared in shock at Alex for a moment when he’d said that, wondering if he really meant she wouldn’t get another chance at reporting if she turned down the assignment.
It had taken barely a second for her to realize that yes, that was exactly what he meant. Alex was an unscrupulous dick.
She’d tried her best to argue her case. Why can’t I just report on the fight and then cover the rest of the races? Why—?
But he’d cut her off. It had taken a few back-and-forths, but Alex had finally confessed that an anonymous supporter was providing them with desperately needed funding in exchange for an exposé on Ty Riggs. That, if they didn’t do the story, Gold Cup Sports would fold. Cori would be out of a job, anyway, but without a single story to show for her half a year there. Getting another position with that kind of failure on her résumé would be next to impossible.
Faced with that prospect, she finally agreed.
Still, she hated what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. But she was desperate. She was a nobody reporter and Gold Cup was a tiny, young, and struggling wire service. This was her only chance to build her name.
Alex had insisted that her new assignment was in addition to managing the office like she already did, which was a full-time job in and of itself. It rankled—the whole thing just sucked, in fact—but she was not about to let the opportunity to be in the field pass her by.
For now, she was going to relish the feeling of the press pass around her neck, the jumble of key race moments in her mind that were already forming a story, and the sights and sounds of being at the track. It was something to be savored—a place that made her feel a sense of belonging she didn’t have anywhere else. The rev of the engines, the screams of fans—everything brought back memories of Sunday afternoons with her grandfather, watching the races on TV, eating grilled cheese sandwiches, and talking about anything and everything.
He’d taken her to a couple of them over the years, and those memories were burned into her brain as some of the most special moments of her life.
She and Grandpa had a special bond that she hadn’t found in anyone or anything since his death five years ago. The closest she came to that sensation was when she was watching a race.
This was what she’d turned her back on med school to do. This was what she’d fought her parents for. She was going to knock this story out of the park and become the reporter she was supposed to be.
She consoled herself with the reminder that exposés happened all the time. If there was dirt in Ty’s life, that was his problem. Things like this were par for the course . . .
At least, that was what she told herself.
Maybe at some point she’d actually start to believe it.
* * *
Ty put on his most affable smile and walked out toward the podium at the front of the room. He could feel the crowd of reporters in the pressroom surging forward at his entrance, getting ready to let their questions fly.
Frank, the Riggs Racing publicist, was standing at the mic when he reached the podium. Ty nodded once, his amiable expression not dropping for even a second, and Frank brought his mouth closer to the mic. “Ty will now take questions.”
The room seemed to surge into life.
“Ty, Henry Lane from Play Ball. You won today with a strong lead over Kerri Colt, only a week after you claimed victory by a similar margin over Dave Gilroy. Your response to his accusations of cheating has been a hot topic of discussion. What message do you want to share with your fans about your win?”
T
y felt his smile falter. Shit. He’d thought he was prepared. He’d steeled himself for questions like this, so he wouldn’t look like a guilty driver whose anger meant he deserved these accusations.
But bringing up doubting fans—even if Lane hadn’t specifically said those words—really pissed him off.
He couldn’t maintain his smile, so instead he forced his expression into something neutral. “I’d tell everyone, and not just my fans, that Riggs Racing won today fair and square.” He purposely emphasized the team name to remind those in the room that there was an entire team being affected by the rumors and not just him. “The crew was at the top of their game and they work hard to be successful.”
The crowd was quiet for a moment.
Belatedly, he realized he’d just pounded his fist on the podium to emphasize his statement.
So much for keeping his temper under control. Dad wasn’t going to be happy about how Ty had just fucked up.
Believing in what’s right and defending the people you care about isn’t fucked up. It’s Dad who is preventing you from fighting for the truth.
The voice in his mind sounded a lot like his mother’s, except with more cursing.
Yeah, well, tell the media that so they’ll get off my back.
But that sardonic reply was all him.
He shushed his bickering thoughts and gave the nod to another reporter.
“Carlos Vasquez from U.S. Sports. You winning the first race of the season will no doubt be an inspiration to African Americans everywhere. Any advice for young black drivers?”
He gritted his teeth in a smile so sharp it was almost feral. Now that Ty had entered the top-competition level of the sport, the headlines usually didn’t focus so much anymore on how he was the only African American driver in the association. That used to bug the hell out of Mom and him both. Bobby Riggs was white, but he’d married a black woman, and somehow Ty had defaulted to African American in the eyes of the public.
Sure, it was kind of weird, the obsession people had with how he looked. They wrote things like, Ty Riggs, the first African American to win the truck series championship. Those sorts type of headlines weren’t so bad. But then there were the ones that got under his skin, so to speak. White Men Can’t Jump and Black Men Can’t Race in particular stood out in his mind. He usually had a hard time keeping his patience past the first couple of sentences in those articles. And then there were the weird pseudo-academic ones, like From Riggs to Riches: A Role Model for Black Racing.
Whatever the hell “Black Racing” was.
All he tried to do on any given day was race to the best of his ability, focusing on winning without injuring himself or anyone else. That’s what any driver did. He wished they could see that.
But ironically, the kind of question he usually hated, that focused on the color of his skin, was a relief right now. At least he knew how to handle those without wanting to hit something. So at least this time he answered the question without smacking the wood under his hand, and the mood in the room lightened palpably.
But the questions kept coming.
“Ty! You’ve never gotten into a pit fight until last week. There was clearly tension between you and Gilroy on the track and post-race. Is there a chance you’ll fight him again?”
Ty scoffed at Zack Federowski, the reporter who’d asked the question. He and Zack knew each other pretty well, since Zack had been around for longer than Ty had been racing. “This is stock car racing, Zack. Not heavyweight boxing. I’m not gunning for a rematch.”
The crowd laughed, and Ty felt a little stress leave his body.
All he wanted to do was walk away. But he had to make up for his outburst at the start of the conference. Make sure the perception of him was net positive. So instead, he answered everything in short, generic sentences and an ever-present smile, trying not to grind his teeth to nubs. He knew he had to stand up here and take it a little while longer, as well, to make sure his behavior didn’t come across as avoidance or like he was hiding something, but he hoped Frank would wrap this thing up quickly.
Damn, this was frustrating.
Not to mention that there would be plenty more of this tomorrow at Media Day, when all of the participating racers sat in scores of rented rooms in a nearby hotel while reporters from various news outlets cycled in and out in ten-minute intervals, asking the same questions, over and over, for hours.
How come you fought Gilroy when you’ve never done it before? Is there truth to his accusation? He’s saying you broke his nose. Did you do it intentionally? Why such unsportsmanlike conduct now? Are you worried that you won’t win the cup this year?
Over a decade of a squeaky clean image, and one little mistake was all people could talk about. Not to mention that the program he was building on top of his reputation for sportsmanship—the diversity in racing program that had been shunted aside by Belgrave—would have focused on integrity and honesty in the sport as much as on racing. Something that would have made a better story than this . . . this trash.
Aw, damn it. He really shouldn’t have started thinking about the loss of his program. Now, with the kind of questions that were being thrown at him, it was affecting his mood too much.
Keep up appearances a little while longer. Just for Dad’s sake. It’ll eventually go away.
His mouth hurt from smiling so hard.
Frank gave him the one-minute signal right as another barrage of questions rang out. Almost done. Thank God. Almost done, then he’d go back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow he’d be ready to tackle this with a lot more patience.
Ty was about to give the nod to one of the reporters he knew, to ask the last question, when he heard her.
“Mr. Riggs!”
The feminine voice sounded almost desperate, as though she’d been trying to get his attention for a while but had failed. He cut his eyes to the back of the room, where a blond young woman was bouncing up and down, waving her arms wildly.
It made his body go hot and tight.
She was definitely not the kind of journalist who usually came to these things. Most of the racing reporters were guys, for one. For another . . . well, he was trying not to notice how sexy she was, but for God’s sake, it was pretty much impossible.
She was wearing a dark blouse buttoned all the way up to her neck, but her long hair was coming out of the knot on the top of her head and her glasses were sliding down her nose. She looked like a prim schoolteacher coming unraveled. A strong wave of lust hit him in the gut, and before he could stop himself, an image of her naked, bouncing up and down on top of him just like that, filled his brain. It made him lose his easygoing smile for a minute, eyes glazing over and mouth going slack with desire.
“Here! Mr. Riggs!” She shouted again, shaking him out of his daze.
And he realized that, Holy Mother Mary, she’d called him Mr. Riggs.
No one called him Mr. Riggs. That was the name reserved for his dad. But she had done it, and even though on one level it thrilled him, for some reason it also made him want to hear her call him Ty, instead.
Preferably while she was splayed open beneath him, letting him slide in and out of her body. Fuck. The wayward thought turned him on so hard that he had to grip the podium for a minute just to stop his hands from shaking.
He had to know who this woman was.
After a second, he lifted his arm and pointed at her. Next to him, Frank stiffened.
Poor guy. Ty was probably giving the publicist a heart attack, deviating from the norm.
But he did it, anyway.
“Yes, you. Miss—”
She stopped bouncing. A pity. “Uh . . .” For a second, she looked like a deer in the headlights, as though she hadn’t actually expected him to call on her. But she recovered quickly enough. “Cori Bellowes. I’m from Gold Cup Sports.”
She was flushed. Probably from all that bouncing. He wondered if she blushed like that all over.
He really needed to stop th
inking of her that way.
Gold Cup Sports. It was a young, but respectable enough, startup wire service. He’d heard the name before, anyway, even though he’d never met any of their reporters. From what he could remember, they were a pretty small operation, too.
But even if she were here repping a basement-based YouTube sports channel, he shouldn’t be objectifying her. She was here to ask him a question, not to provide fodder for his fantasies. Now, more than ever, he needed to maintain his image of honesty and forthrightness.
He straightened and did his best not to let his eyes wander away from her face, which right now felt more difficult than sweeping the series.
She cleared her throat. “Last year, you had to overhaul your car after crashing on this very track. This year, you were keeping your distance from other cars, even if it meant maintaining a more challenging speed. Did that accident influence your strategy this year?”
He swallowed hard. Yes, he had crashed, but it hadn’t been bad. It also hadn’t been the first time he’d been in an accident during a race. But that had also been his first accident since Dad’s cancer diagnosis had come back and, even though he’d walked away unharmed, it had been risky enough to spark a lot of deep thoughts. Realizations about how life was short and wanting to use his success to help others.
That crash had been part of the reason he had worked so hard to start his own program for underrepresented kids in racing. He’d realized then that he could become a role model, not just for racing but for life lessons . . . and now that vision was under fire.
But of course he couldn’t say all of that. No one knew about the program or the fallout. Talking about it would only cause more problems for Riggs Racing’s image.
He needed to give a pat answer and get out of there
“Well,” he began, just as she pushed up her glasses.
Good. It took away some of that sexy librarian look.
But then she reached up and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.
It nearly made his head explode.
“Uh . . .” He panicked for a moment, grabbing at his train of thought. “I guess it made me not want to have another accident this time around.”