In the Groove (13 page)

"Or
don't
wear," Sarah said. "I couldn't believe all the people on top of their RVs in the infield. The last time I saw so many half-naked women was when I was ten."

He looked down at her questioningly.

"I had a lot of Barbie dolls."

Amazingly enough, he laughed.

"And what's with the viewing windows in the garage?" she asked.

They stopped near the back of his hauler, Lance moving close to the double doors so that fans would leave him alone. He'd changed into his firesuit for interviews and so he was easily recognizable to fans. Thus some of the more persistent NASCAR enthusiasts hovered, hoping to catch his eye. And this was nothing. Back when he was in the lead to win the championship, people were four feet thick. How things changed. From superhero to Lex Loser in two seasons flat.

"That's part of the Fan Zone," he said. "People really love seeing what goes on in the garage."

"Someone should put up a sign reminding them that tapping on the glass scares the fish."

"Yeah. Last year one of the teams taped up a sign that said the number ninety-six team had lug nuts they were giving away. Nobody on the ninety-six could figure out why so many fans were banging on the window."

It was her turn to smile, the afternoon sunlight turning her hair redder than usual.

Don't get distracted, Lance. Not now. Not with the race about to start.

"That wasn't very nice," she said.

"No, but it was funny as hell."

"I bet it was."

Lance glanced at his watch, instantly sobering. All at once her face drained of color, too, her freckles standing out beneath her dusky skin. "It's time to go, isn't it?"

"It is."

He saw her take a deep breath, saw her straighten her shoulders. "It's just a race," she said.

Only it sounded like she said the words to convince herself as well as him. "That it is."

"All you're going to do is drive round and round in circles."

"I know."

She nodded. "Well, then you'd better get to it."

He told himself to turn and leave right then. Instead he found himself saying, "You could walk me out to my car."

Her black lashes flicked up in surprise. "No thanks. I'm tense enough as it is. I can't imagine what it's like out there." She motioned toward where the cars were lined up for the start of the race. "I couldn't do it."

"Then I guess you'll have to give me a kiss goodbye."

Damn.
Why the hell had he said that? He needed to keep things impersonal between them. Avoid distraction.

But he couldn't deny that he ached to hold her, to let her soothe him, to tell him everything would be all right.

That was why, when she tipped up and kissed him on his cheek and said, "Good luck, Lance," he had to stop himself from pulling her to him. They held each other's gaze until a woman called out his name, interrupting them.

"Lance," the woman said again—Courtney, his PR person. "You better get a move on."

His gaze moved back to Sarah. "Guess I'm being paged."

"Guess so," she said.

"I'll see you after," he said.

"I'll see you after," she echoed.

And Lance had never, not ever, had such a hard time leaving someone's side in his life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Five minutes, Lance," Allen said, his voice low and tinny through the left earpiece.

Lance absorbed the words. Hearing, but not really hearing, his eyes staring straight ahead as he waited for someone—the governor or something— to call out the infamous, "Gentlemen, start your engines."

All you're doing is driving a car round and round.

The words popped into his head. Lance told himself she was right. That's all he was doing. Driving.

The sun had started to sink into the horizon, Lance making note of it because it meant the track would soon cool off. Would he be faster or slower? And how bad would the glare be coming out of turn three?

Was Sarah watching?

Don't think about her, Lance. Not now.

But he was thinking about her. What's more, the image of her face filled him with an odd sort of calm. Yesterday, just before qualifying, he'd felt it, too. It was such a welcome relief that he took a deep breath out of reflex, the sound of his own breathing echoing in his ears.

Relax, he told himself.

His mind tuned out everything but the sound of his own breathing until the moment when Allen said, "Start her up."

The words were like dynamite to his system. He flicked the ignition switch, holding his breath as he always did for that millisecond between fingering the switch and the actual firing of the engine.

Vroom-hoom.

The whole interior of the car vibrated with the force of the engine's power.

"Rolling," Terry, his race day spotter said a few seconds later.

Lance gripped the steering wheel, the tension he felt on race day the same and yet... different. No dread. No stomach flutters or butterflies. He usually had a whole herd of winged caterpillars banging around his stomach when he pulled off pit road.

Not today.

The most you can do is to get it right some of the time.

She was right. And if he didn't get it right today, it wouldn't be the end of the world. Blain and Cece weren't about to toss him out on his ears like some team owners might do. He'd have a job at least until the end of the year. Then maybe he'd go back to driving Busch cars.

He'd be racing.

He loved racing, something he'd forgotten for a while.

"We're getting the two to go call," Allen said. "Copy that, Lance? Two to go."

"Copy," Lance said, pressing the mike button on the steering wheel, weaving the car back and forth as he warmed the tires.

They picked up speed. People always thought drivers couldn't see the individual faces of fans, but that wasn't true. You could see them, especially at these slower speeds. You could see them and you could hear the excitement and the joy and the elation they felt. Many of those fans had saved money for months, maybe years. They'd used precious vacation hours and the dollars in their savings account to come watch them race.

Watch
him
race.

He owed it to them to give them a good show.
Damn it,
he would.

And so when a minute or two later his spotter called, "Green, green, green," Lance mashed the pedal from his position in the middle of the pack, not so much that the back end would break loose, but enough that the chassis torqued around him, the hood lifting and then dipping down as it hugged the track. Jimmie was in front of him, Lance knowing immediately that he had a better car.

"Clear low."

That was all Lance needed to hear. He ducked down, knowing that everyone else who was faster than Jimmie would follow. They did. A check of his mirror and he spotted the forty-one car, although in the past few months he'd been tailing the guy, not leading him.

"Clear high."

"Driver, how's it feel?" Allen asked.

"Still a bit loose."

"Track's cooling off. Maybe we could play with the wedge when we pit."

"No," Lance said. "Let's wait. I think we're fast enough to move up."

But it was tough. He thought clean air might tighten things up a bit, but moving out of the groove ended up being a mistake. He shot right back to twentieth.

"Damn," he said. "I shot back faster than a greased banana."

"No big deal, driver," Allen said. "It's still early."

A wreck on lap twenty-five didn't help matters. Lance had to stand on the brakes to avoid being scooped up by the ten car.

"Low, low, low," Terry said.

"Whew. Close."

"Yellow flag," Terry said, stating the obvious.

"Might have to change my underwear," Lance quipped.

"Okay, driver, what do you want to do?" Allen asked. By now Allen had heard all his one-liners. Still, it'd be nice if every once in a while he'd laugh. That was everyone's problem. They were all too tense.

"Well, ideally I'd like to take off the restrictor plate, but since I can't do that, let's play with the tire pressure," Lance said. "But only a bit. I still think she's going to pick up some when the sun goes down."

"All right. Remember your RPMs. We're after the opening in the wall. Copy that? The opening midway down the wall."

"Roger that," Lance said, and when he came back around, followed cars onto pit road, a fiery red sky reflecting in their back windows.

"Okay, boys, nice and easy," Allen said. "Everyone remember their job and this'll be a piece of cake."

"Thirty-five-hundred RPMs," Terry said as his car approached the point of no return—a thick white line and the entrance to pit road.

Lance checked his tach. Should be good.

And even though he told himself not to tense up, even though he reminded himself it was just a race, he still felt his stomach tighten—not so much because he wanted to win, but because he worried about hitting one of his crew, or someone else's crew. Every time he ducked into a pit stall he looked around, but you could only turn your head so far.

"Three, two, one," Allen said.

There it was, the twenty-six sign dipping up and down like an excited little boy.

"I'd like a Big Mac, no cheese," Lance said as he stabbed the brake. "And fries," he added. "No, scratch that. Just give me a Meal Deal #3."

Allen didn't reply, probably because he was too busy making sure his crew performed up to par, his crew chief's "Go, go, go!" coming so fast Lance knew Allen would be proud of the boys.

"Good job, guys," Lance said. Their stop had moved him up four spots, back to fifteenth. "That was a helluva stop. Except you forgot my fries."

"Would you quit talking about food?" Terry said. "You're making me hungry."

Finally, someone had answered him. "Terry, you're always hungry."

"Hey, I'm not the one that can polish off a two pound porterhouse for a light lunch," Terry shot back.

"Yeah, but at least what I eat doesn't become a Goodyear around my middle."

Silence, then, "That was cold," but it wasn't Terry, it was Blain. "And totally not true," Blain said, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. "Terry, he's just jealous." Truth was, Terry was rail-thin and everyone knew it.

"My waist size isn't the only thing he's jealous of," Terry said.

"Ooo," Lance said. "Now
that
was low," and he hoped his crew could hear the smile in his voice. "And also totally untrue."

Terry chuckled and Lance relaxed, realizing that he hadn't felt in this good a mood for months. Maybe even years. Damn.

When he mashed the accelerator after the "Green, green, green," and his car shot ahead, he didn't think the day could be any better. The track came to him and once he caught its rhythm he picked off cars one by one. There were the usual wrecks, but unless something broke, or majorly messed up, he might just have a shot.

Hot damn.

He tightened his hands around the steering wheel, seeing the word DAYTONA slide by him at one-hundred-and-eighty miles per hour. The sky had turned purple-black, bright lights flickering on the roof post and dash.

And then he felt it.

Just the tiniest of vibrations. Not much of one, but if he lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and rested his palm against the carbon fiber ring he could feel it.

Damn.

The word rang out in his head, as loud as if he'd screamed it.

"Got a vibration," he reported.

"Tell me you're joking," Allen said.

"Wish I was. But unless this here car suddenly turned into a washing machine, I'm shaking all over the place."

"Shit," someone said, Lance wasn't sure who. Blain or maybe Terry.

"Bring her in," Allen said.

It felt like Lance had eaten a dozen monster tacos. Son of a—for the first time in over a year, he'd been leading a race and now...

"Yellow, yellow, yellow," Terry cried out excitedly, his voice so loud and so full of relief there could be no mistaking how he felt. "We've got ourselves a caution."

"Lance, can you stay out until the pits open up?"

"Don't know," Lance said. "The vibration's getting worse. Must have cut a tire. Guess I don't have any choice but to try though."

"Roger," Allen said.

They were the longest two laps of Lance's life. Every second that ticked by felt more like an hour, every bump and vibration that shook his car making Lance's stomach twist.

But they made it.

They made it after changing a bad tire and by God, his crew gave him one of the best pit stops of the night, sending him back out into the lead.

The lead.

He might win.

The remaining laps felt like a dream, Lance shaking his head when he heard Terry say, "One to go."

Less than a minute later he crossed beneath the checkered flag, his cry of exaltation so loud he nearly deafened himself.

"Wahoo! We did it," Lance cried as he pounded the steering wheel.

He'd won.

And Sarah had witnessed it.

Sarah ran out of the transporter's lounge only to stop suddenly.

What was she doing heading for the winner's circle? She didn't even know where the darn thing was. Plus, she didn't belong.

But she wanted to see, even if it was just from the periphery. And so she slowly walked toward the winner's circle, stopping at least half a dozen times and turning back only to just as quickly face forward again. Just a peek. That's all she wanted.

The crowd let out a loud cheer, Sarah realizing why a second later. Lance stood atop his car, his arms held above his head, the joy on his face so great Sarah felt tears well up in her eyes, the same tears she'd felt when he'd crossed the start/finish line.

Oh, Lance.

He turned, and to her shock, their gazes met. He smiled, motioning her over. Sarah shook her head. He jumped down, heading for—no. He wasn't seriously coming for her, was he? She froze, people moving out of his way as he made his way toward her, scooping her up in his arms the moment they were close enough to touch.

"Did you see it?" he asked. "Did you?"

There was no holding back the tears. "I did," she said.

"We did it," he said, swinging her around.

Which made her laugh. And when Lance guided her toward the crowd inside the winner's circle, she didn't balk. The team welcomed her with open arms—literally—hugging her and smiling, more than one of them saying, "Can you believe it?'

And, no, she couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe she was standing in the winner's circle at a racetrack, thousands of fans looking down on her, with Lance Cooper, famous race-car driver standing next to her. She felt a nearly irresistible urge to mouth into the camera, "Hi, Mom," when it swung toward her. Even though she hadn't talked to her mom since the whole picture ordeal.

"Lance Cooper," she heard a reporter say. "It's been a year-long drought for you. How does it feel to break your losing streak?"

Sarah stepped away, not wanting to infringe on his moment of glory, but she couldn't move with the team crowded around her. Sarah tried not to feel too conspicuous. But she could see herself on a tiny TV screen mounted atop a camera that pointed toward the grandstand. Oh, geesh. She should have brushed her hair before dashing out. She still wore her white shirt, the same one from earlier, but it now had a splotch of catsup on it, compliments of the wiener dog she'd had for dinner. And was that catsup on her nose, too? She leaned forward as if looking in a mirror, realizing too late that she'd obstructed Lance for a moment. He glanced at her and she smiled lamely.

Sorry,
she tried to tell him with her eyes, hoping he didn't see the catsup, too.

He smiled, smiled at her in an intimate way that had her toes curling inside her tennis shoes.

No,
screamed a voice.
Don't let Mr. Ultra Sexy Race-Car Driver Who Just Won a Race turn your head.
Do not
let that happen.

But it was happening. Every time he glanced at her through the minutes that followed, every time he pulled her back to his side whenever she tried to move away, she sank a little deeper.