It was race weekend in Kentucky, and the skies in Tennessee were crisp and blue, but Tyler was miserable.

The commentary had already begun, but he barely paid attention to it. It was just speculation at this point. When they checked in on each crew, they were giving explanations for people whose car knowledge was limited to forward and reverse.

Adrenaline thrummed through him like he was about to step into the car himself. Rory had already run laps on a test day to learn the circuit, but they’d given him a few more. Why? Were there new parts since the crash?

Of course there were. They would have had to rebuild most of his car after the accident. New tires, too. That would change the grip. Maybe they were giving Rory a chance to get used to the balance.

It felt like sitting outside his friends’ house, watching them having fun through the living room window. Even though it was work—hard, stressful work as all of them struggled to do more than enough in less time than they needed—it was also rewarding work.

And now all he could do was sit here and watch it on TV like a goddamn rookie.

He knew he should be happy for Rory. It was the guy’s big break. The commentators had already mentioned his accident, which wasn’t something he wanted to be reminded of, but at least they hadn’t replayed it in slow motion again.

Tyler was going to see those few seconds of slow-motion disaster in his nightmares for years to come. The split-second where he wondered if this would be it, if he’d finally pushed his luck a little too far…

“Want a beer? Or is it too early? Race is almost starting now, huh?”

“Never too early,” Tyler answered, trying to stay light-hearted as Josh poked his head in the living room. “Just a Coke right now, though. Ten minutes.”

“I’ll get the chips.”

The race would last for hours, and he didn’t plan to miss a moment of it. The first few laps and the last few were all most people paid attention for. He got a lot more out of seeing the middle—the steady grind, how it affected every team’s machines, how they pitted, what line they chose… It was all valuable information. Since he wasn’t wearing himself to the bone today, he could use this chance to study the rest of them.

It would take a lot of buffing to make that silver lining gleam.

67. There he was—that asshole Richie.

Josh crashed next to him on the couch with two cans of Coke and a bowl of chips. “Took your meds?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I need ’em anymore, but yeah,” Tyler said absently, his attention focused more on the screen.

It was stupid. Staring at Richie now wasn’t gonna give him any more clues about what the hell Richie had been doing nudging him. Still, Tyler couldn’t stop watching him.

Josh caught on. “That’s the guy who—”

“Yeah.”

“You still think it was on purpose?”

Keeping up a conversation was grinding Tyler’s nerves, but he took a breath and cracked open his can of Coke. He gulped a few sips. Josh was trying to be supportive. For once, he wasn’t being an asshole about it, either. He’d been acting sweet and sympathetic all day.

That was what Tyler’s best friends were for. These guys—Josh more than anyone—knew when to tease him for being too stupid to quit the sport, and when to shut up and hug him.

“Think so,” Tyler finally said, setting the can down again and clearing his throat.

“I guess you can’t prove it, though. It’s easy to fuck up when you bump draft…”

“No. Not anymore.” Tyler glared at Josh. “Bump drafting is easy to notice. And you can’t bump and run now. The cars won’t let it happen.”

“So how’d it happen?”

Tyler glared at the TV now. “Fuck me if I know. I’m not an investigator.”

Josh paused, then poked at the chip bowl. “Eat more. You’re getting cranky.”

“Fuck you, too,” Tyler muttered, but he grabbed a handful of chips. They crunched in his hand, sending tiny bits across his knees and the floor.

Josh snorted. “I won’t hand you any wine glasses.”

“Good. I wanna remember this.”

Josh didn’t say anything, just kicked back on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table.

After a minute, Tyler grabbed the remote and turned the volume up. It was almost green-flag time. He just had to make it through four hundred laps of watching Rory race his baby without losing his shit.

* * *

“That’s Richie, isn’t it? Again? In 67? Or is he 69?”

It was the second time Josh had asked. Tyler knew damn well he was trying to show an interest in his race, but there were probably other ways than pointing out the guy who might have tried to kill him.

“He’s fucking 67, okay? And I don’t wanna hear that asshole’s name again.”

Josh blinked at him, then raised an eyebrow. “All right,” he said, raising his hands for a moment.

“All right.” Tyler folded his arms as he leaned back into the couch, his eyes fixed on the lead car. They were about three-quarters of the way through the race now, and it had been a clean one.

In fact, everyone seemed to be driving with a little more caution than usual. Maybe watching the accident—and its aftermath—had scared some of them. Or maybe it was his imagination, and the perspective of the camera.

His team was doing well. Even Rory. He felt bad thinking it, but he was glad Rory had been trailing his usual position.

Everything looked tamer through a lens. Even Alec had thought so, when he’d watched the track day coverage with Tyler.

“Want a beer?”

“Course I want a fucking beer, but my doctors will get pissy at me if I do.” He knew it was logical—alcohol slowed healing progress, at best, and there were the potentially dangerous interactions with his painkillers. “So, no, I don’t want a beer.”

“Jesus,” Josh scoffed, pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed the empty Coke cans, pinching their sides and compressing them into metal disks, one at a time. “Don’t fucking bite my head off. Watch your mouth when you’re under my damn roof.” He strode for the kitchen, hands full of crushed cans.

Tyler already felt sick with frustration after hours of watching the endlessly looping machines roaring around the track, and all the lucky bastards who got to drive them. Now? It was positively simmering under his skin, a rage he couldn’t quite put into words, and certainly couldn’t control.

But then, he quickly reminded himself, he did it in the car. He shut off emotion and focused on the physics. The mechanics. He could be a better friend than that.

When Josh returned, Tyler cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Whatever, man. Don’t do it again.”

“Aye aye. I’m gonna call you a shithead at least three more times before I’m back on the road.” Tyler tried for a grin.

Josh avoided his gaze, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Oh, he’s making a move.”

That drew Tyler’s attention for a few seconds before he looked back to Josh.

The only thing that mattered in his life more than racing was his friends. Without them, he never would have had the guts to go for his dream. Hell, he wouldn’t have known he could do it.

They’d been the only ones crazy enough to sit with him in his beat-up old Fords, to see his karting races, to sit in the stands for hours of him slowly grinding through the laps, trying to beat the average enough to get noticed. They watched him put his neck on the line, and were there for him when he nearly broke it. They treated him like a human being, even when interviewers and fans gave him an ego. Hell, they opened their homes to him.

He kicked Josh with his good leg. “Hey, man. I mean it.”

Josh flinched and spilled his beer on his lap. “Dude!”

“Oh, dude,” Tyler groaned, leaning forward to grab a handful of tissues for him. “Didn’t know you were that jumpy.”

“Course I am.” Josh mopped up his jeans. “God, now I look like I pissed myself.”

“My sense of humor is that awesome.”

Josh cracked a smile. “Some would argue that.”

The screen pulled both of their attention to it in the same moment: another wreck. Looked minor—as the camera hastily cut to the wreck, there was hardly anything to see there. The commentators were losing their minds over it, though.

Josh squinted. “That ain’t Ricky’s work, is it?”

“Nah. He’s not even nearby. Last lap. Some idiot got a little hot-footed,” Tyler shrugged it off.

And then the caution flag came out.

“Shit. Overtime line,” Tyler muttered. A wreck meant a caution, which meant the next flag would end the race and it was an undignified cruise to the finish. They both watched in silence as Harrison—decent driver, but nowhere near stellar, and usually finished middle of the pack—took first place after an unremarkable performance.

“Well, that was… anticlimactic.” Josh winced and glanced at him.

“God, I’d be pissed if I were there,” Tyler muttered. “Rory must be losing his damn mind.” He almost felt bad for him.

Not bad enough to give him a shot at Bristol, though. He was feeling better now—miles better than even last week. Given another week, he could probably manage it.

All he had to do was get Alec’s approval. Or just climb in the damn car himself, whether or not Alec signed off that he was ready.

Josh clapped his shoulder. “Well, I’m gonna get out of here. Hot date tonight.”

“Do I need to make myself scarce?” Tyler smirked.

Josh waved it off. “Nah. His place is as good as any.”

“Okay, dude. Let me know if that changes.” Unlike his evening with Alec, there was a gnawing sense of something missing.

Tyler was putting it down to jealousy. He left the TV on so he could see the interviews afterward, but he felt strangely… what was the word?

Hollow? Helpless? Wistful? Something like that. Whatever it was, he didn’t like the feeling.

He missed it. He missed racing, and he missed explaining the basics to Alec and having Alec actually look interested, and he missed… well, he missed not feeling sorry for himself all the damn time.

“Fuck it. Grab me a beer after all?” he called as Josh headed for the kitchen. He was getting tired after these hours of intense focus on the TV. The exhaustion that seemed to be his default setting these days was setting in again.

Josh snorted. “After all that woe is me shit?”

Tyler rubbed his face and gestured at the TV. “Yeah. After all that… I need one.”

“Get it yourself, asshole.” Josh disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Tyler alone with his thoughts.

It was something Josh would say as a joke, but even if it wasn’t… yeah, he’d earned that.

Tyler pulled the couch pillow over his face, only meaning to rest for a few minutes. But the next time he pushed it off, it was dark outside, and he was alone.

A beer sat on the coffee table.

His smile froze halfway through forming. Behind the bottle, the TV was playing an interview with none other than Richie.

Of course it had to be him. Tyler grabbed the remote and turned the TV off, but the button was too soft to really mash in a satisfying manner.

Asshole. After everything, he’d gotten to race again today. He’d been just fine. Hell, he was probably gonna steal Tyler’s sponsor out from under him if Tyler couldn’t get back in the game fast enough.

Tyler couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Jealousy was a bitter taste on his tongue and an ugly look on him, but he couldn’t swallow it away. Even thinking about Rory getting a chance to test himself in a real race didn’t make it stop. There was no lining silver enough to make up for the points he was gonna lose in this season. No way he could make those back now.

Tyler was gonna find a way to make Richie pay.