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“The race is over,” Maddie points out.
Neither of us noticed.
Jake finished sixth, Boone tenth, and Julian third. Not bad at all.
17-Jake
Martinsville Speedway
“The rumors are true,” I say, climbing into the hauler. “You weren’t expected until tomorrow.”
This is the third time this season he’s shown up on a Saturday.
Bert is inside, ruffling through the snack drawer. “Do we have anything saltier?”
The cooked meals are a feast, while the provided snacks tend to be healthy. “Probably not.”
“I have some business today,” Bert says, responding to my earlier comment. “Great performance during quals. It’s always a joy to see how far you’ve come.”
We’re alone, and Bert seems gripped by a bit of nostalgia. Sarah suggested I talk with him two weeks ago, and I’ve been looking for an opportunity ever since.
It isn’t easy to plan a spontaneous conversation.
“Thanks. Why was I offered a one-year contract extension? That makes sense for the rookie, considering he’s yet to prove himself. For me, it’s total bullshit. What’s going on?” I lean against the counter and wait for an answer. My body language says casual, while my words are not.
Sarah’s directions were to use our longstanding relationship to get answers. She probably meant a softer approach, but it’s not how we typically communicate. He’s been respectful enough to tell me when I’m a dumbass, so I’mreturning the favor.
Besides, my fast question will make bullshitting me more difficult, though I don’t worry about that very much.
Bert falls onto one of the narrow stools. “I’m surprised you waited so long to ask.”
“Rumors are starting. I’d prefer to hear it from you than some unnamed source in a news article. Should I be worried? I’m wondering because how you’re acting says I should be.”
Bert looks away as a creeping flush grows up his neck, cheek, and forehead. “I hope not, Jake. We’ve been together your entire career, and this isn’t how I want it to end.”
A knife stabs me in the gut. There were hints of a problem, but a blunt confirmation still hurt. “How long do I have? The full season?” That gives me time to race under a new team or, with luck, under my own.
Bert nervously wipes his hair forward, turning it into an odd sort of flattop. “Longer, I hope.”
That doesn’t make sense. If rumors spread, employees will start running for another job. No one with sense will stick around because of empty promises. There’s no point in further discussing a contact. “How long?” Another stab hits me, and I sit down.
“Jake, before I go on, you must understand this is in confidence. Your racing career began with BPR, and in all that time, have I ever lied or misled you?”
I shake my head to show my agreement, while a part of me thinks confronting him implies at least some level of misleading. “I hope you respect me enough to keep it that way.”
“Sit,” he says.
Bert nods to the empty chair next to him. I reluctantly do so. People tell you to sit before delivering bad news, and I never understood why. The warning makes people anxiousand doesn’t make the bad news any easier. Let people pace; it gives them something to do.
I was asked to sit down for a talk the night my father died. No one asks their teenage son to sit down for a midnight chat unless a parent dies or they wrecked their first car. Sitting down makes sharing the news easier while doing shit all for the recipient.
Sitting makes it easier for the one sharing the bad news.
“Be blunt,” I say and stand. The hauler doesn’t allow much space to move, but it is an improvement.
“I don’t know. Pierce isn’t getting the expected returns and wants to put his efforts elsewhere. I’m negotiating for time.”
Bert’s face is a tomato again. In someone else, it might indicate a lie. With Bert, it hints at his emotions. He’s being honest with me.
