by Davida Lynn
Next, Heather noted the tire pressure. Repeating the process on the other three tires, then poking Frank in the shoulder. “Alright, big boy, you’re up.”
He chuckled. “By next week, we’ll have you swinging these things. You’ll have guns like me in no time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” Once Frank stacked the tires, she asked, “What’s next?”
“Oh man, I’m sure we can find something to do.”
Pops pulled his headphones off, his eyes sharp and in her direction. “You can tell me what the hell is going on.”
Heather almost took a step back, shocked at the words and tone from Chance’s engineer. “Excuse me?”
“You’re in his head, and it’s turning into a real problem.”
Heather looked around as all of the mechanics turned away and busied themselves. She felt like a firing squad was aiming down the sights at her.
Pops shook his head. “DJ is talking to Chance, and it’s my job to talk to you. I don’t have a problem with you, Heather. In fact, I like you, the team likes you, even DJ likes you, and I’ve seen him punch a mall Santa in the gut.”
Heather had no idea how to react to the last bit.
He went on. “Regardless, you and Chance have to cool it. We need him at 100%. I thought he’d be alright, but today proved otherwise.”
“We had one late night.” The team had been working Chance to death, and he deserved a night of fun. She deserved a night of fun with him, too. Heather didn’t get a chance to say that, though.
Pops was probably trying to sound calm, but it just came off as condescending. “I get that. We all need it from time to time, but this team can’t afford it. No more late nights.”
“You don’t get to tell us what to do.” Why did Heather feel like she was arguing with her parents? It was all too familiar while she was in high school.
“Yeah, I do. This isn’t just you or him. This isn’t just me. There are eighteen of us on this team, and your behavior affects us all. Keep that in mind. A week from tomorrow, he’s all yours. Until then? He’s all ours.”
“There’s one word for this. Bullshit.” Josie was fired up, much more so than Heather.
A glass of wine in her hand, Heather shrugged. “I agree, but it is what it is.” After thinking about it, Heather had realized that there might be some truth to what Derek had said to her. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin any shot Chance had at achieving something incredible. She had listened to the squabble on the radio, and it worried her.
She hadn’t witnessed Chance getting angry once since they’d met. Even when Rob had tried to swing at him, Chance kept his cool. On the radio that morning, though, he was anything but cool.
Josie shook her head. “No, it isn’t what it is. This isn’t middle school. We are all old enough to take responsibility for our actions, and I’m sure you and he know what you’re getting into. I think it’s beyond childish.”
“I can barely drive my car on three hours of sleep, and I go like thirty-five miles an hour. He has to go two hundred and thirty.”
“They’ve got Red Bull for that shit.”
Heather laughed. “I get your frustration, but I have to side with them. The attitude Derek gave me was a bit much, but it’s a team full of dudes, what can you expect?”
As Heather spoke, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Chance had texted her.
Heather’s cheeks went red.
Josie leaned forward. “What?”
Heather handed her the phone, unsure if she could say it out loud.
“What?!” Josie’s eyes went wide.
The sight made Heather laugh. “What can I say? He wants what he wants.”
“Did you really do it on his race car?”
“We did, indeed.”
Josie shook her head. “They’re men, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
Josie smiled. “A man saying no sex is like a fish saying no water. If they were smart, they would know Chance wouldn’t be able to keep away. What are you going to do?”
With a shrug, Heather said, “Find the time to sneak away, of course.”
Finding the time and private space during the week was hard, but Chance and Heather managed. She found a reason to work through the lunch break so she could take hers later.
When the two had a few free moments in the hauler, Heather rode Chance while he was half out of his race suit. She was getting addicted to the danger of getting caught and the thrill of racing. When they weren’t sneaking away, she was learning everything she could about working pit lane. There was no way she’d be going over the wall on race day, but Heather was becoming a valuable team member.
She was still on tire duty, but on top of that, she was starting to learn fuel calculations, a job normally reserved only for the race engineers.
DJ was taking her under his wing. Heather felt a little bad, knowing she and Chance were running around behind the team’s back, but it was only a little bad. They were having too much fun, and since Heather and Chance avoided seeing each other at night, he was fresh and ready for the race car each day.
Maybe it was that extra shot of endorphins raging through Chance’s body after the secret fuck sessions that helped him stay so sharp.
Race day. Chance never had nerves on race day, but this was different. This was everything. This was the culmination of every lap he’d ever turned, every dollar he’d ever invested in a part, and every bloody knuckle earned wrenching on a car. It was Memorial Day and the hundred and first running of the Indy 500.
The sun may not have been up, but Chance was. There was plenty to do hours before the race. The car had to go through the scrutineering process, he had multiple drivers’ meetings to attend, and there was a short practice session to ensure that the car was as good as she would get.
Chance sat in the hauler, drinking in the silence. The ceremonial cannon would fire at any second, and the floodgates would open. Half a million fans would pour into the Speedway, ready for the big show.
Looking up, Chance found his helmet. It was his constant companion, his protection, the symbol of him.
Matte black with two white stripes running down the center, the helmet wasn’t nearly as flashy as most of the grid. The regulars in the series utilized their helmets as billboards more than anything. The only thing Chance’s advertised was the various scratches and scrapes.
Each one was a story, a crash, a lesson. Chance had learned from every one of them, including the small scrape on the right side. It was the newest, from the qualifying crash just a few weeks earlier.
Chance loved each imperfection for the memory it represented, but he didn’t want to add any more. After the race, he’d retire his helmet to some shelf beside a few trophies.
Ok. Let’s go chase the dream.
He slid the helmet into his gear bag with the hood and driving gloves. They’d all go on the golf cart to wait for him at the pit lane. Chance headed off to the first drivers’ meeting of the day.
The motorsport director turned on a microphone, the feedback getting everyone's attention. "Ouch. Sorry about that. Anyway, good morning."
In unison, everyone in the room send back, “Good morning."
“It sure is, and I hope it's a good afternoon, too. We’ve got good weather on the forecast. Last I saw, four percent chance of rain.”
There was a cheerful murmur that rolled through the room. Anything more than a brief sprinkle, and the race would go red, possibly to be canceled.
The directer looked around, maybe trying to single someone out, but not making a point of it. “I want to see a clean race. The fans might cheer for crashes, but I don’t. The goal is for thirty-three cars to start the race, and thirty-three to finish. Let’s make sure the rescue team stays put for two hundred laps, okay? Thank you, and I wish you all the best of luck.”
Most drivers hung around, shooting the shit with one other, but Chance was eager to get back to the team. He turned, ready to get back
to the hauler.
Trouble was waiting for him just before the media center doors. Jack Savage stood leaning against the back wall, a grin on his face. It was the kind of grin a man got when he forgot what it meant to lose.
Chance was more than willing to walk past Jack without a word.
“You better stay out of my way today, back marker. If they have to throw the blue flag out for your ass even once, I'll put you into the wall. This is my day, this is my race."
Chance chuckled to himself. "Not sending Isla to do your dirty work, this time? Wow, you must be serious. I'm going to drive my race, Jack. You drive yours."
“Fuck off, loser.” The words were almost quiet enough to slip past Chance. Certainly no one else near the front of the room heard.
As he stepped through the door, Chance just laughed. “It’s going to sting so badly when I beat you this afternoon.”
He pushed the crash bar forward, almost sensing just how pissed off Jack was. Maybe he did sense something, because he made a point of putting a heel against the door just as Jack tried to shove it forward.
The heavy thud rattled the thick door, and Chance grinned from ear to ear as Jack cursed loudly. There was no need to look back. Chance could hear in the sound of the impact that Jack had hit his head squarely on the door.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Chance’s heart would not stay steady. He would calm himself, only to think about the race and send his pulse sky high once again. There were some races that set him on edge. He hated anything on two wheels. There wasn’t enough protection in the world to keep a crash from hurting on a motorcycle.
The speed worried Chance. After his crash in qualifying, he was rattled. He’d been in hard crashes before, but he had always felt invincible. Heather changed that.
She made him feel powerful, strong, and manly, but not invincible. The feeling didn’t come from anything she said or did, just the way Chance felt in her presence.
He took the long way back to the garage area. Even in the early hours, thousands of people were streaming into the infield. Chance wandered, savoring the last few minutes of peace before the ceremonies began.
Driver introductions, military salutes, and a bevy of other events preceded the race. Chance wanted to keep himself occupied until he had to be in the spotlight. He wandered down Hulman Boulevard toward the museum. The Indianapolis Motor Speedway Museum housed a living history of the Indy 500. More than sixty of the winning cars and some of the more eccentric designs were housed inside the two-story building.
The woman behind the desk inside didn’t recognize Chance as a driver. He enjoyed that. To her, he was just another tourist in to see the history. She yawned and waved him past.
Walking down the rows of older race cars, Chance smiled to himself. He loved the history, the home-built creations, the dangerous and innovative machines that had lapped this track for over one hundred years.
I'll be a different man come this evening. The thought terrified him. Chance always knew who he was. He was a racer. Nothing more, nothing less. After 200 laps, he would just be the traveler without a home and a man without a direction. Heather was his keel, he realized. He was being battered and pushed aimlessly in a storm, and she was possibly the only one keeping him upright.
Chance loved his team, but the addition of Heather by his side was more motivation than any of them could give him.
When he arrived back at the hauler, the team was pushing Annabelle towards the technical inspection garage. IndyCar officials would pour over every inch of the machine, making sure she complied with all the rules. Fluids would be tested, pressures checked, measurements of every body panel of the car would be taken.
Back in his day, DJ was known for bending the rules to their breaking point. Often times, he would brag about rules created just to slow him down. In his older and wiser years, he recognized that the risks of cheating the system far outweighed the rewards. Annabelle would pass inspection with flying colors.
Chance watched the team from afar. Heather was pushing at the rear wing, and Chance wondered if she was thinking about the amazing sex on that very surface. The memory sent an exhilarating shiver down Chance’s spine.
As they grew closer, Heather looked up and caught Chance’s eye. God, that smile. Chance was willing to bet that smile was better than drinking the ceremonial milk in winner’s circle.
“Oi, get your yankee ass over here and push.”
Heather laughed. “Kiwi’s got a point. We’re doing all the work, and you’re just gawking.”
“I’m not gawking. I’m thinking.”
Frank shook his head. “You can push and think at the same time.”
“I could, but the last thing you need is for your driver to pull a muscle the day of the race. Hamstring, glute, who knows. Better safe than sorry.”
“Better get your ass over here, or you’ll be sorry.” Frank squinted at Chance as they rolled the car past.
Chance knew the large man was joking, but even still, he wasn’t about to risk it. Throwing his hands up in defeat, Chance moved to the left rear wheel and began rolling the car forward.
“Weather looks good,” Kiwi said.
Chance nodded. “Gonna run the full two hundred laps. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Kid.” From behind them, DJ’s voice boomed, even outside.
Chance turned to see DJ pulling up on the golf cart. Pointing at the passenger seat, the boss didn’t need to say anything else.
“Sorry, boys,” Heather shot Chance a harsh look. “And lady. When the boss says jump, you jump.”
“And when he says drive, you better run the wheels off this machine.” DJ laughed. “Excuse me and young Chance, but I need to have a word with the man that is going to win today’s race.”
“God damn right.” Frank slapped Chance hard on the back, sending him stumbling towards DJ.
DJ pulled away as Chance climbed into the seat.
“Now’s the time where I give my big speech. You know, the kinda shit they show during halftime in movies.”
Chance laughed and let his head fall into his hands. “DJ, if I hear another speech about the little guy persevering, I’m gonna go crazy.”
“Fine, I’ll give you the hard truth. We’re down on speed. Qualifying was sheer luck, but now we’re starting from dead last. Our team is rag tag at best. I scrounged up two more guys that have changed tires once before. We don’t have any spare parts, so one tangle and we’re out.” DJ’s voice was cold as he poured out the truth about the All-American Pro IndyCar team.
“Well, damn. You didn’t have to go quite so bleak.”
DJ gave a hearty laugh. “There’s some good news, too.”
With a exaggerated look of surprise, Chance asked, “Oh, yeah?”
“Tires, kid.” DJ said the word like it was passed down from on high. “You can stretch a set longer than anyone I know. We can do this race on one less pit stop.”
“Are you serious?” Chance had cultivated a smooth driving style his entire career. Instead of driving like a madman and boring through the tires, he was easy on the car. He didn’t think, however, that it would be enough to save thirty seconds on pit lane during a race.
DJ made a lazy turn through the garage area. He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular.
“We’ve run the calculations. If you can do your thing, we can save one stop.”
“That’s big.” Chance gave a whistle. “That’s big big.”
“Big big is right. We know we’re gonna be at the back, so I only want you passing people if it’s easy. No fights. Only gonna slow you down. Draft with Katayama if you can find him. We’re rolling the dice in a big way, kid.”
Chance didn’t want to ask what that meant. No one asks a magician how a trick is done, and DJ was just that; a fat, old, genius of a magician.
“Pops’ word is law.”
DJ brought the golf cart to a sudden stop. Chance reached out and grabbed onto the dashboard to stop himself.
The old man stared at Chance for a long while.
“What?”
DJ shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Look, I know last year you were fighting for a regular ride, but we all know the reality of this year. This may very well be my last race, And I want it to count."
DJ wasn't the kind to talk about retirement. Chance had imagined him dragging his bold, body up and down pit lane indefinitely, but since the two of them were talking reality, DJ was pushing 80 years old. He lived and raced through a time when motorsport deaths were an average occurrence.
DJ Lancaster had raced in nineteen Indy 500s, and in those nineteen races, seventeen drivers had lost their lives. The boss didn't talk much about the dangers of the good old days, preferring to let the memories rest in peace.
“Whatever you do after this, you will always have a treasured place within these grand stands. Less than one thousand men and women have taken on this race. I want you to go out there and give them hell."
DJ’s cheeks were red as he grunted out the last sentence. If he weren't smiling, Chance might have guessed the old man was having a coronary.
Since Chance was last on the grid, he was first for driver introductions. By the time the other thirty-two drivers were announced, his cheeks hurt from the smile plastered on his face in front of the crowd. Finally all the drivers lined up at the starting line. The crowd was deafening, far louder than any that Chance had ever been in front of.
After numerous photographers took shots of the driver lineup, the cars were wheeled into position. The walk from the finish line to last place irritated Chance, but he knew Annabelle wouldn't be at the back for long.
Chance spoke with a few drivers on his way back, mostly answering questions about Billy’s condition. As Chance made his way, the sound of a mosquito with an Australian accent kept popping up behind. Despite starting from the very front of the field, Jack Savage seemed to be following.