Splash ‘N’ Go – A quick pit stop where only gas is put in the car.

 

When Jameson woke up in the mornings, his reaction was something similar to waking a bear from hibernation; the only difference being he wasn’t in a cave. I also have a similar problem when he didn’t get his way as he acted like a large toddler; the only difference was that he didn’t cry, but the tantrum was the same.

Now imagine that when Emma woke him up. Yeah, that would describe the events that took place the morning before he left. Aiden and I were moments away from killing them both. I didn’t know how Jimi and Nancy didn’t eat their young.

Before Jameson had to leave for Texas, Aiden flew in, and Emma forced us to go to Babies ‘R’ Us. Her reasoning was, for one, I was running out of clothes that fit me, and two, if the baby came early—it would be a huge problem since we had nothing for him.

We drove to Babies ‘R’ Us in Tacoma. Though I was still on bed rest, I convinced Dr. Sears to increase my time amongst the living to three hours a day. I didn’t know why that one hour was such a big deal, but you’d think I’d won the lottery with the excitement I put forth at the new freedom.

The other exciting event that took place was me getting a new car.

We stopped off at a Ford dealership. Jameson, of course, had to sign some autographs, since along with Simplex they sponsored him, too. He strode out of the dealership, taking me by the hand, and led me to the lot.

“Pick one,” he told me with a bright smile.

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“Pick one.” He motioned to the cars, still smiling with excitement at getting a new car. “I killed the Red Dragon. Aiden killed the Subaru... pick a new car.”

I hated the fact that he was, once again, spending money on me, but when I stalled for time, he simply said, “Honey, we’re not leaving this dealership until you pick a car. Hurry the fuck up.”

So I ended up picking out a brand new black Ford Expedition that Jameson was also pleased with. He signed a shit load of paperwork, handed them his credit card, and then we left in my new car.

Luckily, with the sponsorship, he got one hell of a deal on the truck or else I probably wouldn’t have been so partial to the idea. I spent the next twenty minutes opening every compartment and clicking every button at least twice. Jameson smiled.

I’d never had a new car before, and the excitement was comparable to the excitement I imagined Tom Hanks felt in Big when he realized there were no parents to tell him to go to bed at night.

Emma and Aiden drove my dad’s Expedition, which made the entire trip much more pleasant. If I never rode in a car with Emma again, it would be too soon.

Once we arrived at Babies ‘R’ Us, I was overwhelmed with how much baby stuff there actually was confined in one location. I mean seriously, do you really need all that stuff? Clearly, I was in over my head. And so was Jameson, by the look on his face.

“What the fuck is that?” Jameson asked with a quizzical gaze at the breast pumps.

Aiden simply smiled, backing toward the bottles at the other end. I examined the package for a moment because I was unsure at first.

“It’s a breast pump, Jameson.” I couldn’t help but smile at him. He was so adorable when confused.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his eyes met mine for a moment, perplexed, and then looked back at the package in his hand. “What do you use it for?”

“Breastfeeding. What else would you do with it?”

He looked even more confused, raising his eyebrows at me to explain.

Just as I was about to explain, Emma walked up with a bunch of maternity clothes in hand and momentarily distracted me with the quantity she was able to carry with her tiny arms; she was like an octopus.

Emma looked at me, then at Jameson, and then the box Jameson was looking at, again.

“I thought...” Jameson did the shifting-nervous-weight-transfer thing, “…with breast feeding, that you just... uh, you know, use your breast. Why do you need a pump?”

I laughed at the way he said “breast,” as if it were a forbidden word or something.

After he set the box down, he backed against the wall, running his hand through his hair. I laughed again because Jameson was acting really strange, and the only thing I could do was laugh. Neither one of us knew anything about raising a child for Christ’s sake. I must have given him a strange look after he asked that because he flashed me a small, reassuring smile.

“It’s for when you’re not with the baby, and you still need to relieve yourself of the milk,” I clarified.

I wouldn’t have known myself either, but unlike Jameson, I read those damn baby books the doctor gave us. I only did that because I had so much time on my hands these days.

“WHAT?” Emma gasped, snatching up the box. All the clothing she’d been holding fell to her feet. “There is no way in hell I would stick that,” she pointed to the picture of the pump in horror, “on my funbags. It would drain the life right out of them,” she complained, throwing the box. “That’s ridiculous.”

Aiden came back with some bottle nipples as Jameson backed away from the breast pumps.

“These don’t look like your nipples, Emma,” Aiden mused, placing the nipple over Emma’s funbags.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jameson groaned, stalking away.

Emma and Aiden started laughing, and then started kissing.

“Careful, that leads to a flailing spaz,” I pointed out, walking toward the clothing department.

As I stood there, skimming through the clothing, I realized how incredibly nervous I was about becoming a mother. It terrified the hell out of me. I had no idea how to take care of a baby. And I doubted Jameson did either. Just yesterday, he thought they were potty trained by one.

At the time, I laughed, but I wasn’t much better when I thought that you just went to the hospital and the baby came out, as though it was a scheduled event like going to the dentist. I had no idea you went into labor or anything. Nor did I understand that the weight you gained didn’t magically disappear when the baby came out. Needless to say, we were in for a rude awakening with this parenting shit.

After a few minutes, Jameson was beside me again, looking through the racks next to me.

“Hey, beautiful.” He pulled me closer and gently placed both his hands on my stomach over our baby.

I couldn’t describe the feeling I got when his hands would touch our child through my skin. It was such an overwhelming gratification that made me feel closer to him than ever before. We were one person, connected by this child inside me. The moment his fingers would graze over the sensitive skin separating our baby from the world, my eyes burned with tears. I forgot all about the responsibilities we had, the women who were now throwing themselves at Jameson. I forgot about my fears of Darrin coming after me again. I forgot about everything with one touch from this man. Goes to show you the power the dirty heathen can have.

Soon we found ourselves in the stroller aisle where I decided that Jameson was not allowed to touch the stroller. He was already talking about wanting to put an engine on it, which I originally thought might actually be pretty cool, considering I wouldn’t have to push it. But when he thought it would be a good idea to see if Simplex could design some special off-road shock package for it, I drew the line.

That was the day that I came to the distinct conclusion that we had absolutely no business raising a child. Poor little adorable flailing spaz was in for an interesting life. I contemplated looking through the phone book when I got home to find him a therapist. I wouldn’t want him on a waiting list or anything.

Our trip to Babies ‘R’ Us ended rather suddenly when we were asked to leave because Emma and Aiden thought it was appropriate to try out a breast pump, on Aiden, because he didn’t believe Jameson that men could produce milk. I didn’t feel the need to ask where he heard that or if it was true. I had a feeling Spencer was somehow involved in that theory. Just so we’re clear, you can’t test out breast pumps in the store.

Later that evening Jameson and I were lying in my bed before he had to leave. As it was, we wouldn’t see each other for another three weeks. With only three races remaining, Jameson’s schedule was insane.

Looking over the schedule with him, my response was, “Are you going to have time to sleep?” He laughed, but I was serious.

We only had an hour before he needed to leave for Olympia to meet Wes, but as I lay there, wrapped in the warm comfort of his arms, sex was the furthest thing from my mind.

That was a crock of shit as I was always thinking about sex with him, but at that moment I was trying not to. I wanted woo, and the romantic woo that left him holding me.

“I’ll be home soon, honey,” Jameson breathed, kissing the top of my head and then tucking it nicely under his chin. “And, then...”

“Then we get married!” I exclaimed with a beaming smile.

“Yes, then we get married. Finally.”

“So after we get married, then what?”

“What do you mean?” He pulled back to look at me. “I have the awards ceremony in Vegas the following weekend and then Christmas.”

“Well,” I spoke slowly. “I know we can’t go on our honeymoon just yet, with me being on bed rest.”

“We can drive somewhere and then, after the baby is born, we can go some place. Just us.” He winked.

“That sounds nice. When does testing start for next season?”

I felt his body tense.

“Two weeks after Christmas. I got the Chili Bowl and then testing starts.”

That was the shitty thing about being a race car driver—you didn’t get time off. And when you did, it was short-lived.

Jameson left shortly after that and, of course, it was a sad, tearful goodbye. I wasn’t sure if the tears were from him leaving or from him not taking Emma with him. Either way, there were a lot of tears.

 

I was in a really crappy mood by the second week without Jameson. It didn’t help matters that I wanted sex, not this reciprocating motion shit either. I wanted a good hard press forging. I wanted the kind of press forging that would leave me walking with a limp. Excuse me for being so blunt, but a pregnant woman could only take so much.

When I mentioned this to Jameson, after being an incredible bitch to him one afternoon on the phone, it led to a very descriptive tech support of what he’d do to me in another seven weeks.

It didn’t help my frustration, it invigorated it. It became its own organism after that.

“What flavor is that one?” Emma asked, peering over my shoulder as I ate my ice cream, trying to feed my organism. She was a demanding little bitch. The organism... and Emma.

“Uh... Cheesecake Brownie.” I looked at the front to be sure. “Yeah, Cheesecake Brownie.”

“Let me try it.” She reached over the top of my arm to grab it.

“No.” I pushed Emma off me. “This one is mine. Get your own.”

“But I want to try that one.”

I kicked her, drawing my narcotic closer to my chest in a protective measure. “Get your own.”

“But, I—”

“No!” I interjected, losing control. “I’m sick and tired of you acting like a goddamn child, Emma! Grow up!”

I shouted and made my way back to my bedroom, leaving Van laughing at Emma. I knew this had more to do with ice cream, but I was having a little breakdown today. I wanted so badly to be with Jameson on his last race but, no, I was bedridden.

Fuck you, Darrin, fuck you!

I had this clown in my room, and I hated clowns. Any time I felt any anger about what Darrin had done to us, I took my frustrations out on the clown. He now only had one arm, half a torso, one leg and his foot was hanging on by a thread. I was convinced he’d be destroyed by the time these three weeks were over.

Feeling slightly like an ass for yelling at Emma, I was about to go find her when Charlie joined me.

“Hey, kiddo, scoot over.”

This was a new ritual for us. Charlie and I would lie in my bed, watch reality TV, and eat ice cream for hours.

He lay down beside, fluffing a pillow behind his head before looking over at me as he took the lid off his Brownie Batter ice cream. He reached for the new chub attached to his mid-section. “I blame you for this.”

I rolled my eyes. “So do Van and Emma.”

It was silent for a few moments while we ate our Brownie Batter and Cheesecake Brownie until Charlie sighed. “So, it looks like the little monsters are mine.”

“Really, I mean, did Andrea tell you?” I turned, facing him, grunting with the motion because the ice cream was in fact taking up residence in some pretty inconvenient places, like my hips.

“Yeah, at my last appointment... when the doctors said... I didn’t have much time left.” His eyes fell to the ice cream container. “She kind of blurted it out on the way home.”

I nodded as the reality of losing my dad would soon hit home, but like everything else, I tried to look forward. Don’t be fooled, though; I had a name for this, it was called denial.

“Do the twins know?”

“Andrea said they’ve known all along.”

“Well, shit,” I said.

It explained why the Lucifer twins acted the way they did. I was the same way growing up. Well, I hardly thought I was that annoying, but I could have been to others.

“I can’t believe I’m related to those assholes.” I rolled on my back with another grunt. It was as if I thought the grunting helped me move easier. My hand reached down to my stomach when I felt the baby moving. Maybe he was sea sick from all my movements?

The corner of Charlie’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re really starting to show now.”

I glared. “Thanks, Dad.” I set the ice cream aside. I needed to stop eating ice cream before I turned into the Goodyear blimp.

“Can I?” Charlie asked, motioning to my spaz who was currently flailing around.

“Yeah, go ahead.” I tucked my hands behind my head.

“Have you guys thought of any names yet?” His hand gently touched his grandson.

“We talked the other night on the phone about names, but we didn’t really decide on one.”

His eyes lit up. “Charlie is a good name.”

Before we could continue, Lane, who flew out yesterday, came barreling into the room with Mr. Jangles. “Whoa, buddy, careful there,” I told him, reaching for Mr. Jangles. “You’ll throw your back out carrying him around like that.”

“What you feed him?” he asked in his little chipmunk voice, face turning red. I loved how three-year-olds still left out words. I think I’ll cry the day I have a conversation with Lane and he pronounces words correctly and doesn’t leave any out.

“McDonald’s.”

Lane, much like his dad, was like a real live wind-up toy after a half-pint of Brownie Batter ice cream. I just hoped his batteries would die soon. I would not be telling Alley about this either. She warned us before she left that he kind of went crazy when he had sugar but, really, who didn’t go crazy when they had sugar? Spencer was a prime example; give him a Snickers and it was like watching Mr. Jangles on catnip. The only difference here would be that Spencer didn’t crawl around on his hands and knees. He saved that for when he was drinking.

Hanging out with Lane was fun, although when I gave him a lollipop he accidentally stuck it in my hair during his animated recollection of how he beat Jameson last week at Wii Tennis. This confirmed my theory that the incorrigible Lucifer twins were already corrupting him. Specifically, when he cackled at me like Christopher Lee Ray for having to cut a piece of my hair just to get the goddamn thing out.

Later that night, without a moment’s rest from the Lucifer twins and their partner-in-crime, Emma attacked me with wedding plans.

“Sway, we need to do this.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “You do realize there are only three weeks until your wedding, right?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes... seriously, now pick a goddamn dress already!” she yelled, throwing the magazine at me. “I can’t plan a wedding without the dress.”

“I hate you,” I muttered, flipping through the ridiculous magazine. I finally settled on one and I couldn’t tell you what it looked like because I really didn’t care. All I wanted was to marry Jameson, and it didn’t matter to me if we were naked while doing it.

Now, there’s an idea... nah, not with this belly. Besides, your dad will be there and him seeing you naked is not an option.

Emma went on to explain everything else she had planned for the wedding. I nodded, picking at my nail polish until she got to the twentieth activity.

“Hey, asshole.” I glared. “This isn’t a scavenger hunt. It’s a fucking wedding. What’s with all the activities?”

This did nothing to deter her at all, nor did she answer me. I was beginning to worry about the lack of oxygen going to her brain—it was all coming out of her mouth. Jameson was right; she didn’t breathe enough when speaking.

Two hours later I turned to her, “Are you finished, or are we still having a conversation?”

This didn’t seem to affect her either. I began to wonder if there was, in fact, something wrong with her. I mean, seriously, who had that much energy all the time? It confirmed my suspicions that she was secretly on some sort of psycho-stimulant drug.

I never felt bad about drugging her on the way home from New Hampshire. You couldn’t blame us really and, if you did, you’d obviously never traveled with her.

 

On Friday, while Jameson was in Florida for the last race of the season, he called me after qualifying was over. “Are you excited to see me in three days?”

“Yeah,” I responded wryly, my attention focused on Blubber, Logan’s pet hamster, who hadn’t moved from his place on his wheel. He was like a big fat blob.

Logan was convinced I needed parenting skills, which I did. But the fact that a six-year-old pointed this out left me somewhat bitter. So he left me in charge of his hamster while he was at school.

“Try to contain your excitement for me,” Jameson replied. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

I could hear the commotion around him and knew he was calling me from the track.

“I’m hamster sitting, and it’s not looking too good. He hasn’t moved all day. And I’m sure he should have shit by now.”

“Uh, that sounds like he’s dead,” he replied with a laugh. “How’d you manage to kill a hamster?”

“Oh, well that’s just fucking great. My first attempt at parenting and look what happens!” I wailed, reaching for my trusty box of Kleenex. “I can’t do this. I’m not meant to be a parent, and you know. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Just get another one for him,” he suggested, trying to reason with me. “Why are you babysitting a hamster anyway? They sit in a cage. What’s there to babysit?”

I ignored his babysitting question. “Wouldn’t he notice if I replaced Blubber?”

“Doubt that.” He snorted. “Last week, he had his pants on backward for the majority of the day and didn’t notice. What makes you think he’d notice a new hamster?”

“Good point. It’s just that’s a little more work than I wanted to put into this whole babysitting thing. I don’t want to go anywhere.” I replied sardonically. “Do they stuff hamsters? Maybe if I had him stuffed, Logan would never notice.”

“Yeah because having him stuffed would clearly be less work than buying a new one.”

“Jerk.”

“So, anyway,” he said, changing subjects, “I’m really missing you.”

It was times like this that I was reminded of what he meant to me. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders right now while my problems were nowhere near the magnitude of his, but here he was, just listening. And here I was complaining about a dead hamster, but he was just listening.

I could sense the fear, the pressure, and the overwhelming anxiety in his voice. I decided the only appropriate answer here would be sending a picture of the funbags.

This helped, of course, and led to another amazing episode of technical support. We were getting really good at tech support these days.

After we hung up, I decided hamster sitting was not in my future and would be handing the newly purchased hamster over before I could commit another homicide. I couldn’t have two on my conscience—one maybe, two, no way. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

Charlie came to visit later that night while I watched Jameson on Trackside Live. Jameson was entertaining, handsome, and left me crying because I wasn’t there with him.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” Charlie asked, handing me the Chunky Monkey as a peace offering.

“I’m sorry, I just... had a long day, and I miss Jameson,” I told him, sobbing as I continued my rant. “And then I was babysitting Logan’s hamster, and the son of a bitch died on me... and I miss my dirty heathen. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had sex?”

Charlie was not prepared for that last statement. He didn’t answer and lay back on my bed and continued to watch the show as if I’d never said anything.

“Why is this pillow purring?” he finally asked after a good thirty minutes of silence.

“Because... you’re on Mr. Jangles, Dad.”

Another few moments of silence passed and Charlie chuckled. “You know that hamster died last week. Logan just refuses to get rid of it.”

“That dirty fucking liar.” I glared at the television, contemplating my retaliation.

 

Before Emma left for Homestead with Lane to watch Jameson’s final race, she bought me a few movies. Me, being bored to the point of insanity, turned on Father of the Bride.

Now before I had this idea to turn on the movie, I was in a euphoric mood at the idea of spending some time alone. Charlie and Andrea took the Lucifer twins to Seattle for the day, so it was just me. Although Van was nearby, he agreed to give me some space this afternoon.

I got myself some snacks. Van was also kind enough to stock the freezer with more ice cream. Not that this was his responsibility, but I think he’d become as hooked on the shit as I was. Wavering between Chunky Monkey and Banana Split was somewhat time consuming and a vital decision to be made.

“You’re pregnant and eating for two. You should just eat both,” I told myself. “Yes, Sway, excellent idea.”

So I took both pints of ice cream and trotted back to my room to watch my movies. I then decided that I also needed some pizza rolls so that sent me back to the kitchen. After I had a variety of foods to choose from and a Thomas Kemper cream soda, I started the movie.

This was one of those moments where I could distinctively say, “That’s where you went wrong in life.”

I was bawling by the time the first movie ended, and not in a normal way. It was more like heaving and possibly similar to what one goes through giving birth, or an emotional breakdown.

So, there I was, heaving, and groaning, and drooling, and then contractions started. Not bad, but enough I took concern in my stability for the day. I couldn’t gain any sort of control over myself.

Four hours, an entire bag of pizza rolls and two pints of Banana Split and Chunky Monkey later, I was half way through the second movie—Father of the Bride: Part Two.

I couldn’t tell you why I started the second movie.

Stupidity maybe?

The phrase “not prepared” was an understatement.

I actually had to stop the movie at one point in fear I was heading for pre-term labor based on my anxiety levels.

By the time it was over, my face was so swollen from crying that I could barely see, let alone breathe normally. It was similar to the sound a pig made when breathing, only worse.

Tissues surrounded me in my bed, along with empty Ben and Jerry ice cream tubs. After spending the better part of the day hysterically crying while eating ice cream and pizza rolls, I had to evaluate my life. I got knocked up, and I became an emotional bed-ridden shit show.

I nearly pissed myself when my cell phone rang but smiled when I saw it was Jameson and then that brought another round of pure hysteria that I couldn’t be there with him for his last race.

“Hello?” Once I spoke I realized just how ridiculous I sounded. It was as though I’d been smoking for fifty years.

“Sway? Jameson asked, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“No!” I sobbed into the phone, wanting him here to comfort me. “I’m watching Father of the Bride, part two!” The words came out in a rather drawn out, dramatic way that I deemed completely necessary for the situation.

“Oh,” he said. I don’t think he was “prepared” for my answer. There was a lot of unpreparedness happening today.

“I’m having an emotional breakdown!” I managed to say between my pig snorting and wails. “I want my daddy to see me get married! Can you come home like tonight? We can get married in the living room,” I suggested, still crying.

“Honey, I would do that for you if I could, but I can’t,” he explained in a tormented voice. “You know this is the last race, right?”

“Yes.” I wailed again. Even though this was good news to me, it didn’t help my hysteria. To think that I could control my emotions while pregnant was downright preposterous.

“Sway, honey, calm down,” Jameson soothed in his velvet voice.

“I’m sorry ...” I paused, taking in a shaky breath and then hiccupped. “I just... shouldn’t have started watching those movies.”

“Are you better now?”

“No!” I sobbed again. Just the thought of the movie made me cry again.

This went on for a good twenty minutes, me being fine, and then all of a sudden I was breaking down again.

Eventually I did calm down, only after Jameson sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love” while I ate yet another pint of ice cream.

“I have to go now, honey, I have to get to practice,” he told me after I made him sing the song once more. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes,” I said in a ridiculous attempt at trying to actually be a big girl and not a pathetic-love-sick-emotional-knocked-up-pigizzle. It was a failed attempt, and I was losing it. “Good luck and bring home that championship!”

“I’ll try, are you going to watch it on TV?”

“Are you serious? That’s probably the dumbest question you’ve ever asked me.”

“I know.” He laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Be careful, and I expect you to blow me another kiss from victory lane.”

“I will,” he said and hung up.

Once again, I broke down into hysterical tears because he was there listening. The biggest race of his career was today, and he just listened to me for an hour complaining about a movie without bringing up his own problems. That showed what type of person he was.

Looking back on those last three weeks apart, I saw what he’d become. Inside he was still the man who could make me burn with a single look. He was the man who held me while I cried, the man who kissed me until I was breathless, and still the boy who captured my heart surrounded by methanol and clay. And when combined with who he’d become, he was unstoppable, unavoidable, and an overpowering greatness who no one stood in the way of.

 

I woke up the morning of the final race in Homestead, a mess, and stared at my ceiling, wondering why someone couldn’t get me Excedrin.

I had no intentions of getting it myself. I had a headache from hell, but I was inclined to think it had something to do with the fact that I hadn’t had sex in a really long fucking time. Talk about tension. I needed relief badly.

Spencer enjoyed this the most and every chance he got, he brought up the word penetration. Who knew he could use the word in context that much. If I wasn’t so irritated, I would have actually been proud of him. I wasn’t, though; I was just annoyed.

When I got the text from Sway wishing me good luck I jumped out of bed with an alacrity my body hadn’t seen in three weeks.

Cal, who drove my motor coach for me to the various tracks, made coffee. I went through my normal ritual of drinking a few cups and trying to mentally prepare myself for the biggest race of my career when my dad walked into my motor coach.

“How did it go?” He had gone to the arraignment the other day.

“Better than I expected but …” He took a seat across from me, reaching for a slice of bacon Cal set on the table, “… you won’t be happy.”

“Why?” I growled back at him. This was not improving my mood or helping with my insane headache.

“Chelsea, well, she only got two years at a women’s correctional facility.”

“What the fuck?” I shouted, losing my temper once again. My dad patiently waited for me to calm down before he continued.

“Mariah got ten years and is being charged with a felony. Gordon, well he had a good fucking lawyer and got away with two years.”

This was not what I wanted for these fuckers but, at that point, after everything we’d all been through, I was relieved that Darrin was gone, and that no other lives would be destroyed because of him. I was relieved that Mariah, Chelsea, and Gordon were at least punished for their involvement, but nothing would be sufficient. I wanted them to get life in prison, but things didn’t always work that way, especially when you were dealing with the criminal justice system.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why aren’t you freaking out about this?

Look at me, growing up. Sway would be proud. I smiled to myself that she had this effect on me and that I’m no longer ruled by my Incredible Hulk tendencies. Ha, well I wouldn’t go that far, but I was making considerable progress.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” he asked, staring at me intently.

I laughed, taking some bacon. “Blame the girl.”

“Huh, who knew a girl could have this effect on you... why didn’t I ever think of that?” he muttered rhetorically, walking out.

Once he left, I proceeded to get ready for the drivers’ meeting, but I had a big fucking problem. I was missing my lucky shoes, well, one shoe.

“Where’s Jameson?” I heard Alley ask as she walked inside, panicked. “He’s supposed to be at the drivers’ meeting.”

“Something about only having one shoe,” Spencer told her as he and Aiden continued to play the Xbox. “He’s back there somewhere.”

“Jameson?”

“Yeah?” My head was buried inside the closet looking for my other Puma shoe. “Have you seen my black Pumas?” I tossed a pair of boxing gloves over my shoulder.

Who packs this shit in here?

“Seriously?” Alley asked, her hands on her hips. “You’re running late because of your black Pumas?”

I didn’t answer and continued to hunt for the said missing shoe. Eventually I asked, “Who packs this shit?”

“I do, asshole!” she yelled, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Where’s my shoe then?”

“Fuck if I know.” Her phone beeped so she looked down. “Why do you need it so bad?”

“Because,” I groaned. “I’ve won seven back-to-back races with those shoes on. I need that shoe!” I proclaimed, raising my fist in the air like I was leading troops into battle. Alley laughed. I hardly thought this was funny.

Leave it to me to depend on a shoe to win a race.

Finally, I found the shoe and was hauling ass toward the media center for the drivers’ meeting.

It was the same shit as every other week at the drivers’ meeting, but the day seemed to pass quickly.

 

“Hey, Jameson, how do you feel about today? Do you think you have a shot?”

“Yeah, I do,” I told the reporters huddled around. “I love Homestead. You can pretty much choose any line you want and make the car stick with the progressive banking. So yeah, we got a shot at it.”

When I exited the media center, the reporters were, once again, in my face asking me my thoughts on this afternoon’s race, but this time, the subject changed rather quickly, catching me off guard.

“So how do you feel about the sentences handed down to Gordon Reynolds and Mariah Fowler?” Ashley asked suddenly.

Of all the reporters out there, I knew she’d be the one to corner me on national television. Part of me was surprised she didn’t help them.

“After what they did to my family—I don’t think it’s steep enough,” I told her, continuing to walk toward the grandstands with as much indifference as I could pass off. I should have shut the fuck up after that, but I didn’t. “They nearly killed my fiancée and unborn child. Ten years is not even close to the punishment Mariah deserves, and two years for Gordon …” I snorted. “That’s just a slap in the face.” My eyes narrowed at her, the indifference was gone, and she knew it.

I’m not sure what my expression was, let’s face it, I’m not looking in the mirror—but the expression on Ashley’s told me she saw what I was intending her to see.

“S-s-so you’re getting married in a few weeks, right?” she stammered, her face flushed as our pace slowed to barely moving.

“Yes, I am,” I stated proudly, walking away.

Prior to the race, I had a meet and greet for the Children’s Hospital. This was always my favorite part about the meet and greets. I loved seeing all the little smiling faces who would give anything to meet you.

One particular little boy was talkative so I encouraged him further by asking questions. I learned through our in-depth conversation that his name was Harlan, and he wanted to be a race car driver who was also a boxer.

“So you’ve got the boxing chops, huh, kid?”

His bright blue eyes lit up. “Yes, I do!” And then he proceeded to punch me in the stomach with his tiny fist.

I didn’t flinch, of course, and instantly saw the disappointment on his face.

“Hold on, I wasn’t ready,” I told him and then rolled my neck from side to side, bouncing on the balls of my feet like a boxer. “I’m ready now, try again.”

When he hit me again I fell to the floor and pretended to scream in pain, which provoked all the kids to dog pile me, not at all what I planned.

Thankfully, Alley rescued me from the attack, and it was time for the race, and more importantly, to get into race mode.

She handed me my iPod as I attempted to drown out the screaming fans, Spencer and Aiden fighting over the last Red Bull, and my dad ranting about how I needed to stay focused while threatening to take away my phone.

“Hey, dipshit,” my dad said with a smirk, yanking my headphones out. “You focused?”

“I was until you interrupted me,” I replied with a smile, fumbling with the headphones before handing my iPod to Alley.

Jimi slung his arm around my shoulders and squeezed once. “You got this, I have no doubt,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Remember, this is what you’ve dreamed about, this is it. You’ve earned it.” He patted my back. “You’ve already proven yourself—finish it off.”

I’ve never really thought about what this would all be like.

What would it be like to win eleven races in my first Cup Series? How am I supposed to feel about this? I also never really thought about what it would feel like to have the chance to win the championship in my first season. I never thought about this because really, I didn’t think it would happen.

You didn’t realize this kind of dream until it was happening. You didn’t recognize it until you were right in the middle of it. Surrounded by the screaming fans and the warm Florida sun, I was right in the middle of it. This was what I’d been working for since I was five.

When I pulled out of my parent’s driveway five years ago, that afternoon, somewhere between Portland and Chico, California, I thought about turning around, but it was Sway who kept me going.

We were sitting outside a Chevron, filling up on gas, when I freaked out and decided I was insane for even thinking I could do it. She was there, talking me off the ledge and convinced me that this was what I was meant to do. Without her, I might not be standing on this grid, here today.

I smiled to myself when in that exact moment—standing here on pit road, having those same doubts and fears—a text message from her came through.

You can do this! Believe in yourself, and believe in your dream. You were born to be a champion!

She was right and, in that moment, with the sounds of Linkin Park blaring through my headphones, I realized my biggest day was here. This was it; this was the now or never, the do or die, time to step up and play the game. It was time to show everyone who had ever doubted me that I was born to do this. There was no holding back now.

This would be my eye for an eye.

I sent her one last text before tucking my phone away.

I will. Wait up for me tonight.

Watching drivers’ wives and girlfriends wish them luck was hard because Sway wasn’t there to do the same. But the reason she couldn’t— it just fueled the fire inside me to win.

All morning everyone had been asking me how I felt coming into this race, how I was feeling. Though I’d given them the standard answer of great, was I great? No, I wasn’t.

Was I nervous? You had no fucking idea.

Talk about pressure.

But with everything that’d happened, I deserved this. My team deserved this—my family deserved this. After all the shit that’d happened, all the shit I’d put them through... they deserved less shit for once and a championship.

Even the biggest races of your career could play out the same way. You were stopped a few dozen times for cautions, debris, wrecks, rain, but for the drivers and their crews who have worked so hard to get to that last race, it never stopped. It was a constant race, one stop to another, a call to a change, and a turn to a finish. For those miles in between the green and checkered were what decided the fate of one team. Forty-two others were left wondering what might have happened by that one more second, the slip on pit road, that brush with the wall, or maybe just that three-tenths of an inch separating them from victory. For these racers surrounding me, the teams, the owners, after the checkered, the race to the next was just the beginning of their ten-month battle between the flags that never really ended.

“Turn your rear tire fans on,” Kyle told me at lap two hundred. “I’m not sure it’s going to help, but we gotta try something.”

This was not going as planned. Just twelve laps into the race, I blew the right rear tire and slammed into the wall. Amazingly enough I managed to keep it on the lead lap, but there I sat in ninth place with sixty-seven laps to go.

“What do the points look like?” Frustration and exhaustion were evident in my harried tone.

“If the race was to end now,” Kyle’s tone was the same, “you’d win the championship by eighty points.”

I was relieved, and I really didn’t think anyone could catch me, but I had a shit car today, and it’d be a miracle if it finished in one piece.

My mind kept going back to the fact that I wouldn’t settle for anything other than the win; I wanted more. More of anything was better, right? Not exactly, but I wanted more out of this goddamn car, that was for sure.

“Kyle, listen ...” I turned the fans on. “Let’s take four tires on this stop and go down a half round on the wedge. Maybe that will free it up enough that we’re not burning up the tires. I’m tight, and I think that’s why.”

“All right, boys,” Kyle announced to the crew. “You heard the man.”

“Pit road is open this time by,” Aiden told us. “Watch your speed. Keep it at 4300.”

“This is the last stop of the night guys so make it a good one,” Mason told the crew. “Get both cans in, and get that tape off the grill.”

“Keep coming, three... two... one... wheels straight, foot on the brake, bud.”

After ten seconds I was already pounding on the wheel. “Come on!” I screamed. “Let’s go, let me GO!”

“Go, go, go!” Kyle finally said as they removed the jack. “Straight out, clear one lane.”

I gained a spot on pit road, which improved my mood slightly. “Thanks guys, nice pit stop.” Though I sounded irritated, I wasn’t. I was just... nervous? I didn’t get nervous when I raced, but today, I think I showed some emotions dictating that said feeling.

The pit crew was doing a good job tonight but, like I said, I wasn’t settling for anything but the win. I knew regardless if I won or not, the chances of me winning the championship were good. But have you ever heard that saying, You can’t have your cake and eat it, too?

I think that statement is another crock of shit. Whoever said that obviously failed at something and made that up to make them feel better about losing.

“It’s time to step up to the plate,” I told myself as the green flag dropped.

I wanted to know that those sacrifices that I made were worth it—especially since I constantly wondered why I was making them in the first place.

My mind drifted from to the days when I first started racing to now and how mechanical it seemed. When you first started racing, your mind was constantly scrambling inside that car about how each move affected you and the outcome of the race. And that wasn’t to say you still didn’t think that way years later, but it was different. With practice, more seat time, your moves and reactions grew surer and going high when you usually wouldn’t almost became second nature. It was almost like muscle memory; your body just reacted and anticipated the signal you were giving it. All along you were collecting notes, your mind developing more memory and responses to the situations until you were faced with something new. You responded, and found the answer you didn’t know was there—an answer you didn’t think you had. A move you didn’t think you would make, you did.

Numerous circumstances played a part in a race—pit stops, lapped traffic, caution flags, wrecks, flat tires, as well as strategy. It was all about how well you played against the circumstances and swung them to your advantage. There was a moment of flux when those around you are vulnerable and a sudden, unexpected fate turned to your advantage. It was what you did in that moment when you made a difference against the circumstances playing against you. And the move you didn’t think you’d make turned out to be the move you needed.

By lap two-fifty-six, I was running second behind Tate. I thought about what he said to me in Dover.

“I shouldn’t say that to you, because I know damn well if you can pull yourself together and get that drive, that determination, in you back, I don’t stand a chance for a repeat championship.”

I smiled and nudged him from behind, waving. I raced him fair, but I wasn’t holding back. He put up a good fight like I wanted him to. We bumped and banged for a good ten laps before he finally went high and let me go with a wave.

“All clear—go get ‘em!” Aiden told me.

You couldn’t miss the excitement in his voice, in everyone’s voice. Our team was in its first year in the Cup Series and to come out here and do what we’d done... it was unheard of.

You honestly never knew when your team would find unity, and it might not even happen the first year. Unity between the crew and car chief, crew chief and driver, driver and owner, were all different and unique in their own subtle ways. It was a rhythm like any other rhythm and one you needed to win a championship. It could happen over a meal, at the table full of empty beer bottles, or maybe at the track during a race where the right call was made, or a quick stop. Some found it and others never did.

We had found it, and once you had a drink of victory like we had, nothing would stop you from playing with fire to quench the thirst of desire. I knew that fire very well by now.

“White flag next time by,” Kyle said. “Come on, bud, give me one more good lap like the rest of them! Hit your marks one last time kid, you deserve this. Goddamn, you deserve this kid!”

Did I deserve this?

Fuck yeah, I did.

That last lap was the longest lap that I’d ever driven in my career. It felt as though I was driving across country.

It also felt like I had an incredible amount of time to reflect on what this actually meant to me.

Besides the glaringly obvious and Doug Durran in 1950, I was the youngest driver to win the NASCAR Winston Cup Series Championship, and the first to win it in his rookie season.

The excitement and emotion I felt was hard to describe. My entire body shook as I came out of turn three. The roars of my screaming team over the radio were enough to rupture my eardrums. Yeah, we had unity all right.

I was a champion.

 “YEAH! You guys are fucking awesome!” I screamed for all I was worth.

Pounding my fists on the steering wheel, I took the checkered flag for my twelfth victory of my rookie season and my first NASCAR Winston Cup championship.

My dad was the next on the radio. “Fuck yeah, Jameson! You’ve proven it time and time again—but you did it today!” he choked. “I’m so proud of you!”

Then Kyle was screaming, “I knew you could do it!”

I once again had so many emotions running through me. Relief, excitement, anxiety... you name it... I was feeling it.

I did one badass burnout that put all other burnouts to shame. Then, I got out of the car on the start/finish line and retrieved the checkered flag from the race official, the same official who I’d threatened to shove the black flag up his ass.

He was still a little upset about that.

The fans were screaming my name and patting me on the back as I made my way into the stands. This was another one of those moments I couldn’t describe. These people, these fans, they were what made all of this possible. Without them, we wouldn’t have these races. Without them, I wouldn’t be here, living my dream.

Right there, in that crowd full of intense excitement, I realized my dream had come true, and I would remember that moment forever.

This wasn’t just another victory. This, winning a championship, defined your career as a race car driver. Some spent their entire careers chasing the championship dream and never achieved it. But, here I was, twenty-three-years-old, a champion living my dream.

 The drive down pit road was long, as every driver and their crew stood alongside their pits and congratulated me, one by one. Talk about emotional. It brought me right back to the emotion I felt after winning the USAC Triple Crown, the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals, and the Coca-Cola 600.

I was beginning to understand the way Sway felt when she watched Father of the Bride.

Once I was in victory lane, my dad was the first to lock me into a hug. “You did it! I... have no words... just... you did it!” he kept repeating as he held me against him.

“No, Dad,” I choked. “We did it.” I motioned to him and the rest of the team. We both smiled.

Spencer was there as well, patting me on the back.

Up until this point, I was proud of myself for keeping my composure. But having your legendary World of Outlaw Champion dad, tell you he’s proud of you, made my composure crumble. But so did his. Fuck being a badass.

Reporters were in my face. “Jameson... Jimi... how does it feel to win your first championship in your first season?”

Dad spoke up first. “You know, today, I’m not a car owner. I’m not a fellow driver. I’m just a very proud father,” he choked out pulling me into a hug. “I knew he had it in him.”

I was glad to know I wasn’t the only one having some troubles controlling the emotions today.

“So, Jameson,” the reporter turned to me. I was leaning up against the side of my car because my legs were shaking so badly I needed the support. My entire body was humming with excitement. “How does it feel for you?”

How did I feel?

My gaze took in everything around me—the trophy I said I didn’t want looked pretty fucking good, my team, Bobby’s and Tate’s team huddled around knowing they helped us in many ways, the champagne, the fireworks, the screaming fans—It was all so much more than I envisioned it would be.

I couldn’t really grasp the meaning behind it, my mind was reeling, but eventually I found my words.

“I have no idea what the hell to say... I’m just beside myself in all this... it’s unbelievable. I’m so proud of everyone on this race team who supports us. Simplex, we couldn’t have done this without you. My family... we may not have had the best year, and though it felt like we were constantly being black-flagged, we pulled through this. So, thank you. Everyone, thank you so much.” I looked directly at the camera, knowing she was watching. “Sway, honey... I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” I blew her the kiss she requested of me. “I love you.” I winked at the camera.

“Did you have your doubts you could pull off the victory and the championship today?” The reporter leaned in when the team tossed Kyle around, all thriving in the excitement of victory lane.

“Fuck yeah, I had my doubts!” I laughed. Not only had I cursed on national television, but I earned a laugh from everyone standing around me. “I have a family and a team who supports me. They pushed me to follow my dreams. I can’t thank them enough.”

The crowd roared to life as the reporter held up my right arm.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your NASCAR Winston Cup Series Champion... Jameson Riley!”

I wasn’t sure what else to say but as I glanced over at my team celebrating, I thought about everything that went into this season, it was more than just me. The one thing I wanted most of all from winning this championship was that everyone who stood beside me through this and helped along the way, like Bucky Miers and Tate, just to name a few. I hope they understood they were part of what I did and always would be.

When I won a race, it was not for me, or my dad as the car owner, or even our sponsors. It was for everyone, and I hope they felt the same excitement and gratifying feelings we felt with winning this championship. The guys who busted their asses each week just to get this car to the track, they deserved this as much as I did. They were the ones who should have been holding the trophy right now.

I thought about everything that happened to me over these last few months and wondered what all of it meant to me, in this moment. It showed me what I wanted.

I wanted everything. With my aggression, my desire, my determination, I didn’t know when to say when.

I fought, I gave in, I decided fate, and I could honestly say with every fiber of my being that I gave it everything I had.

I wanted the championship, I wanted the girl, and I wanted to make her happy right now into happily ever after.

And that started with a wedding.