Braking Points

by Tammy Kaehler

  I was upset for my team. Jack Sandham and Ed Swift, the owners of Sandham Swift Racing, would have to buy a lot of new car parts. The crew would have to tear down and rebuild new assemblies in a tight timeframe, because the next race—Petit Le Mans, the season-ending endurance classic—was only two weeks away.

  I replayed the accident in my mind. Did I screw up? No, not my fault. I could have done things differently, but my job is to pass cars and drivers, particularly when they’re begging for it. And he was.

  I rubbed my sore left wrist, sure I’d replay the event and the conversation with myself for days to come.

  My juice was finished and my knees had stopped shaking. Time to face the music. I squared my shoulders, thanked the medical personnel, and headed for the exit door as Stuart Telarday walked in. He was as perfectly pressed as always, but his wavy, sandy-brown hair flopped onto his forehead and he was frowning—signs of high distress to someone who knew him. Which I did.

  Over the past year, I’d gone from thinking Stuart over-starched, stuffy, and lacking in humor to finding him appealing. To dating him. Our five-month history totaled scores of telephone conversations, six dinners, and a few dozen kisses that made me tingle in memory. But I was still in the cautious stage of our relationship, unsure about how we interacted at the track.

  He saw me and visibly relaxed. “You’re all right, Kate?”

  “I’m fine. What’s the status on Miles?” My voice was abrupt to keep myself focused on business. To keep my emotions dammed up.

  “Nothing yet. Let’s get you back to your team.”

  I let him take my arm and guide me outside, wondering why he’d appeared at the medical center. He was the VP of Marketing and Operations for the American Le Mans Series or ALMS. Plus we’d been dating. Neither role explained why he’d escort me back to my paddock.

  The crowd of more than fifty racegoers in the parking area outside did.

  I expected the media, and I’d been mentally preparing politically correct sound bites in which I pointed no fingers, as much as that galled me. The outlets covering the race—Radio Le Mans, print publications, SPEED Channel, SportsGroup TV, and even the on-track announcer—typically converged on drivers after accidents to ask what happened. Those reporters were up front, and I answered multiple versions of the same question with one statement.

  “It got wet really fast and we were still on slicks. The other car missed a shift or something, and I got close enough to him that I either needed to pass or risk being stuck. I thought we were clear and clean. I haven’t seen a replay yet, but I’m guessing it was a racing incident. One of those things that can happen when we’re all pushing hard all the time. I’d like to thank my team, Sandham Swift, and our sponsors, BW Goods, Racegear.com, and Leninger’s Auto Shine, who prepped and gave me a fantastic Corvette today. My thoughts are with everyone else’s, hoping Miles Hanson’s injuries are light and quickly healed.”

  As I spoke into microphones and mini-recorders, Stuart hovered behind me, a six-foot wall of protection. Though grateful, I didn’t understand why until we cleared the media and encountered the fans.

  Fans? Do I have fans like this?

  No, I didn’t. Miles Hanson did.

  Men and women of all ages surrounded me, shouting questions, some openly weeping. Wait, weeping?

  “What happened?”

  A tall man, all round edges and beer belly, thundered, “Was he OK?”

  “Didn’t you see Miles?”

  “How could you?” This from a bleach-blonde wearing a Miles Hanson half-shirt over cantaloupe-sized fake boobs.

  “Why did you hurt him?”

  They all blamed me? But it was his fault! I faltered on my way through the crowd.

  Stuart urged me forward, repeating over and over, “We don’t have any information yet, but a statement will be made when we know something.”

  People continued to press toward me, many wearing the yellow and orange flames of Miles’ NASCAR livery, some pleading with me to give them positive news of Miles, a few glaring, even snarling, at me. I was too stunned to speak, grateful for Stuart’s presence. We got through the scrum and found Tom Albright, my team’s media guy, waiting in a golf cart.

  As we pulled away, I saw my friend Zeke Andrews pop out of the crowd, looking worried. He’d been in the ranks of reporters I spoke to, the lone representative of SPEED Channel now that SportsGroup TV had taken over ALMS broadcasting rights. Zeke caught my eye and made a “call me” gesture, then waved in response to my nod.

  Tom cleared his throat as he navigated paddock traffic. “Kate, we’re all relieved you’re OK. The accident looked nasty.”

  “Thanks. It wasn’t fun. I’m really sorry to the team and the crew.”

  He slowed the golf cart. Directly in front of us was the flatbed tow truck with Miles’ crumpled car. Every body panel was crumpled, some half torn off, and every tire was askew. I shuddered. I really wanted to see the replay of the accident.

  A new thought struck me. I whirled to face Stuart. “Is Miles still OK?”

  “He’s hurt, but alive.”

  I faced front again as a skinny woman with gray hair grabbed the front roof support on my side of the golf cart. Tom slammed on the brakes in response, dragging her two steps. Decked head-to-toe in bright yellow with orange flames, her tank top and baseball cap were also emblazoned with Miles’ number 92 and the Chevrolet logo. But more shocking than the riot of color were her sobs. She hiccoughed, and I smelled sour beer breath as she spoke. “How could you? Who are you, anyway? You know you’ll never be as good as Miles, so you wrecked him? You should rot in hell!”

  She released the golf cart to wipe her eyes, and Tom drove on.

  Stuart put a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched. “Ignore it, Kate.”

  I tried. No matter what happened, I knew a driver’s staunchest supporters would always blame the other driver in a wreck. If Miles threw someone to the ground, unprovoked, fans would ask what the victim had done to upset him—such was the nature of the fan world. The cause of our wreck seemed obvious to me, but it was clear Miles’ fans and I wouldn’t see eye-to-eye. On anything.

  As we rolled through the paddock, we encountered more crying faces, more anguished questions, more swear words. I even heard a threat, someone promising to “Hunt you down if he ain’t OK!”

  We reached the Sandham Swift garage, where a small knot of spectators gathered to await the arrival of my own wrecked car. Stuart whisked me behind the rope barrier that separated the public from our team’s space before anyone could react to my presence. He stayed outside our motorhome, shutting the door behind me with a thud, and I wobbled up four steps to collapse on the couch, breathing hard. For the first time, I felt uncomfortable in the ALMS paddock, even scared for my safety. I didn’t like it.

  Tina Nichols, Hospitality Director for Sandham Swift Racing, sat down next to me, a bottle of cold water in her hand. She kept the four Sandham Swift drivers organized, fed, and wearing clean, dry racing gear. Everyone in the paddock knew her, loved her, and called her Aunt Tee.

  “Kate, sweetheart, are you all right?”

  My smile felt rusty. “I’m fine, thank you.” I took the water she offered and looked at Mike Munroe, dressed in street clothes and sitting on the couch opposite me. “For now. We’ll see when Mike gets through with me. Or Jack.”

  Per ALMS rules, Mike and I shared the number 28 Corvette for Sandham Swift Racing—one of two cars the team fielded in the GT or Grand Touring class—each of us driving roughly half of each race. Drivers, teams, and car manufacturers all competed for race wins and season championships, and until I’d taken us out of this race, Mike and I had been neck-and-neck with another duo for second place in the GT drivers’ standings.

  Our points total was especially impressive because of the reconfiguration in the American Le Mans Series GT ranks this year, which co
mbined former GT1 and GT2 classes into GT—resulting in double the competition. Mike would be justified in being angry with me for dashing his championship hopes.

  But Mike merely shrugged. Large and muscular, with olive skin and brown hair and eyes, he could look imposing and angry, especially behind the wheel. At heart, however, he was as gentle and mellow as a giant teddy bear. “You were due. You hadn’t wrecked all year. I banged the car up some, remember?”

  “I sure as hell haven’t forgotten, since I got the bill.” Jack’s steps shook the motorhome as he walked from the back room through the kitchenette. “And you, Kate.”

  I swallowed and looked up at him. Up and up and up.

  As was his habit, Jack stood in the middle of the room, feet wide, fists to hips. Tall and reed-thin, his attitude and power made him as intimidating as men twice his bulk. He was fair and direct, and he didn’t believe in sugar-coating. Today was no exception. “Screwed that one up, didn’t you?”

  I winced. “I don’t know how it happened. Coming out of the Carousel, Miles did something—or didn’t do it. I was on top of him. It was hard not to pass. I was afraid I’d get stuck if I didn’t get around. I couldn’t tell it had rained hard there, and he squeezed me in the corner.” I paused, remembering. “Maybe I hit paint, too.” I looked at my feet. Shit, I did screw up.

  “Your hands on the wheel.”

  I looked at Jack again. “So my fault. I’m sorry.” He didn’t care what other cars did, only what we’d done—if my hands were on the wheel, to him any accident would be my fault even if I couldn’t have avoided a wreck with a miracle. I felt less anger and more shame as I realized Miles and I shared the blame.

  Aunt Tee patted my knee.

  Jack snorted. “Damn right it is. I don’t pay you for rookie mistakes like that.”

  I hung my head, feeling my face burn. The silence lengthened. Jack wasn’t likely to fire me for a single accident—every driver wrecked at some point, and I’d been pretty clean so far that season. But “wasn’t likely to” didn’t equal “for sure wouldn’t.” My stomach fluttered.

  “But I’d be a fool to expect you’d never make them—either of you.” He looked from me to Mike.

  Mike winked at me and addressed Jack. “Doesn’t that conflict with your ‘Don’t hit shit’ mantra?”

  “Little known corollary, ‘Shit happens when you’re racing.’” Jack shrugged. “Just don’t let it happen very often.”

  My stomach settled and breath came more easily. Some of the weight I’d felt pressing on me lifted.

  “You’re mellowing,” Mike said.

  “Think I’m being too easy on her?” Jack turned to me. “Am I?”

  I fumbled, looked at my feet. Finally met Jack’s eyes. “Maybe?”

  “You’ll be disappointed in yourself enough for both of us. Besides, folks outside the team will be harder on you. Least you’ll know we’ve got your back.” He looked from me to Mike. “You two square?”

  “Sorry again, to everyone.” I made a point of meeting Mike and Jack’s eyes.

  Mike pulled me off the couch for a hug. “Hell yes, we’re square. Kate’s my wingman.”

  “I only helped get you a date once.” I smiled and pushed him away. “Let me go change.” I finished the bottle of water as I headed to the back room.

  “It was a good date. And I’ve got other plans.” Mike’s voice carried as I closed the door behind me.

  I sank down on the bed, feeling like a fraud for going out to race and returning without the car. The buzz of race engines outside taunted me. I clenched both hands into fists, wanting to punch something. The need to be out there, for the wreck never to have happened, was a physical ache in my chest. My frustration brought tears to my eyes.

  No hitting, Kate, and no crying. Male drivers don’t cry, do they? Don’t give anyone the idea a female is too emotional or weak for this job. Any crying happens at home, not at the track, no matter how upset you are.

  I sat up straight and took three slow, deep breaths, staring myself down in the mirror inside the closet door. Small female, strong enough for racing and handling this fallout. Shoulder-length black hair in a ponytail to go under a fireproof hood and helmet. Fair skin, now flushed with frustration, shame, and disappointment. Blue eyes mirrored the same. Not a single injury to be seen. No infirmities. Only a pity party going on inside.

  The positives. I wasn’t hurt. Hopefully Miles wasn’t—no, don’t think about him until you know he’ll be OK. Jack wasn’t mad at me and wouldn’t fire me. Mike didn’t hate me. That left the crew, who worked three days perfecting the setup of the car to earn us prizes, bragging rights, championship points, and media exposure—though I’d gotten us plenty of the latter. My next step needed to be a round of apologies and thanks to our team mechanics and staff.

  It’s racing, Kate, not competitive knitting. Equipment gets broken, people make mistakes. It was my turn, and now I was getting over it. Besides, I was a damn good racecar driver.

  I changed from my fireproof gear into jeans and a team polo shirt. I was closing up my duffle bag when I felt the front door of the motorhome slam shut and heard Stuart’s voice, “We’ve heard from the hospital.”

  Chapter Four

  I banged the bedroom door open in my haste to reach the front room, where Stuart and Tom stood.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “He’s OK,” Stuart said. “Severe concussion and a broken collarbone. They’ll monitor him a day or two to make sure there’s no serious brain injury.”

  I swallowed. “The words ‘brain injury’ don’t sound good.”

  “He’s alive,” Tom pointed out.

  Stuart nodded. “And not in surgery for anything yet. They think it’s a concussion, nothing more serious, and rest will fix that. Of course, it’s a month or more out of the racecar, but he should make a full recovery.”

  I sat down in a kitchen chair, sorting through my emotions. Miles would be fine. Probably. I could be mad at him for his role in the wreck. A little. But he wouldn’t race in NASCAR for a while, wouldn’t win his third championship this season. I wondered how that sobbing woman in the paddock would react. Wondered how much worse the fan reaction might get. Being unpopular wouldn’t get me fired, but it wouldn’t help me attract sponsors either.

  “About the media.” Tom pulled up the chair facing mine.

  I took a deep breath and smelled cookies baking. “Cookies? Now?”

  “Never the wrong time for cookies,” Mike put in from the couch.

  “A touch of comfort,” Aunt Tee said. “You only now smelled them?”

  “I was preoccupied before.” I squeezed my eyes closed, then looked at Tom. “Let’s do it.”

  “Kate?” Stuart’s expression softened as he studied me. “I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Sure. And thanks—” I broke off, choking up. Two deep breaths and I was back under control. “Thanks for before.”

  “Any time you need me, Kate.” He exited the motorhome, and I wondered who else understood he meant more than his professional support.

  Tom brandished a notepad and pen. “I’ll do our usual release, and we’ll make a statement about Miles. Then you should talk to the press waiting outside.”

  I was entering the acceptance stage of racing accident recovery. I’d felt denial and anger sitting in my wrecked car. Remorse I’d been working on since the medical center—and would continue to chew on. Blame was an optional stage, depending on the wreck. I hadn’t dwelled long there, because the person I wanted to point the finger at exited the track on a stretcher…and I knew better. In my case, acceptance meant it was time to take on unappetizing responsibilities. I nodded at Tom. “I’m ready.”

  Twenty minutes later, after a quick call home to my grandparents—the only parents I’d ever known—to assure them I was fine, I stepped out of the motorhome with Mike and
Tom. Tom went to placate and prep the reporters waiting at the rope barrier. Mike went with me to talk to our crew. Fortunately, our sister car, the number 29, was celebrating a best-ever finish of fourth in class, so the team was in good spirits. No one acted like my best friend, but no one was hostile either. Distributing Aunt Tee’s chocolate chip cookies along with my apologies didn’t hurt.

  Then it was time for the press.

  The crew from SportsGroup TV had run down the paddock to catch someone else, so I spoke with the Radio Le Mans reporter and a group of print journalists first. They asked the same questions I’d answered outside the medical center: what happened, how I felt about it, was I hurt, and how did this affect our team going into the last race of the season. I gave them a bare-bones explanation and the basic platitudes.

  Then the SGTV team returned—a cameraman, a pit reporter I hadn’t met because he’d recently moved to the ALMS from another series, and an assistant or junior reporter, a woman. She was six inches taller than my five-foot-four, curvy in her required SGTV firesuit, and a knockout blonde. Seeing her brought a smile to my face.

  “Juliana Parker?”

  “Kate Reilly! There you are!” Her voice was halfway to a squeal as she threw her arms around me.

  I laughed and hugged her. “Where have you been the last few years?”

  She pulled back and smoothed a stray lock of hair into place. “Representing Alabama, doing broadcast news, and working my way to this gig. But look at you!”

  The pit reporter with her cleared his throat.

  I turned to him. “Sorry. I’m Kate Reilly.”

  “Felix Simon.” He clasped my outstretched hand like a man fifty years his senior. It was usually men my grandfather’s age who shook as if afraid I’d be hurt by their strength. As if I didn’t race cars for a living.