“Debris, blown tire on the back straight. You can pass 45 on the inside around the next turn, but watch for 67.”

Tyler almost tuned out the chatter over the radio from his spotter as he threw every ounce of attention into the turn. If he got the angle wrong, every damn turn was a chance for someone else to sneak up the inside and jockey for position.

If he got it badly wrong, every turn was a chance for a 150mph crash, taking out not just himself, but the drivers around him.

This was the zone. This was his high. He was fucking flying, the car jolting around the turn.

The temperature steadily climbed. Still cool compared to later this summer, though. Most tracks were in the south, and conditions in the cars were grueling by the middle of the summer. Three hours or more in a 140º car, and he was one of the only people crazy enough to do it without a second thought.

He heard his spotter warn him about Richie, the driver of car 67, again. Richie was right behind, but fighting to cut into the other line.

Alarm bells went off in his head.

Richie had approached Tyler before the crash—muttered under his breath that he was gonna lose another sponsorship if he kept racing like shit.

Tyler hadn’t taken the bait. Some guys got all amped up before a race, trash-talked the others to get into the zone. He’d always thought it was stupid, and there was no point in wasting energy on others.

Racing was the driver and his car at its simplest. Sure, there were pit crew mechanics, the team owner, spotters, a hundred people with some kind of investment in the race, but they didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was closing a few critical inches in this deadly, high-speed ballet.

He had a shot at the championship this year. His points were looking good after several great finishes this season—and so were Richie’s.

If he could take top-five in this race, that was good enough for him. The closer to the front of the pack, the more points. The more sponsorships. Despite what Richie said.

He didn’t see it coming. Neither did his spotter. By the time his spotter started to yell in his ear, there was nothing Tyler could do. The car jolted with an impact, and then spun.

He flipped gracefully into the air, sky and walls and crowd blurring.

Wedged in place, only his head free, all he could do was try to control the adrenaline surge.

Everyone crashed. It was inevitable. He’d done it before. Usually you walked away, got checked out by the infield team, and the car was back in the running—

The ground closed in before he could finish the thought.

Blackness.

* * *

Was this the infield care center? The sterile walls and curtains were distinctive. Was he at a race, then?

Tyler stirred, trying to lift his arm to rub a hand down his face. His arms wouldn’t move. They were as heavy and leaden like his thoughts.

He was on painkillers, then. Goddammit. He must be badly hurt. No finishing out the race.

What race was it, anyway? He fought to think through the haze.

“Ty? Man, you’re up.” That was Josh—it had to be. His best friend came to every race in the Knoxville area. Luckily for them, Knoxville was pretty close to half a dozen tracks.

During racing season—ten months of the year—it was easy to make it to many of the speedways. And the support was nice. Especially when he crashed out.

“What…?” Ty started, trying to rub his face again. He looked down this time and grimaced. His arms were bandaged. He couldn’t feel it properly, but he was pretty sure there was a dull ache in his leg, too… and sharp pain in his ribcage, despite the painkillers.

“You’ve got a concussion. Lie back and rest.”

“Fuck,” Tyler muttered, closing his eyes obediently. “How bad is it?” Josh didn’t say anything. He opened his eyes, easily reading his best friend’s face. If Josh wasn’t telling him, the news was bad. “Fuuuuck.”

“They think there’s a couple broken bones. Maybe torn muscles. You’ve been in and out of it. You don’t remember the crash?”

Tyler shook his head. Between practice, qualifiers, and actual races, day in and out, he was at the tracks. “Was it a race?”

“Oh, Jesus. You really don’t remember,” Josh muttered.

Ty glared. “Tell me.”

“Yeah, it was. Three laps to go, some guy… well, we don’t really know what happened. I think some guy nudged you, and your car just went…” Josh made a vague twisting hand motion in the air, more like a bird flying to freedom than a car.

Tyler winced. “How bad’s the wreck?” When Josh grimaced, Tyler swore under his breath. Roger Marcson, the owner, was gonna be pissed.

He closed his eyes again, resting now that his head had decided to throb. “This ain’t the end.” If he could move his fingers and toes, that meant he still had them. Hell, drivers who lost them still found a way back into the game. “How long am I gonna be off?”

Josh grimly told him, “Gotta wait for them to figure out what’s wrong before you know, man.”

“Just banged up a bit, that’s not the end of the—oh, fuck.” Now that he’d lifted one leaden arm, the piercing pain told him it wasn’t just a bang-up job he’d done on himself. Bruises were nothing, but these were torn muscles at best.

That’s not gonna get me any action at the afterparty.

Tyler blew out a long sigh and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, more doctors were there, and he was groggy. Where was Josh? Oh, there in the corner.

Actually, there were a lot of people. Roger was here now, along with one of the other drivers—Chess. Nice of them to check on him.

He closed his eyes again, letting the exhaustion and painkillers sweep him away.