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“Don’t you worry; I’ll tell him how it goes. You and Dad raised me right,” I say.
The line goes silent at his mention. My parents did a great job raising me and sacrificed themselves so much that it cost their five kids a father and her a husband. The problem is, my mother doesn’t see it the way I do. My childhood, suchas it was, ended the day my father died, although I didn’t understand what that meant until the funeral was over and the notices of unpaid bills started coming in the mail. To this day, Julia Knowles believes she failed when I needed her most, and I’ve given up trying to convince her otherwise.
“Bert isn’t flying in until tomorrow morning, so I’ll catch him then,” I say to fill the dead space on the line. It doesn’t matter either way since I’m not dumb enough to approach Bert before the season opener. It’s asking for the entire cookie jar before starting anything on the chore list.
“Have you met your new rookie yet? I saw them interviewing him,” she says next, relieved by the change in conversation.
I follow her lead because I feel the same way. “We met. Younger than me by a few years. Friendly, I guess.” We met once at headquarters while preparing for the new season. He was polite, but otherwise, I couldn’t tell you a damned thing. My attention has been elsewhere.
“Well, watch out. Watch your back,” Julia warns. “You’re the big thing, and you’ll want to keep it that way.”
I roll my eyes but keep my voice serious. It’s her job to worry about her only son, right? “We field four drivers, and I’m the best, especially with Aaron’s retirement.”
“You are, and I’m so proud. You were always going to be there.”
We exchange goodbyes, and I hang up. Still alone, I fish through the hauler’s fridge, hoping to find something decent.
My effort is a failure. “Seltzer water. Really?” I make sure to add an extra whine to my voice because it’s watermelon-flavored. Gross.
“That’s supposed to be for me, I think,” says a voice from the hauler’s entrance. “Looks like they put it in the wrong trailer. I can take it off your hands.”
“Joey, it is yours.” I pass over the unopened can with a slight flourish, and he takes it. “How’s your new season opener going?”
Joey Fisher is our team’s newest driver and the rookie my mother referred to only a moment ago. I realize he resembles me some. His hair is a dirtier brown, and he’s an inch or two shorter, but otherwise, we have the same build and eye color.
If we were in a bad movie plot, this would be the scene where I tell him he reminds me of me at his age. Yeah, screw that. He’s a couple of years younger, at most. Also, I’m more charming and have cultivated a several years-long relationship with Bert. He lacks both.
“It’s…” Joey fades off and sighs. “It’s going. It’s best to ask me that tomorrow.” He shakes his head before turning it into a nod. “You know, I thought this would never happen after years of dirt track and scrambling for a spot in the truck series.”
“I’ve been there,” I say with understanding. “Many of us have.”
He squints. “Oh, I know it. I kept watching others get it and telling myself it would be my turn someday. I practically offered every owner my firstborn at one point. I would have married their daughters. Hell, I came damn close to trying. Would have if it worked.”
We both chuckle. “That might have been a bit much.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’ll be sick tomorrow.”
“Do that before you get in the car.” The poor guy is a nervous wreck, and I get it. During my rookie season, I kept thinking about how much my parents gave up to get me so far. If I failed, it wasn’t only me; my entire family would deal with the fallout. We couldn’t afford that. “Don’t wreck, and you’ll do fine. That’s the first rule.”
He relaxes, and a smile breaks out. “Nah, I’m hoping to take home a win already. Great start to the season.”
Bit of a cocky attitude before you get even a single lap under you, eh?
“I had the same plan,” I say, returning the smile. Rookies should concentrate on developing their skills and proving they have what it takes. Planning to win your first race is an excellent way to fuck up. “I’ll keep another cold one for you when it’s done.” I indicate his still unopened can of seltzer.
“Oh, before I forget, have you seen Bert anywhere? I remember him saying he would be here,” Joey says.
Bert is one-half ofBP Racing, or BPR, as we call it. He’s also the louder half, as his silent partner allows him to handle more of the day-to-day management. Bert has lived his entire life in motorsports. I expect he’ll die in it, too.
“He usually doesn’t arrive until morning,” I tell Joey. “Early. You’ll find him traveling through the trucks.”
“So nervous that I’m making things up. Well, thanks for the drink.” Joey nods goodbye and leaves.
“What did he want?” Derek asks only a few seconds later.
Derek Jones is my spotter and plays as significant a role in my success as anything I do. He is also my closest friend.
“He tried sizing me up. Announce his presence. Make like Babe Ruth and point at center field.” I shrug and wave my hand. The kid is eager to prove himself; I get it. He’s also not my problem. My ambitions are much bigger than some fake rivalry with a rookie teammate. “He’s welcome to try. I’m not worried, and I’m done thinking about him.”
