Chance wandered the area behind the garages, a sense of pent up urgency in the air. There was a storm brewing on the horizon, and soon that storm would be circling the track at well over two hundred miles an hour. His smile couldn’t be tamed. There was no stopping the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he dreamed of getting behind the wheel again.
Team mechanics, tire reps, and businessmen were heading in all directions. It was a flurry of activity, and there hadn’t even been a single car on the track, yet.
Chance caught the occasional familiar face, but no one from the old Lentz Brothers Racing team. He knew they’d be there. Every race had around twenty entries except the 500. Back in the day, upwards of forty cars would try to qualify for the grid of the traditional thirty three starters. That number dropped over the years, but there had never been an Indy 500 with less than 33 cars starting. That meant anyone who could turn a wrench--and even some who couldn’t-- would be there to support a team. If he could find Derek Snyder, his old engineer, he might be able to find a ride.
Hell, even Frank, Wayne, or Kiwi might be able to get him an in. He was tight with the men who had crewed for him the year before. Chance had seen too many racers with egos so big they could barely fit in the cockpit, and he swore that he’d never get that way. He was no better than someone who wrenched for a living, he just had different talents. Chance had no problem getting his hands dirty when it came to a car, but he had seen men work miracles before his eyes. He was no miracle worker, but Chance knew a thing or two.
From one of the doors came a familiar face. Derek Snyder was easily recognizable, even with the cap and shades. His long and bushy sideburns had become his signature, making Derek a bit of a character in the motor racing world.
Chance’s heart shifted up a gear as he made a beeline for Derek. The two men hadn’t ended the last season on a high note, but any bad blood between them had faded. At least that’s what Chance thought.
Chance didn't think Derek saw him, at first. He raised a hand, but through the myriad of people, it would be easy to miss. Derek turned toward Chance, but there was no recognition on his face. Chance knew he had the right person. Those sideburns were impossible to mistake. He was about to shout out to his old engineer, but he never got the words out.
The punch came faster than lightning, and with just as much force as rolling thunder. Chance didn’t have a second to react before Derek’s fist connected hard with his jaw. Blackness swamped over him as he slumped to the ground.
Stunned, Chance slowly came back to the land of the living. He had a pounding headache, ringing in his ears, and his bottom jaw wasn't quite lining up with the top. He shook away the shock and opened his eyes. Things went from bad to worse.
“I thought my headache was bad before. Isla, what in the hell are you doing here?” he managed through a thick tongue.
She leaned back, her hand over her heart, mocking him with every word. “Chance, I am shocked and appalled. Shocked. And. Appalled.” As Isla dragged out the last three words, Chance pushed himself to a sitting position, his jaw throbbing with every beat of his heart, closing his eyes to brace against the pain. A faint wave of nausea hit him, but passed before it could crest into anything problematic. People walked past shooting him strange looks, but not saying a word.
That accent of hers. It was like a beautiful curse. She was beyond fluent in English, but that fiery Spanish accent always did something to Chance. Yeah, it distracted you. He opened his eyes, and she was still there. Beyond her was Derek, not looking sorry at all.
Chance focused on her emerald green eyes and perfectly tanned caramel skin instead. Her beauty was almost enough to erase the pulsing pain in his head. Almost.
With a shake of his head that only did more harm than good, Chance looked past Isla to the man who had knocked him hard on his ass. “Are we even now, Derek?”
Derek Warner was in his mid-forties, hints of grey splattered his trademark sideburns. His mirrored shades were in his hand, so Chance could see the resentment and anger in Derek’s eyes. He knew Derek had seen many drivers come and go, but none as crass and unwilling to listen as Chance. “Hell no, we’re not even. I’m not saying you cost me my job, but I’m here for the same damn reason as you.”
He was right. The last race of the season was do or die for the Lentz Brothers, and Chance chose the latter. A good finish could have meant sponsors for the fledgling team, but a bad finish left them high and dry.
Thirty-four people were out of work the second that Chance wrecked.
He was fully aware of the weight his choices during that race, but Chance had to risk it all for his career. The crash had torn things apart for the Lentz Brothers team, and Derek's punch was strong enough for every former employee.
"Good god, Derek. Pretty sure you knocked some teeth loose." Chance ran a hand with ginger care over his jaw.
With a roll of his eyes, Derek said, "I wish I'd knocked some sense loose. No, we aren't even. I have a wife and kids. Frank has an ex that he owes monthly. Everyone with the team has obligations. Everyone but you, Chance."
The words hit Chance almost as hard as the hook. Chance had struggled, sure, and ended up selling some of his trophies from wins in lesser championships. That thirty-four men had lost their jobs wasn't a revelation to him, but he hadn't truly considered the people who depended on them.
He didn’t want to stand up. Or more specifically, he couldn’t. Embarrassment held him to the ground with a force greater than any pain or disorientation from that punch. Two people he had once trusted, two people he had let down were leaning over him, not letting him get away with a thing.
“You can’t fault me for what I did,” he stammered, unconvincingly even to himself.
“Yes, I can,” Derek said, extending a hand to Chance.
“If you no longer go for a gap that exists, you’re no longer a racing driver. A very famous driver said that.” Chance’s last words turned into a grunt as he let Derek hoist him to his feet. A hint of dizziness threatened to topple him, but it subsided as he got his bearings. Isla took a step back, her eyes focused on Chance.
Derek sighed, saying, “We rise by lifting others. I don’t know who the hell said that. Maybe if you had won that race, LBR would probably still be around. No way to know for sure. There’s also no way to know if you’d have a ride or not. That’s the reality of the business, sorry to say. Indy is your shot. We both know it.”
Chance took in what his old engineer said, but then something drove him to a halt. Forgetting everything about racing, he turned to Isla. “Please tell me you’re not still dating that bozo from down under. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Disgusted, Chance threw his hands in the air and turned away from his ex, unable to take the look she’d have on her face. He knew the answer to his question before it ever left his lips.
Jack Savage was the reigning series champion, and a spectacular asshole. Chance couldn’t stand the twenty-five year old Aussie. Only in the sport for three years before winning the title, Jack was as sore a winner as he was a loser. Before racing in IndyCar, Chance had competed with him in lower classes of open-wheel racing. The two had a bit of a history, swapping insults in the pit lane and paint on the track. After he and Isla called it quits, she had been seen running around with Jack less than two weeks later.
“I’m here because I love racing.”
“Bullshit.” Chance shook his head.
Isla broke into a wide smile. “You’re right. Chance, you always could read right through me.”
Staring at her like Isla had a third eye, Chance laughed. “Are you serious? If I had a dollar for every time you said racing was the worst sound you ever heard, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be on a beach in Ibeza.”
“And I could always read through you, too, Chance. Even if you had all the money in the world, you’d still be out there running at the limit. It’s an addiction, and it’s got it’s claws deep into you.”
He had a snappy retort lined up, but before he could throw it her way, Jack Savage walked up to the group. He threw his arms around Isla, his eyes jealous and flashing fire at Chance. She was a prize to him, something he had won from Chance, just another victory Jack could lord over Chance. The idea made him sick to his stomach. Jack was a collector, nothing more than someone looking to scoop up possessions so no one else could have them. Chance and Isla had their issues, but it had been a partnership, a give-and-take between two equals. Jack pulled her close like she was a trophy, and Chance could see the dull acceptance in her exotic eyes.
“Well, well. Chance Pierce, the pride of nowhere.” Jack’s smarmy accent made every word just that much more intolerable.
Chance gave him a wide, false smile. “Jack Savage, twat of the Southern Hemisphere.”
Ignoring the jab, Jack looked around him. “Come to see the show?” A look of mock surprise grabbed the Australian. “Wait. You aren’t here looking for a ride, are you? Oh shit.” He broke into flamboyant laughter. “That is rich, that is so rich. Derek, tell me you’re not here with him. Chance Pierce is an anchor, my friend. Everything he touches turns to shit.”
Isla’s tight expression dipped, but so slightly that only Chance caught it. He fought hard to keep his heart from pushing him to do something stupid. Jack was a media darling, and Chance had to play nice if he wanted a shot at a ride for the big race.
Derek’s eyes dipped to the concrete below, but Chance kept the smile in place. “Best of luck, Jack. If the gods are smiling, we’ll be out there on track together in a few weeks.”
Savage broke into another fit of laughter. He doubled over, tipping Isla off balance. She composed herself, but Jack was bent over, a cackle emanating from him. Chance’s fists balled until he was white-knuckled.
When he could finally speak, Jack’s face was red. “You’ll never set a wheel on this track, Chance. I’ll make damn sure of it. You’re a flash-in-the-pan wanker. That’s a fact, you talentless loser. Stick around, though. It’s gonna be one hell of a show, and who knows. Maybe there’s a team that’s desperate for someone to change tires.”
Isla broke in, though it was a little late for Chance’s taste. “Don’t you have an autograph session coming up, Jack? I think we should get ready for that.”
“Tough being a star. Thanks, babe. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Later, Chance.”
The cocky young champion walked away, his hand slipping down to the ass of Isla’s jeans, like a last little fuck you to Chance. Turning away from the sight, Chance talked himself down internally. Jack loved to set people off. He could interact with someone for a few minutes and find the chink in their armor. Jack Savage was most definitely a fast driver, but that wasn’t what made him a champion. He was far better at the psychological game than anyone else in the field.
“Fuck that guy.” It was Derek who spoke, acid spitting from his mouth.
The two men looked at each other, and it was Chance who cracked. He laughed, the tension and adrenaline between them fading. The laughter was contagious, and soon the two of them were drawing the attention of those around them, not that they cared.
“I thought you didn’t swear, boss.” Chance had a tear coming from one eye, and he had all but forgotten about the sore jaw.
Derek shrugged. “I swear. You just never saw me mad enough to swear.”
Chance lowered an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you plenty pissed off, almost exclusively at me.” He had defied Derek’s strategy calls on more than one occasion, and it had ultimately cost them both their jobs.
“Jack Savage is something different entirely. You know, I don’t know if I could work for a top team with the likes of him.” Derek shook his head, and for a second, Chance thought the older man might spit in disgust.
“Lucky for you,” Chance said, throwing an arm around his old boss’s shoulder, “You don’t have to worry about working for a top team. I think we’re going to be scraping at the bottom of the barrel for a gig this year.”
After one last look in the direction of Jack and Isla, Derek chuffed. “Well, let’s get scraping, then.”
D.J. Lancaster was a rotund old man with rosy cheeks and a short fuse. He was nearing eighty, although his looks and attitude made that hard to believe. The man was a living legend, having raced in nearly thirty 500s, winning three of them. The All-American Special had been pieced together in his garage and pulled to the track in 1958. He barely qualified the car, but managed to drive the wheels off and finish in third in his first attempt. It took another five years before he could drink the victor’s milk, then another ten, and his last win came in the late seventies.
He ran his last race at the age of 54, making him the oldest competing driver in the 500. After retiring from behind the wheel, he led a team from behind the pitbox. All-American Pro Racing was a scrappy, lower tier team that struggled year after year but had a dedicated following among racers and spectators alike. In motorsports, they were David. Goliath was the unstoppable force known as Team Kedzie.
Bobby Kedzie ran the most successful team with the best sponsors and drivers. They were a force to be reckoned with, holding nearly twenty Indy 500 victories. Jack Savage was one of four Kedzie drivers. The other three were just as fast and competitive, and Chance hadn’t even bothered talking with that team. AAPR had the funds for only one driver and one car. No backups, no contingencies, and unfortunately for Chance Pierce, no vacancies, either.
D.J. pulled the stub of a cigar from his mouth, dropping it onto his paper plate. “Sorry, D. The kid we got from Canada is a rising star.” He let out a jovial, Santa-like laugh. “I think you might be acquainted.”
The large man shoved himself up from the folding chair. They were under an awning beside a large hauler containing the AAPR car and millions in equipment and computers. He dropped his plate into the trash.
Chance knew who D.J. referred to. They were far more than acquaintances. Billy Moore and Chance Pierce were teammates at Lentz Brothers, and before that, the two learned and raced together in the IndyLights series. The young Canadian was insanely talented, and he looked up to Chance like a mentor. A gust of emotions blew through Chance. Jealousy, anger, pride, and a sick sense of irony stirred in Chance’s mind. No one deserved the seat more, and he knew that. Billy could be a champion some day, and AAPR could be the team to do it.
“Billy is a good bet, D.J. He’s a solid driver who doesn’t take unnecessary risks.” Chance’s words were true, even if they betrayed his own interests.
After a groan at the three steps into the hauler, the old man grinned. “Ain’t a bet. Billy’s a sure thing that’s just gonna take some time.”
Chance’s face must have shown the disappointment, because D.J.’s voice dropped. “I’ve seen what you can do, and if we could afford a second car, your ass would be in the seat, guaranteed.”
“I need a ride. You know I can bring it home, but I need a ride to do it.”
“Chance, we both know there’s no free seats up and down the paddock. That’s why you’re here. We’re the bottom of the heap. We both know that’s true. If you can’t get a ride here, you can’t get a ride. The truth is a cruel bitch, but she’s still the truth.”
Disappointment slammed into Chance, a twisted wreck of damage.
“But...” D.J. dragged out the word, leaving Chance hanging on. “I do have a job opening. It’s a demotion, but a demotion is better than unemployment.”
“Development driver? Billy doesn’t need one. He can nail a set-up after just a few laps on track. Not that I’m turning you down--”
D.J. raised a hand, knuckles swollen from eight decades of hard living. “Hate to say it, but driver ain’t in the title. We had a mechanic with a pregnant wife. Apparently the baby came two months early, and he had to split. I know you can turn a wrench, and it keeps you at the track. Don’t say no. I know you can’t say no.”
The old man chuckled with a sad smile.
Chance stared at his shoes. D.J was dead right, there was no way he could say no. After stopping at every team up and down pit road, he heard nothing but no. AAPR was his last choice, and it wasn’t even for a ride.
“What d’ya say, Chance? We got a shot to win this thing. Small shot, but a shot nonetheless. Come join history.” D.J. lowered his hand, opening it to shake with Chance.
Chance had done enough interviews to hide his true emotions at the drop of a green flag. “Who can say no to that kind of offer?”
The two men shook hands, neither knowing just how momentous the agreement would be.