Daytona International Speedway…
“Is everything good with the car, Johnny Boy?”
The voice of my racing crew chief comes into my custom earpiece clear and calm.
“Everything is fantastic,” I say. “The sky is blue and I’m on my favorite racetrack in the fastest damn car on the field. Why wouldn’t everything be good?”
He lets out a big belly laugh.
“That’s what I want to hear. Do us all proud today. The champagne bottle is chilling in the bucket for when you win this thing.”
“Piece of cake,” I say. “The party is on me tonight.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the crew,” Hank says. “Be careful out there. Stay safe and drive like a bat out of hell.”
“You got it.”
I tighten the strap on my helmet one more time and wipe the sweat out of my eyes.
Holding my breath, I anxiously wait for the sweetest words I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear.
“Start your engines,” the announcer says.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. My heart is racing so fast it’s about to explode.
Pressing the accelerator, I rev the engine.
The crowd up in the grandstands surrounding the track roars in excitement.
God! How I love the sound of a race.
The flagman holding a green flag above the racetrack starts waving it like a crazy person.
It’s showtime, baby!
My foot presses into the gas pedal and my red car shoots ahead. The smooth stretch of pavement ahead curls like a beckoning finger to me.
This is what I live for.
The crowds, the cheering, the unbelievable heat inside the racecars when it’s ninety-eight fucking degrees in the shade.
And yes, sometimes even the smell of burning rubber when we hit the brakes and try not to die in a crash.
Car racing is my life.
Sure, the parties and the women are fun, but there’s nothing like this. The speed and the intense adrenaline rush.
This is what makes me get up in the morning every day of my life.
There’s nothing better in the world.
Not even sex, and I sure do love women.
The racetrack is no place for playing it safe. The trick is in the timing. Gunning when I see a break between cars, taking chances that any other sane driver with a lick of sense would never do.
The brake pedal is for pussies, to be used only in emergencies.
Or after I cross the finish line and win.
Five hours later of driving wide-ass open and I’m about to win my first race at Daytona. The flagman waves the white flag when I speed under him, signaling one remaining lap to go.
I’m heading down the straightaway now. The driver behind me tries to ease up on my righthand side and move around me, but he doesn’t stand a chance.
I pull ahead and take the clear lead.
The crowd is on their feet now cheering for me.
Fuck yes.
This is what it’s all about. Not just driving a car, or even winning races.
For me, racing has always been about this feeling thumping through my veins, right here, right now.
It’s as close to heaven as I’ll ever be.
I fly under the checkered flag and take a deep breath.
Hot damn!
I just won my first race at Daytona International Speedway.
When I finally pull my car to a stop, I sit there a minute and take it all in. I don’t ever want to forget this moment. Then I climb out of my car window and wave at the crowds.
The driver in the bright blue car behind me finishes second. He climbs out of his car window too and rushes over to shake my hand like the good sport he always is.
Shane Davis was burned badly in a car accident a few years ago. We’ve been friends so long now that I don’t even notice the horrible scars on one side of his face.
“Congratulations, Johnny,” he says to me as he pumps my hand.
“You ran a good race, Shane,” I say back to him. “Beating a champ like you is a double honor.”
He lets out a good-natured laugh and slaps me on the back.
“It’s your time now, Johnny Boy. I’m an old timer and have had my ten seconds of fame. Enjoy it while you can and don’t take a second out there on the track for granted. We’re living the dream, buddy. Never, ever forget that.”
“Don’t I know it,” I agree with a big smile.
As I take off my helmet and get ready to walk over to the flock of waiting press and fans, my boss hurries out to greet me.
His bald egg-shaped head glints pink in the sun. As always, he’s wearing a blue X-Treme Oil logo shirt. I can’t remember the last time I saw him without it.
Keeping our sponsor happy and interested enough to keep pouring money into our racing team is his number one priority. Lord knows none of us drivers have the money to keep a car running in the big-time races. Not with the way we crash the shit out of them every week in racing season.
“Nice one, Johnny Boy,” he says, giving me a resounding pat on the sleeve of my racing suit.
“Can’t wait to see the press coverage on this one,” I say, giving him back a couple of pats of my own.
I like Bob.
He’s a simple man and takes damn good care of me.
He arranged for the oil company sponsorship logo on my car, pays my bills and then some, and leaves it at that. Most racecar drivers have a whole wad of sponsors plastering their car with logos, but Bob cut a deal to have X-Treme Oil pay big bucks for logos all over our cars.
I guess we’re a one-sponsor kind of racing team.
The other racecar driver from my team, Steele, rushes over to shake my hand.
“How did you do?” I ask him.
I was so busy winning, I didn’t pay much attention to where my teammate came in.
“I made it to third,” he says, “not too shabby, considering you and Shane Davis were number one and two.”
“Alright! We’re killing it today. If we could talk Shane into joining our team, then we would own the racing world.”
Steele takes off his hat and rubs his sweat-coated, black hair.
“I’m starving,” he says, rubbing his stomach emphatically. “What do you say we just split now and go for the winner’s chicken dinner a bit early?”
“No way,” I say. “A winner never splits out early. I need to stay to talk to a newscaster or two.”
After all, they don’t call me America’s favorite stock car racer for nothing.
I love meeting with the fans. There’s something about how they look at me, especially the little ones, that reminds me how fantastic my life is right now.
“You can bet I’ll be there soon, though,” I add. “Save me a spot. Nothing works up an appetite like winning. They’ll want to talk to you too, so don’t run off yet.”
I turn to Bob.
“Do you want us to wear our X-Treme Oil shirts to dinner? The sponsors will be there too, right? I’ll need to grab a clean one out of my bag in the garage.”
Bob gives me a weird look. More like an odd painted-on grin, not his normal, jolly self.
Something’s up.
“Bob? Is something wrong? Are you sick? You look like you swallowed a bug. This heat is a bitch. You need to get back into the air-conditioned VIP suite before you pass out.”
“Hate to tell you this, guys,” he says with that same awkward smile.
He takes a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes the sweat off his brow. The man is sweating like a pig.
“Tell us what?” Steele says, his eyes narrowing.
“We got bought out,” Bob says simply with a casual shrug.
I frown, but refrain from freaking out just yet. It’s not like this is completely unusual. Companies and sponsors buy each other out all the time. It’s part of being on a racing team. Like everything else in this world, racing is big business.
The real question is…
“By who?” I ask.
Bob takes a minute to answer my question, like he can’t even come up with the name of the company off the top of his head.
Now I’m getting worried.
He made a million-dollar deal behind our backs and he can’t recall the name of our new sponsor?
“Kitty Kat Kibble,” he says after a minute.
My mouth drops open. For a few seconds, I gape at him incredulously. Steele and I exchange a dubious look over the top of Bob’s head.
Finally, Steele slaps Bob on the back hard and cracks up laughing.
“Good one,” he says. “Damn! You had us going there for a minute. I just about had a heart attack.”
I laugh too at Bob’s joke.
“What the hell is Kitty Kat Kibble?” I say. “A cat food company? You’re a crazy fuck, Bob. How long did it take you to think that up? You’re quite the joker. Now let’s go on over and get this show on the road. I’m ready to pop a bottle of champagne and pour it over a pretty blonde’s tits. Or maybe two of them if I can find twins.”
Bob only shakes his head and puts his hand on my racing jacket to stop me.
“Sorry boys. It’s true. No joke. And yes, it’s a cat food company. Apparently, an organic cat food company that has been doing well lately. Well enough to afford to sponsor our racing team.”
He gestures at a big banner hanging near our pit crew. One that I haven’t noticed until now.
“You’ve probably seen the cat food cans or bags in the supermarket once or twice, just never noticed,” he says.
I frown at him.
“Why in the living hell would I notice cat food? I don’t own a cat and I don’t want a cat. I’m a dog man. All the way around. Real men have dogs, not cats. Preferably big dogs too. Blue tick hounds or black labs.”
“Cats are for pussies,” Steele adds.
“That’s right,” I say. “Besides I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to cat hair. I can’t be around cat things of any kind.”
I look from the bright pink banner adorned with a fluffy white Persian cat with big green eyes, to Bob, then back to the banner again.
“Are you shitting me?” I say. “This can’t be for real.”
Bob starts backing away, as if he’s already done with our conversation.
“No shit, boys. Anyway, I’ve got to run. The new sponsor is here and we need to impress them before they decide to back out of the deal. The contract gives them a ninety-day cooling off period if they want out. We need to keep them happy at least that long if we can.”
“What about X-Treme Oil?” I ask. “Did they just drop us? Wait a damn minute. They’re not sponsoring another team, are they? I knew we couldn’t trust those assholes.”
The thought makes me ill.
I loved those guys.
And especially their big bucks.
“No,” Bob reassures me, “It’s the economy. They need to make a few cutbacks and sponsoring a racing team was the first thing to go. They assured me they’ll be back as soon as the profits go up. You know how a corporate board of directors can be. The stockholders are giving them grief about losing money. They need to cut expenses. Blah, blah, blah. This is nothing for you boys to worry about. It’s business as usual. You two need to concentrate on driving. Leave everything else to me.”
He makes one last pathetic attempt to smile before he waddles off in a hurry. Bob can’t wait to get away from us.
Beside me, Steele looks as stricken as I feel.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. “Where is the loyalty these days? Is everything about money?”
“Don’t sweat it,” I tell him. “We’ll have these new sponsors wrapped around our dicks in no time. All we need to do is wine and dine them. Make them feel special, like they’re part of our team. How many sponsors have we’ve gone through over the past few years? Five? Seven? Hell, I can’t even remember half of them. Nothing to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right,” he answers glumly.
“Smile, buddy,” I say. “The press will be all over this. We need to act like we’re part of the plan. Not like we’re the ones we just got fucked over by a damn cat food company.”
Steele nods and starts walking toward the crowd of reporters gathered around near our pit crew. I’m a few steps behind him, when I pause and take a deep breath.
I recognize the usual press team and chosen fans waiting for me. Usually I’m in the mood to chit-chat, but in these circumstances, I’d like nothing more than to just get back in my racecar and drive the hell out of here.
Not that I would get far.
Not even outside the track with a million-dollar car that doesn’t really belong to me.
Just as I’m turning on my famous smile, I catch a flash of white. Squinting, I see that right in the middle of the usual t-shirt and jeans crowd, there’s a blaze of bright white topped with red.
A sexy vixen of a woman.
Maybe today won’t be a total bust after all.
The closer I walk to her, the surer I become.
Now that I can fully see her shapely body clad in a skin-tight, white turtleneck dress, and her long, silky red hair and equally luscious red lips, there’s no doubt in my mind.
Oh yes, she is someone who can definitely cheer me up.