Smokin' & Spinnin'

by Miller, Andrea

  After qualifying his #62 Chevrolet today, he has a fan experience in the Bluegrass Club here at the track, which consists of a small question-and-answer session with a few invited guests of the track owners. This event was added at the last minute, and I desperately hope he doesn’t give me hell for it!

  Finally, I find the hauler, where the crew members and Ben are all huddled together around Ryan. Ryan is dressed in his cobalt-blue fire suit, but it isn’t completely zipped up. The top of his jumpsuit is resting on his hips, revealing a plain white T-shirt that he wears underneath. My Goodness! The mere sight of him stops me dead in my tracks. He is gorgeous. I vaguely wonder if I will ever get tired of looking at him. Immediately, my presence causes the group of guys to disperse. I smile sheepishly, still not used to being the only female on this team of guys.

  There is a noticeable tension within the team that I automatically attribute to my arrival. All of a sudden, the paranoia sets in. Do they know already?

  Bobby, Ryan’s crew chief, greets me fondly and sets me at ease. “Hey Whitney, there are a few issues with Ryan’s car this morning, but I think we may have successfully worked them out.”

  I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me, but I don’t acknowledge him. I maintain eye contact with Bobby as he continues to speak.

  “Problem is…we won’t know until he takes the track to qualify.”

  I nod my head. “Is there anything you need or that I can do to help?”

  Bobby smiles at me and turns his gaze to Ryan. “Just keep hothead over there in line!”

  I groan louding, feigning disinterest and Bobby laughs out loud at me. Finally, I steal a glance at Ryan, who raises his eyebrows at the both of us and walks away. No doubt he’s less than amused by my exchange with Bobby. My stomach rolls with nausea as I watch him head over to the garage area.

  So, this is how it is going to be. This is how it has to be. I walk to the back of the hauler and find a place to put my bag up. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable this was going to be. That’s what you get for not thinking at all, Whitney, I chastise myself. I have to find Ryan, and we have to talk. Obviously, we cannot work like this. I am already paranoid and anxious. I set out to find Ryan and get this straight. Last night cannot happen again. There are too many factors at stake.

  I find Ryan in the garage just as he is zipping up his fire suit. I watch as he gracefully slides his long, slender body down into the #62 Chevrolet race car. I know now is not the time for this conversation, so it will have to wait. Just before he pulls on his helmet, he notices me in the garage. He acknowledges my presence by signaling for me to come over to him. His demeanor has changed noticeably. He seems happy to see me.

  I walk over to Ryan’s Chevrolet. “Good luck,” I say softly.

  He cocks his head to one side, looking at me inquisitively. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head and look away.

  “Whitney!” Ryan calls for my attention.

  I shake my head again. “I can’t do this,” I say. “I cannot lose my job. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable this would be in the light of day.”

  Ryan looks taken aback. “I have to get on the track, but we will talk about this later,” he says firmly.

  “No.” I disagree with him because there is nothing to talk about. “I made a mistake. We have to put it behind us and move forward as if nothing happened.” I sigh, “Just do your job, and I will do mine.” And I walk away as Ryan guns the motor of his race car.

  I walk back to the hauler to watch qualifying on the monitor. Ryan takes the track effortlessly. He pulls his car onto the mile-and-a-half tri-oval and takes two laps to build speed. The time starts on the third lap. Ryan enters the first corner, holds the car down on the line, and accelerates as he exits the second turn. Then he fires down the back straightaway. His time must be good because Bobby is excited and talking animatedly into his headset. All this NASCAR jargon still has me confused. Evidently, based on Ryan’s performance on the track and Bobby’s attitude, the car is fixed. I continue to watch the monitor as he clears the third and fourth turns and slides across the start/finish line.

  Ryan clocks in a time of 29.962, with a top speed of 180.338 miles per hour. Wow! The crew is excited and boisterous at Ryan’s qualifying time. His time lands him close to the pole position, but there are several more cars that have yet to qualify, and it will be this afternoon before the starting lineup is determined officially. According to Bobby, the car is “right on,” and all the adjustments that were made prior to qualifying were successful.

  I, too, am excited, but still reeling from the events of the last twenty-four hours. Ryan bounds back into the hauler like an excited teenager to receive a series of “atta boys” and slaps on the back. He doesn’t acknowledge me. After the excitement has died down in the hauler, I walk over to remind him about his afternoon event.

  “You have an hour before you have to be at the Bluegrass Club. You have time to take a shower and change if you like. I will meet you over there,” I say.

  “Where are the questions so that I can review them?” Ryan snaps at me with a hard look.

  I don’t understand. “What questions?” I ask softly, trying hard not to incite a riot.

  The expression on his beautiful face immediately changes from annoyance to pure, volatile rage. He looks as though he is grinding even his back teeth. It is actually comical to watch how mad he gets at me at times, but now is not one of those moments. Oh boy! Here it comes…

  Chapter 18

  F inally, I arrive at the bed-and-breakfast right across the Kentucky-Indiana line in Switzerland County. It is quaint, quiet, and away from the track craziness. I remove my track credentials before I check in at the front desk, but I am still wearing my GCR team shirt, so I am not sure what autonomy that might grant me. It isn’t too late, but I am exhausted from the travel and lack of sleep from the night before. I have a fleeting thought to just collapse on the bed, but I am scared that I will fall asleep. I remember what happened the last time I did that, and it is another mistake that I don’t want to repeat.

  After Ryan ripped me a new one before the Bluegrass Club meet and greet, I sincerely hope that not providing him with a copy of possible questions for the event will be my only screw-up this weekend. I cringe recalling his words to me, “What the fuck, Whitney?”

  Sheesh! I can only deal with one weekend dose of humiliation, thank you very much. But another lesson was learned: always make sure the bastard is overly prepared! No, excuse me, make that two lessons learned, the one aforementioned and the second: no matter what personal lines Ryan and I have crossed, I still have a job to do, and he will let me know, with the quickness, when I do it wrong. Ugh!

  I kick off and actually sling my Asics across the room. It feels good. I pull out the contents of my overnight bag to find my pajamas and cosmetic bag. On the way to the bathroom, I am interrupted by an incoming text message alert. I groan as I retreat back to find my phone, but am relieved to see Brooke’s name across the home screen. Her message reads:

  ______________

  Where are you?

  ______________

  I sigh as I sit down on the bed to respond to her message.

  ________

  Kentucky.

  ________

  Her response is instant.

  _________________________________________

  I swear I cannot keep up with you anymore.

  _________________________________________

  I laugh out loud.

  ___________________

  Yea, me either. lol

  ______________________________

  Brooke sends another message.

  ___________________________________________

  I haven’t seen you in weeks. Drinks on Monday?

  ____________________________________________

  She is right. I hadn’t realized that I have not seen her in a while. I want to see her, but there is no way. I have to prepare for Daytona because I fly out next
Wednesday.

  ___________________________________________

  Can’t Monday! Sorry! The race this week is

  Saturday night, so I will be off on Sunday. I need

  help with clothes for Daytona. Can you bring me

  some options? I will call you Sunday morning.

  ____________________________________________

  I sigh regretfully as I await her response. I know she will be disappointed, but maybe we can spend some time together on my day off.

  ___________________________

  Deal! See you Sunday! Love!

  ___________________________

  I smile.

  __________

  Love! Love!

  ___________

  I put down my phone and make my way back to the bathroom. The shower is small, but the pressure and the heat of the water more than make up for it. I wish the water would melt my body and I could just wash away down the drain. How easy would that be?

  I emerge from the shower and wrap myself in a towel. Suddenly, I am cold. There is a draft in the room. I find a plush robe hanging behind the bathroom door. I pull my towel tight to secure it and then pull the robe on over my towel. But it doesn’t help matters. I am chilled down to the bone—most likely because of what I have done and the dark cloud of regret that is hanging over my head.

  I sigh, dejected, as I look at myself in the mirror. I am so disappointed in myself that I can’t even bear my own reflection in the mirror. Seriously, how did all this happen? I shake my head and walk back into the bedroom. Maybe I just need to go to bed.

  I walk back into the room and stop dead in my tracks. I shriek. Ryan is laying across my hotel bed. He sits up straight and holds his finger against my lips, directing me to be quiet.

  “Good God!” I say, breathless, holding my hands against my chest. “How did you get in here?”

  Ryan stands up and grabs me determinedly without answering my question. My heart flutters, and I am frightened, but only until Ryan kisses me desperately and says, “Do you want to forget about what happened in your apartment last night?”

  I know I don’t. I silently shake my head.

  “Then don’t ever walk away from me again!” He searches my face with a pained look of uncertainty. Could he be questioning all this, too? Then, he reaches up to softly caresses my face, and I know there is nothing more to talk about.

  Chapter 19

  Isit in the pit box over pit road as forty-two race cars descend onto Kentucky Motor Speedway’s tri-oval track. Ryan has an excellent starting position, about two rows back from the pole, which I hope he can maintain. The weather is clear, and a warm ninety degrees, but the threat of an evening thunderstorm has pushed up the starting time one hour. There are about sixty thousand fans in attendance for this Saturday-night race, my third NASCAR race and my first one at night. Saturday-night races have their advantages, one being a rare Sunday off. Since I have accepted the position as Ryan’s public relations manager, I work seven days a week. I don’t mind it, though, because I am developing a new love for this sport. And despite Ryan, I love my job.

  The green flag falls. Here we go! My pulse quickens, and the adrenaline begins to flow and roar through my veins. I love this feeling. Ryan was right. It is very addictive. I settle into my seat alongside Ben to watch the next four hundred miles unfold and set my radio frequency to listen to Ryan’s communications between him, Bobby, and Mike.

  “Y’all ready up there!” Ryan’s voice squawks over the radio. “Let’s see what’s she’s got tonight!”

  Ben shoots me a confused look, then says, “He’s in a good mood! What’s up with that?”

  I shrug my shoulders ambiguously and give my best “I have no clue” to Ben as I hear Bobby begin to give Ryan a lecture. “Ryan, the car is good, buddy. Don’t push it. Take it easy. Maintain your line. Keep your nose clean.” Ryan doesn’t respond.

  Mike adds, “We can do this tonight, Ryan. Just let me guide you through it.”

  Ryan only says, “Ten-four,” in confirmation.

  Ryan seems to take his pre-race lecture to heart. The laps start to tick away as he maintains his starting position. After a series of pit stops due to caution flags, Ryan picks up a few spots. He is now up to fourth position. The crew is pumped. Because of the lightening fast pit stop, Ryan has advanced.

  Ben lets out a yell, “Woo-hoo!”

  Surprised, I look over at him, and he raises his hand up to me. I give him a dumbfounded look, but then instantly realize that he wants to give me a high five. I get it now! I hit his hand as he laughs at my response.

  Ben pulls me into a sideways embrace. “You’re getting it, Whitney!” He is right. I can do this. I can play with the boys!

  As Ryan departs pit road, I hear him mutter, “Way to go, guys!”

  The sun begins to set, and the lights come on. This is so exciting.

  Bobby reiterates his starting lecture to Ryan. “Be patient. You can do this!”

  I mutter a silent prayer to myself, Come on…Come on. A win tonight would be phenomenal for Ryan, just the motivation he needs to win a championship. Within the last few weeks, he has been finishing consistently, which is what this team needs.

  My mind drifts back to our “talk” last night after he broke into my hotel room.

  “Ryan, I am sorry, but this is all overwhelming,” I say in desperation as we lay together in the bed. “I mean, literally, I cannot wrap my head around what has happened between us in the last twenty-four hours.” I pause, waiting for a response from him.

  “Whitney…I don’t know what you want me to say. Yes, this is complicated. No, I don’t have any answers.”

  Great! That is no help to me at all.

  I sigh, “I just need to know…”

  “Know what?” Ryan says softly.

  “Was this…last night, I mean…was it a one-time thing for you? If so, you don’t have to feel sorry for me or dance around my feelings. Just say it!”

  Ryan lifts his body, props himself up on his shoulder, and looks at me questioningly. “Would I be here with you now if I thought it was?” I take a deep breath as he continues. “Whitney, I told you last night that this is different for me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have never had feelings like this for anyone. Yes, I have had relationships, here and there, but I have never wanted anyone like I want you.”

  “And what if you decide you were wrong about your feelings? Where does that leave me besides unemployed?” I say, dejected because I know this can only end one way, badly. And I cannot, nor will not, go back to Georgia.

  “Whitney, I have wanted you since the day I jumped into that elevator and laid my eyes on you.”

  I am shocked but my heart swells though it is clouded with self-doubt. I nod my head silently.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  I look back up into his fierce blue eyes and shake my head. “I figured you were just telling me what I wanted to hear.”

  Ryan looks hurt. “I am here with you tonight, aren’t I? I have risked someone finding out so I could be here with you. I could tell you were upset today in the garage. I wanted to make sure that you were OK. I want to explore this…these feelings that I have for you. But we have to go about it the right way.”

  “And just how do we do that exactly?” I snap sharply.

  “Whitney! Whitney!” I am broken from my reverie as Ben shouts my name. “Are you awake?” He looks at me warily. “Ryan is up to third place with ten laps to go!”

  I immediately focus my attention back to the monitor. How long have I been daydreaming?

  Ryan has a shot to win this. I watch the monitor carefully and listen intently to the radio transmissions. Ryan is noticeably silent as Mike gives the command through each turn.

  “Maintain. The number-eighteen car is trying to pass you on the right. Hold tight. Push. He backed off. He ain’t as fast as you.”

  Ryan’s car roars down the backstretch. Some of the cars behind him go t
hree wide desperately trying to advance position with the laps winding down. Ryan is running bumper to bumper with another driver for second place.

  Bobby’s voice booms through my headset. “Ryan, he has the fastest car on the track. If you can pass him, you are gonna have to fight him off the rest of the way. Be patient. If you can’t pass, just maintain. This would be our best finish so far this season. Just hang on, buddy.”

  Ryan doesn’t respond. He maintains position by successfully blocking pass attempts from other competing race cars with Mike’s help. There are only five more laps remaining. I am so nervous that I start chewing my nails. Ben is very quiet but is tapping his foot. He is anxious too.

  Ryan falls in line behind the #24 car as they push out of turn four to take the white flag, which signals one more lap remaining. Ryan gets a run on the Ford stock car of Greg Kyle, but has to drop back through the turn. Both cars fire down the speedway through the backstretch nose to nose. I jump up from my seat. This is too much.

  Ryan falls back in line again as they negotiate turn three and go into turn four. Before they complete turn four, I hear Mike shout, “Ryan, you’re too close! Back off!”

  But it’s too late. Ryan runs up on Greg and taps his right-rear quarter panel, sending the #24 Ford into the wall out of turn four. The car of Greg Kyle slams the wall hard and creates a six-car mix-up in the aftermath.

  I gasp, “Oh my God!”

  Ryan comes out clear and roars his car down the front stretch in pursuit of the first-place car. It is a photographic finish as the car in first place crosses the finish line just .06 seconds ahead of Ryan.

  Damn! I let out a huge breath as I watch Ben scale down the pit box, into pit road. The team is ecstatic even though Ryan scored second place instead of first. What a finish!

  Before Ryan can pull his car back into the garage, his crew, reporters, and paparazzi alike descend upon him, clamoring for congratulations and comments on the race. I jump protectively in between Ryan’s car and the mob.

  “OK…OK, everyone, please step back. Give Ryan a moment to get out of the car, and he will be glad to answer questions.” I stick my head in the window of Ryan’s car. “Are you OK?”