Groove – This is a racer’s slang term for the fastest way around the track. A high groove takes the car closer to the outside wall and the low groove takes the car closer to the apron.

 

Jameson took me around before driver introductions started and introduced me to everyone with Simplex Riley Racing. The team had grown since the last time, and even though I’d met most of them in Daytona, there were a few additions to the team.

Some of the pit crew was new, like Ethan and Gentry, both affable guys who fit in well to the combination.

His crew chief, Kyle Wade, was still the same. I stayed with him while Jameson did pre-race interviews and talked with his teammate, Bobby Cole.

If you were to spend time around a racing team, at the track or even away, it wasn’t hard to figure out who the driver was. Maybe it was the type of personality racing interested. Just the same, you could tell who the crew chief was as he was the one carrying as much of a burden but with less pay.

“How’s he doing?” I asked Kyle knowing he’d give me an honest answer if I asked. He cared about Jameson and worried about how this life was effecting him.

Kyle was a burly guy, not as large as Spencer was, but similar to a teddy bear with his olive skin, brown hair and puppy dog brown eyes. He was adorable, if that was an appropriate word to use for a twenty-nine year old man. I thought it was. Every time I saw him, I wanted to cuddle him and spoon-feed him applesauce, because that was not weird at all.

Kyle joined Riley Simplex Racing around the same time as Jameson so it took a few races for them to get into a groove together. The turning point came when Kyle made the right call in Rockingham—that led to the victory.

Jameson respected him, and you needed that in a crew chief. And let’s face it, Jameson rarely respected anyone besides his parents.

“Oh, you know. Still the same moody asshole he’s always been.” Kyle placed his arm around my shoulder leaning into me. “Although, once he found out you were coming, the boy was in a surprisingly good mood,” he hinted with a grin and a waggle to his brow.

Everyone on his team, and other teams for that matter, thought something was going on with Jameson and me since Daytona. Even though I wanted that, I denied the accusations, as did Jameson.

Annoyed at the invasion into his personal life, he would usually bark something along the lines of, “Fuck off, mind your own business.”

Our relationship did appear relatively strange. We hugged and held hands from time to time. Hell, we’d even made out on some occasions, but it was always held to friend standards, for the most part. Don’t get me wrong, there were times when Jameson and I experimented with each other growing up, but clothing always remained intact ... most of the time. I say most of the time because there were times when my memory was a little faded due to alcohol consumption.

So from the outside, we could look like more than friends. Either that, or they saw right through my tough exterior and saw that I was madly in love with this man.

After the drivers’ meeting, I watched as a news reporter from ESPN approached Jameson after he finished up with FOX Sports. “Hey Jameson, you got the pole. Do you think you have a chance at winning?”

“I think we have a chance.” His eyes dropped tipping his sunglasses down. “This Number Nine Simplex Ford is running great. Both practices we were up front. I would expect to see us stay up front,” he said leaning against the side of his hauler.

His weight shifted to one side appearing relaxed, his eyes told another story, which was why he slid the sunglasses down. There seemed to be emptiness about him I couldn’t place. Or maybe it was a defining edge of who he was, and who he wasn’t, in a sport that constantly tried to mold a triangle to fit within a circle. Since his first race, I witnessed this side emerging through interviews. Now there was no ignoring it.

Some thought Jameson was just another arrogant rookie trying to prove himself. The way he regarded other drivers and reporters, basically anyone outside of his circle, wasn’t from arrogance but vulnerability this life had created for him. It was a something you rarely found in a racer with his impulsive reputation.

“Now let’s talk about this hefty fine handed down this morning by NASCAR ...”

Jameson hung his head, a slow shake revealed his aggravation. Just as the shifting of the wind, the tension crept over him. His left hand reached across his body running the backside of his hand down his jaw. In a gesture that seemed straightforward as maybe satisfying an itch, I knew the weight behind it.

“I don’t really have much to say about it,” he told them, his voice taking on a throaty rasp from all the interviews today.

The reporter continued to ask questions. Jameson snuck a drink of water before running his hand through his hair. With a contemplative tug, his gaze focused past the reporter to the track.

He hated doing interviews, absolutely hated it. So it was easy to see the frustration as one reporter after another hounded him for interviews. I guess you had to keep in mind how quickly he went to a household name to understand his frustration with the constant media attention.

Growing up racing on dirt, he’d been measured one of the local boys even though his dad held royalty status among the racers. Even when Jameson raced USAC (United States Auto Club), it was nothing compared to the attention he received once he was thrown into the Winston Cup series. When he won his second race at Rockingham, his lifestyle became as fast as his driving. It was unbelievable the following he now had.

With the way NASCAR had evolved over the years, these guys were hounded like rock stars.

Watching him also brought out the pit lizard in me, as I was slobbering over every move he made, every wink he gave me—every tug of his hair, every crooked grin.

Let’s just say my rev limiter was working on overdrive trying to control my engine from exceeding its maximum rotational speed and exploding. I had it bad. But all things considered, I was okay with that—for tonight anyways.

The rest of the afternoon, we hung around in Jameson’s motor coach waiting for driver introductions to begin and catching up with everyone who I hadn’t seen since Daytona in February. Though getting to the motor coach was a task.

To give you an idea of the following Jameson had now—it took about fifteen minutes to make it to his motor coach with all the garage groupies wanting his autograph.

Let me take a moment here and explain the difference between a garage groupie and a pit lizard. A garage groupie is a teenage fan who knows nothing about NASCAR or even who’s leading the points battle, and usually only cares about the younger drivers. Now, a pit lizard is a woman who hangs around the pit area, has a certain driver in mind, and will do anything in her power to sleep with them.

Since I was twenty-two, knew everything there was to know about racing, and only had one driver in mind—I fit the pit lizard category, sadly. The difference here was I wasn’t interested in a one-time bearing assessment. I was looking for forever. We deserved forever.

When the garage groupies attacked Jameson on the way to the motor coach, he laughed nervously trying to sign everything they shoved at him and posed for a few pictures. When some fourteen year old asked him to sign her stomach, I snickered beside him. He politely declined telling her she was a little young for that sort of thing.

Once we made it back to the motor coach, things quieted down until Emma returned.

“Oh my God,” Emma wailed as she flew at me. Once inside, she tackled me to the floor. “I thought Jameson was lying when he said you were coming!” She puckered her lips to kiss me.

“You kiss me, and I will punch you.” I clenched my fist in anticipation that she would try this—she had before. Instead, she giggled and got off me, straightening her tailored clothes I was sure cost more than my rent.

Emma was smaller than I was, but the little hooker could knock the wind out of me in a heartbeat. Jameson helped me up, since Emma was obviously too distracted by her purchases to realize she’d just laid me flat.

I sat down on the couch and waited for her to attack me again, but I knew next time she’d be trying to take my clothes off—which she had also done in the past.

“Where’d Lane go?” Jameson asked taking a seat on the couch next to me with a plate of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables in his hands.

“With Alley at the playground.” Emma didn’t bother looking up as she prodded through the bags. “Found it,” she chirped holding up a skirt that looked like something a woman wore in the stone ages because that was all the fabric they could spare for clothing.

This indigo denim skirt wouldn’t even cover my ass cheeks.

Then she proceeded to pull out a shirt that, for “Emma standards,” was actually something I might wear. It was gray sheer fabric with a black swirled design. The sleeves were short and tied up on the shoulders by pieces of the shirt that seemed to be missing on the sides.

It wasn’t bad, for a pit lizard to wear.

If the shoe fits, I might as well wear it. Again, I admitted how pathetic I was.

But it wasn’t the clothing that clenched the deal for me.

When she dug out the black heels, I started to object but was quieted by a low whistle Jameson let out beside me.

“Are you wearing that tonight?” he asked shaking his head slowly.

After setting his empty plate aside, his other hand that wasn’t on my shoulder ran through his hair once.

“I uh—”

“Yes, she is,” Emma announced proudly.

Jameson smiled but remained cryptic. “You won’t be introduced to any more people tonight.” He winked at me. “Just so you know.”

What the hell does that mean?

Did that mean he didn’t want people to see me? Did it mean he liked the outfit? By the way he was eyeing the skirt, I decided that was it.

Emma never stopped talking the entire time I was getting dressed in the tiny bathroom of Jameson’s motor coach which, by the way, wasn’t all that small. It was certainly bigger than my dorm bathroom, and you had to turn sideways to squat on the toilet in that bathroom.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Sway,” she sighed on the other side of the door. “He told me he loves me.”

Tugging on the skirt trying like hell to make it longer, I asked, “Do Spencer and Jameson know?”

“Fuck no, and don’t you tell them.” She smacked the door with her tiny fist. “I mean it, Jameson needs to concentrate on racing, and Spencer would go ape shit if he knew I was fucking Aiden.”

I flung the door open; slapping her in the face forgetting the doors opened the wrong way.

“What?” I yelled. “You’re fucking him ... when did this happen? How come you didn’t call me?”

Emma was too busy rubbing her forehead where the door smacked her to answer me right away. Turning to look in the mirror, she examined her red mark and then spilled the news. “It happened in Richmond.” She grinned, that same mischievous grin both Spencer and Jameson possessed. The same grin that had you guessing what they were thinking and knowing damn well it was dirty. “I didn’t say anything because you and Jameson talk every day. You would let it slip ... I know you.”

True, I couldn’t keep anything from Jameson. Anytime I heard that smooth voice, my willpower crumbled and I talked.

On top of that, I couldn’t keep a secret to save me life. It was as if I had the cure to cancer and couldn’t wait to tell everyone. I was utterly amazed I hadn’t told him I loved him yet.

Emma continued to go on-and-on about Aiden and his magic fingers.

I stopped listening around the time she started talking about his ability to make her see stars within thirty seconds because, frankly, I was jealous as hell.

Not only did I wish Jameson and I were humping like them, but my crankcase hadn’t seen any reciprocating motion in over a year. I was getting desperate, obviously by what I was wearing.

Inhaling a deep breath, I stepped from the bathroom and looked over my appearance.

Hot damn.

Starting with my hair, long reddish-brown messy waves draped a heavy curtain over my shoulders. The shirt came down low enough so you could see the faint start of cleavage but left enough to be desired. The skirt, well the skirt was illegal, that was all there was to it. It covered enough that I wouldn’t be arrested for indecent exposure, but if I bent over, that was another story. My legs looked surprisingly long with the heels on, though, and muscular.

They looked damn good I must say.

“You look hot,” Emma told me applying some makeup to my face.

Rolling my eyes, I gave in. “Why do you do this to me?” I tried to turn my head toward her, but she yanked it back the other way.

“Because you’re trying to convince my big brother he loves you, too.”

“Is that so?”

“I see right through you, Sway.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I know what you’re up to.”

And here I thought I was being sneaky—guess not. I was an idiot savant after all and made a mental note to work on being sneaky later.

“Do you think he feels the same way?” I whispered.

I could feel my cheeks getting hot as soon as I spoke the words. Once they were out, my ears started to glow like one of those glowworm dolls I had when I was younger.

“Sway,” she sighed placing her makeup bag on the counter, pausing for a moment as though she was deciding exactly how to let me down easy. “Jameson... he loves you. It’s easy to see that, but with Jameson, he doesn’t know what that love means yet. I don’t know if he ever will. Right now, he’s focused on his career, and it’s hard for him to see anything past that right now.”

Well damn, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

I wanted to hear that, yes, he loved me and wanted to go steady. Okay, well it wasn’t 1950 so I didn’t want to hear “let’s go steady,” but I did want to hear that he loved me.

Emma concluded her Sway-whore makeover and let me go. I grabbed my bag from the couch, threw some black flip-flops inside and a black zip up hoodie to cover myself.

I felt exposed.

Emma was still going on-and-on about Aiden when we walked out of the motor coach, but quickly silenced when she saw Spencer standing outside with Alley.

Just one foot out the door and Spencer started howling like an idiot. “Jesus Christ, Sway.” He then proceeded to fan himself.

Jameson, now dressed in his racing suit, had his back turned to us doing an interview with SPEED but looked over his shoulder once he heard Spencer.

Never failed, any time I saw him in his racing suit my heart skipped. He looked hot. And by hot I mean I wanted to fuck him silly.

Jameson tried to turn around when the reporter asked him a question but his head kept turning back to me. Stepping down, I stood against the motor coach. I convinced Emma to let me wear the flip-flops for now until later when we had to go to the bar. Even then, I had some concerns about the heels.

The reporter was trying desperately to keep Jameson’s attention, but he kept his eyes on me.

“Does the penalty from earlier deter you at all from concentrating tonight?”

“No, I don’t agree with the fine, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now.” Jameson peeked at me again. “They watched us add two drums prior to the race so we’ll have to prove it to them tonight.”

“So what do you think your chances are for a win tonight?” The reporter shoved the microphone in his face. “You’re strong on these one-and-a-half-mile tracks, do you think you can pull it off?”

Still not looking, Jameson answered, “Uh...” He finally turned around but not before his eyes raked down my body once. “I... I think we have a good chance. The car is really strong. It’s hard to say what will happen in the race; it’s a long race. A lot can happen in six hundred miles,” he told him while he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and looked over his shoulder once more.

This time his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted a little—like he was trying to figure something out. I thought he was looking at me, but his eyes focused behind me on a crowd gathering at the motor coach beside his.

Jameson looked over at Spencer who was putting on his gear for the pits and motioned with his head for Spencer to come over toward him.

Once he was close enough, Jameson whispered in his ear words I couldn’t hear.

Spencer then nodded and walked back over to us with a smirk.

“What did he want?” Alley asked looking down at her Blackberry. “He needs to get to driver introductions. Why can’t this asshole ever learn anything about time management?”

“He wants a moment alone with Sway before driver introductions.” Spencer smiled, his head tipped to the motor coach. “He said to meet him in the motor coach.”

By that point, I was breathing heavy, and my heart started pounding.

What did he want? Did he not like what I was wearing?

“Okay,” I said hesitantly and made my way back inside to wait.

My nerves were getting the best of me, and I thought I was going to vomit any second when the door opened causing me to jump.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Jameson said closing the door behind him. He didn’t look up and sat down beside me, staring at my bare legs and shook his head. “You’re fucking hot in that outfit,” he said lasciviously leaning into my shoulder.

“Uh... thanks.”

I really wanted to say hot enough for you to...Ah, shit, stop this.

Jameson started to say something and I missed the first part. I was distracted that he said I was hot.

“I just wanted you to know that,” he finished, eyeing me cautiously.

“Wait, what?” I asked confused.

“Were you not paying attention to anything I said?”

“No... I was distracted.”

“Pay attention.” He placed his hand under my chin, his eyes gauging. “Chelsea’s here.”

“What?” I started to panic. What would Chelsea be doing here, in Charlotte, at a NASCAR race of all places? This was unacceptable to me for a number of reasons I’m sure you could understand. “You mean Chelsea Adams, as in your ex-girlfriend?”

He nodded, flinching at the word “girlfriend.”

“She’s here because she’s dating Tate Harris ... or so I’ve heard.” Jameson let his hand fall from my face leaning back into the couch and groaning. “I think she’s trying to make me jealous or something, but fuck, I haven’t seen her in five years.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Jealous...?”

“No!” he gasped, his features revolted. “She can fuck every racer out there for all I care. She’s a bitch.”

“So...?”

“Listen.” He slowly turned his head to look at me. “I wanted you to know she was here so you weren’t surprised if you saw her. She’s always been jealous of you, and I would hate for her to start something tonight.”

“Eh, no worries, buddy,” I said dismissively. “You saw what I did to Spencer earlier.”

Jameson laughed loudly. “I’d pay you a million dollars if you threw a spring at her.”

I grabbed his hand with mine shaking it. “Deal.”

“Hurry up asshole.” Alley beat against the door. “You have one minute.”

“All right.” Jameson rolled his eyes. “Be there in a second.” He looked back over at me, and then my legs. “Not what I need to be thinking about,” he murmured with a pensive frown.

The door slammed behind him leaving me wondering what that meant. I sat there for a minute before Emma came back in. “You coming?”

“Yeah.” I followed Emma to the grid where the cars were starting to line up along pit road in the order they qualified. The setting sun provided a shine over the cars that reminded me of a Saturday night at the local tracks.

About three hours before the race, with crews setting up shop, everything on pit road kicked into high gear. Most of the time pit road doesn’t cool down for about two hours after the race. It was the most stressful part of the track and swarming with various crew members, visitors, officials, and drivers.

One word of advice: don’t touch anything, and don’t get in their way. They all had a job to do, and one simple mistake can cost them the win. I repeat, don’t touch anything. And, yes, I said this from experience in all my times spent in the pits at the local dirt tracks. This was no different. Believe me, these guys have everything where they want and need it. Just simply moving a hammer can set everyone off.

I wanted to stay down there until the race started and watch Jameson get in the car, something I really enjoyed about Daytona, but I decided against it when I saw Chelsea hovering around.

An encounter with her wasn’t ideal for me since I hadn’t seen her since high school.

She looked the same, honey blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Her jeans appeared to be painted on, and her shirt was so low that I thought I saw a nipple.

I hated her. Maybe despised was a better word. To put it simply, she was perfect and I was plain. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine, and I looked like I belonged at the strip club with the way I was dressed.

Casually, Chelsea looked my direction toward Jameson’s car but didn’t make eye contact with me. She probably didn’t recognize me with so little clothing.

Emma caught on by the look on my face. “Rub your tits on the car.”

I choked on my own spit, which was easy to do when you think about it. A quick inhale with the right amount of saliva and you’ve accomplished this. “What?”

“You know, mark your territory.” She pushed me toward the car, and I stumbled against the front fender. “Rub your tits on the car.”

I spun around and slapped her across the face, not hard, but enough I got my point across to her. “There’s something wrong with you.”

Emma did have a point.

I should mark my territory, but I wasn’t about to give that little bitch the satisfaction of realizing I was jealous. Not gonna lie, I did think about turning around but decided to keep walking to the grandstands. There were cameras everywhere and surely I’d be caught and Charlie would blow a head gasket if he saw the fun bags on display on national television.

Before driver introductions began, Emma, Alley, and I made our way to the private suite in the upper Terrace Ford grandstands. Jameson’s sponsor, Simplex Shocks and Springs, had the entire room rented out—most of which was occupied by corporate representatives, but his family was also up there.

I had yet to see Jimi and Nancy so when I walked into the suite, I wasn’t surprised to see them already sitting there with Lane, who was bouncing up and down with his little Simplex hat and shirt on. He looked adorable sporting his uncle’s gear.

“Where’s Aiden?” Jimi asked Emma with his cell phone to his ear.

“Uh... how should I know?” she mumbled, and I could tell she was starting to get nervous.

“Cut the shit, Emma.” Jimi glared her direction. “Kyle needs to talk to him.”

Emma sighed in relief, visibly relaxing. “He is in the spotter stands.”

Jimi turned back to his phone and began talking to Kyle again while I made my way over to Nancy.

“I’m so glad you could make it, sweetie.” Nancy swept me into a hug. “We’ve missed you.”

Over the years, Nancy Riley had become a mother to me. Since my mom died when I was only six, I needed womanly advice from time to time—Nancy never let me down.

Even the time I started my period in class in the eighth grade, she was there to take me to the store for tampons, and even showed me how to use the damn things since the kid behind the counter at the mini-mart couldn’t show me.

This was also not something I would’ve allowed Charlie to do.

Could you blame me?

It looked as though a homicide took place in my underwear. I hardly wanted to share that with anyone, let alone my dad. I had a hard enough time convincing myself I wasn’t dying. I honestly thought I was bleeding internally and spent a good amount of time trying to convince myself that I wasn’t.

“I’m glad I did, too.” I sniffled against her shoulder letting an emotional tear or two slip. “I hate being away from everyone.”

Before I had a chance to really have an emotional breakdown, Emma nudged my shoulder.

With a good amount of enthusiasm, I stood and looked down toward the center of the track in time to see Jameson approach the line of drivers waiting to be introduced and Lane running at me.

“Auntie Sway!” he screamed.

I reached down and picked him up. “Hey buddy, how are you?” I tickled his sides and he squirmed in my arms, letting out a small giggle. “Look, who’s that?” I pointed to Jameson who walked onto the stage as the track announcer said his name.

“Jameson Riley, driver of the number nine Simplex Ford!”

Oh sweet Jesus.

The entire place erupted with screams that were almost deafening as they caught a glimpse of Jameson approaching the stage.

“Where my daddy at?” Lane asked Alley as I handed him over to her.

“He’s in the pits, buddy,” she ruffled his honey-dusted hair. “If you watch closely right there you can see him when Uncle Jameson pits.” She pointed to Jameson’s pit stall. “He will be the one carrying the jack.”

Spencer was on Jameson’s over the wall pit crew who took the jack around both sides of the car during the pit stops.

Smiling, I took a deep breath when Lane started rambling on about Jameson and how he was going to be a race car driver like him someday.

My focus wasn’t with this adorable boy, but with greatness below making his was on stage. Jameson stopped, waved to the crowd and then made his way from the stage, the vulnerability rippling from his quick humble exit from the intensity of the crowd.

This was all so new to him that he hadn’t had a chance to adapt to it. He stumbled through his freshman season so far, though he was doing well, he wasn’t concerned in the politics of it all and the overwhelming curiosity into his personal life. Racing, for Jameson, was an outlet, a place where he could be himself.

Taking in the sights before me, though I mentioned this before, I hadn’t realized how popular of a driver he had become. Just his demeanor today indicated the change.

Everywhere I looked people wore hats, shirts, jackets, and foamy fingers all with his name and number.

My best friend was a super star.

Once driver introductions were finished, the National Anthem was sung, jets flew overhead, and the drivers were in their cars. I put on the headset Jimi handed me.

When I was in Daytona, I didn’t get to listen to his in-car audio, and I was a little disappointed so Jimi let me listen this time. Emma and Alley followed suit in putting on their headsets.

Lane wanted to listen, but Alley made it clear Jameson had a potty mouth so he couldn’t listen.

The kid pouted for a good ten minutes like his father. Lane and Spencer’s personalities were spitting images of each other, but Lane resembled Alley with his honey blonde hair and blue eyes.

Eventually my favorite saying was announced over the speakers: “Gentlemen, start your engines!”

And the deafening roar that followed vibrated my entire body, even in the suite. There was something to be said about forty-three cars starting their engines at the same time. The smell, the rumbling in your chest when the engines revved, I was in race car heaven.

“All right boys, let’s have a good race here. Keep focused,” Kyle said over the radio talking to Jameson and the crew. “It’s a long race, let’s keep our heads.”

All the over the wall crew—the spotter, crew chief, car chief, and driver—could speak to each other throughout the race. The only people who spoke directly to Jameson during the race though were Kyle, Aiden, since he was the spotter, and his teammate, Bobby Cole.

Kyle was able to talk to Jimi, if needed, Mason Bryant, the car chief who delivered orders to the crew, and other drivers’ crew chiefs. Kyle also had direct lines to the engine specialist, Harry, and the tire specialist Tony. From time-to-time, engine or tire issues were brought up throughout the race and Kyle could get advice from them when needed.

The cars were making their way onto the track when Terry Barnes, one of the announcers with ESPN, tapped into Jameson’s radio. “Hey Jameson, it’s Terry, you copy?”

“Yep,” Jameson said, the radio cracked echoing static.

“So kid, you got the pole, think you got a chance?”

“I think we do. It’s a long race and a lot can happen, but we’ve got a fast race car.”

God, his radio voice was even sexy.

“Well—good luck kid,” Terry said. “It’s a long race, take your time.”

“Thanks.”

Jameson was quiet on the radio for a lap as he warmed the tires and talked with Bobby about who was starting third behind him. I watched closely as he scrubbed the tires in a back-and-forth controlled swerving motion they used that warmed and softened the rubber on the tires. They did this for better traction and speed.

“All right, Jameson—two laps to green, bud,” Kyle said over the radio. “Your pit road speed is gonna be at 5400.”

“Copy that, 5400,” Jameson acknowledged. “So when I come out of four, that yellow line, is that the line for pit road?”

“Yeah,” Aiden replied. “Start breaking after the wall when pitting. You’re pitting right after the number sixteen pit.”

“10-4.”

My heart was in my throat by now. This was all so hard to grasp. Daytona was my first NASCAR race, but this was the Coca-Cola 600, a night race.

Not only did it bring back the summer we shared, but it also reminded me of what it took him to get here. That alone was enough for me to get all riled up.

Ask anyone in the racing community and they’d tell you that there was something about a night race that left everyone with a high and with Jameson on the pole, it made it even more exciting.

I also think it had something to do with the fact that I’ve always loved a Saturday night at the races. It reminded me of the good ol’ days at Elma with Jameson racing.

Humming with anticipation, my legs were starting to shake.

Thankfully, I took the heels off and opted for the flip-flops for now, or I’d be on the ground with these jelly legs.

“Are you okay?” Emma whispered in my ear.

I was annoyed with myself as the butterflies in my stomach threatened to fly their way out. I couldn’t even look at Emma. My eyes fixed in submission on Jameson as he swerved back and forth at the front of the line.

The second pace car separating the cars pulled off allowing the field of forty-three cars to bunch together tightly and double up for the start.

It was different seeing them in a double file on start, when growing up I was used to the 4-wide salute the sprint cars put on. It was definitely something to see and a sight you’d remember.

The lead pace car in front of Jameson and Tate Harris kept position leading the cars down the backstretch, its lights out indicating the last pace lap.

“Here we go Jameson, coming to the green here,” Kyle told him. “Watch your shift. Don’t spin the tires.”

“Jameson, it’s Aiden.” Emma smiled so wide I thought her face would stay that way. “Kyle’s right, coming to the green this time.”

We all held our breath as they came out of turn four to the green, the pace car darted onto pit road.

The entire crowd was on their feet screaming, as were we, in contest to the noise on the track.

The cars remained side-by-side as they crossed the start/finish line with a roar.

“Green, green,” Aiden chanted with hurried edge. “Outside one... Harris is high... outside middle... outside rear... clear.”

Cars darted for position; some shifted high, some low, all with the same controlled but aggressive movements. Tate and Jameson remained in line until turn two. By turn four, Jameson had a two-car lengths gap between him and the rest of the field.

“Nice Jameson, good start,” Kyle praised. His main purpose throughout the race besides making the calls on the pit box was to keep his driver calm and collected throughout the race. “Stay focused, hit your marks.”

Letting out the breath I’d been holding, I relaxed slightly as the race fell into a rhythm of green flag laps.

Jameson was quiet on the radio, said little unless he was asking where someone was at on the track and the occasional remark of, “What the hell is that guy’s problem.”

Growing up racing sprint cars and midgets where in-car radios were never allowed, he usually didn’t say much over the radio. That was until he was upset about something. With a race that spanned six hundred miles, it was bound to happen at some point.

It was long race. They didn’t call it NASCAR’s longest night for nothing. It broke up the time to be able to hear what was happening over the radio and the pit stops were always entertaining. Jameson was such a hothead with them.

On lap two-ten, the caution came out for a wreck right in front of us that collected the four and the ten of Tate Harris.

“Caution’s out... car spinning in turn one. Go high.”

“Who’s spinning?” Jameson asked.

“Four car, hit the wall hard,” Aiden told him. “Collected Harris with ‘em,”

“So what do think, bud?” Kyle came over the radio. “Any changes?”

“Don’t touch a goddamn thing!” Jameson snapped. “The car’s fucking perfect. This bitch is cornering like it’s on rails.”

And that is why Lane can’t listen.

“All right so... four tires boys... no adjustments and fuel,” Kyle ordered, the crew who stood ready on the wall waiting for Jameson to get to the stall.

“I need a bottle of water,” Jameson told the crew.

He had the first pit at the end of pit road so it seemed to take forever for him to get there. Once they made it to the stall, we couldn’t see much from the suite but relied on radio chatter.

“Three... two... one... wheels straight, foot on the brake.” The crew went to work but got stuck on the left rear when a lug nut wasn’t tight, causing Jameson to fall behind five spots on the exit.

“One lane... one lane... hard, hard, there you go.” Aiden guided him through pit road traffic. “Cross over on entry... there you go.”

“You guys act as though you’ve never performed a pit stop before. My god!” Jameson yelled. “How’d I lose five spots?”

“Sorry bud,” Kyle said. “There were loose lug nuts on the left rear.”

The remainder of the race was spent with Jameson and Kyle arguing strategy, and Jameson telling him to shut the hell up a few times.

Jameson came over the radio at lap three-forty. “How many more laps?” You could tell by his tone, he was exhausted.

“About sixty,” Kyle answered.

“If I ask again—ignore me.”

Jameson had fallen back to seventh and wasn’t all that pleased by this. Every time he pitted, he lost at least four spots.

Jimi was pissed and yelling at Mason, the car chief, over the radio to tell the crew to get their shit together.

Jameson, well he was quiet, which was a good indication that he was livid.

The stream of profanities that flowed when he fell back to third, after making his way to first again before this last caution, actually hurt our ears.

“Oh Jesus, you guys. What the fuck!” Jameson shouted. “How can we win if every time we have a pit stop you fuck it up and we’re down three more spots? I don’t know how many times I’ve passed this fucker in front of me!”

“They’re working on it,” Mason clipped.

“They’re working on it?” Jameson mocked sarcastically. “We all have a job to do out here. Get it together!”

I could tell Mason was just as disappointed with the pit stops as Jameson and Kyle were. From our position in the tower, you could see the crew hanging their heads in shame. They didn’t need to be told they weren’t holding their own, they knew.

Both Emma and I had to pull the head phones away for a moment as Jameson continued his ranting.

When he drove past the front stretch, you could see him throw his water bottle and pound the steering wheel with his fists. After a few laps, he was quiet again.

At five laps to go he was running second when the caution came out. “Cautions out, turn three low.”

“Stay out or no?” Jameson asked.

“Uh...” Kyle paused for a moment.

“Kyle... we can’t be hesitating like this.”

“I know that, Jameson!” Kyle snapped back. “How’s the car? Do you need any adjustments?”

“With a few laps to go, nothing’s gonna change. I’m tight, but we’re better on the short runs anyhow.”

“Stay out then,” Kyle told him. “Just keep calm.”

When the green flag dropped, Jameson was in third. When the white flag waved, he was one second behind the fourteen of Darrin Torres and gaining quickly. His last lap times were enough to break the track record.

“Your last lap time was—”

“Don’t tell me lap times,” Jameson snapped getting a nose under Darrin. “If I want ‘em—I’ll ask for ‘em.”

Jameson went high, and Nancy and I gripped each other tightly as he came out of turn three. We all held our breath when he entered turn four neck and neck with the Darrin.

I literally stopped breathing when they came across the finish line together. You couldn’t tell who won.

Everyone turned toward the screen waiting for them to announce the winner. The instant replay played repeatedly as they tried to decipher the winner. Within a minute, it was decided.

“Who won?” Jameson asked impatiently. “Come on! Who won?”

Jameson had won by three tenths of an inch.

“You did, bud,” Kyle answered. “Nice racing!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” Kyle laughed, “seriously.”

All we heard was Jameson screaming over the radio causing everyone in the suite to break out in laughter.

“Whew!” He seemed to have let out the breath he’d been holding. “Not bad for a dirt track racer from Washington!” Jameson yelled, his voice shaking with excitement. “Fuck yeah!”

The crowd erupted into another booming screaming fit, and I couldn’t help but get excited with them. It was in the air tonight.

I smiled when Alley and Emma started jumping with me.

We all turned to Nancy who started jumping along with us. Soon, Jameson’s Nana, at seventy-two, started jumping.

Jameson swung his car along the front stretch and revved his engine, the rear tires creating a curling cloud of smoke.

I wanted to run down there and throw myself across his hood when he revved his engine. It was as if he was a lion and I was a female lioness in heat.

He yanked the window net down, pumping his fist in the air as he did a burn out in the infield holding the checkered flag, grass and dirt soaring in the wake.

Since the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals, I hadn’t seen Jameson win a race in person. And as I sat there watching him, I couldn’t help but cry knowing what it took him to get here.

Witnessing it first-hand, I lived it with him over the years and it was just as much of a reward to see him like this now as it was for him.

He did it—he won the Coca-Cola 600. The preeminent rookie driver, my best friend, captured NASCAR’s longest night.

I think what stood out most to me in that moment, here was Jameson, doing what he loved, doing what he was born to do, and I loved that I was here sharing it with him. It was if I was a part of that.

The rest of his family and I made our way down to victory lane to wait for Jameson.

When he pulled the car in, you could barely hear anything besides screaming fans.

I studied his every move as he stripped away his gloves, neck brace, removed the air tube from his helmet and then unbuckled his helmet.

Collecting himself, he leaned his head back against his seat for a second before removing his helmet.

When he finally removed it, he ran his fingers through his mop of sweaty hair. That was when I got a good look in his eyes for a moment. That arresting fire, that intense self-assured stare, was glistening with tears.

Immediately I was crying again. In all the years I’d known Jameson, I’d never seen him cry, ever, nothing even close to a tear. Even the time Spencer accidently-on-purpose had hit him in the junk with a tire iron when he was fourteen. He had never cried. But now, his composure was wavering. And that had me wavering.

He shook his head and swallowed, his hands trembling as he tried to compose himself. Not only was he completely worn out, this was an important race to him. He always wanted to win in Charlotte having never won here before in all the USAC events they ran and with his entire family being here this weekend—it was emotional for him.

To him, a win in the heartland of NASCAR, in a series that no one thought he’d make it in, meant far more than a win at any other track on the circuit.

Why?

Because to him, winning in the heartland showed he could be that mystifying greatness he was pegged to be. And he was.

After a moment, he pulled out his ear buds, took the steering wheel off and placed his sponsor’s hat over his matted hair.

Kyle made his way over to the car, placed his head inside and then ruffled Jameson’s hair. Jameson grinned shaking his hand. Kyle then grabbed a beer and handed it to Jameson who opened it taking a slow drink.

When he glanced in our direction, my eyes caught his.

He winked and reached up to hoist himself to the edge of the window, beating on the roof, enlivening the team wedded to him.

Collective shouts erupted, victory lane roared to life, with an astounding adulation for a boy, who I grew up watching, command respect with his ability.

Whistles and clapping mixed with beer, champagne and Coke spraying.

Let me tell you something about celebrating in Victory Lane. Shit gets in your eyes when it was sprayed, and you couldn’t avoid it. Beer and champagne didn’t sting nearly as bad as Coke did. I don’t know what was in the stuff, but that shit burned.

Swinging his legs over the side, Jameson stood on the edge of the window frame, let out a laugh and launched himself into his crew where Spencer caught him.

His team swarmed with friendly ribbing and hard pats to his back. Their solidarity was hard to find with every team on the series, as it was hard to attain. This team had casualness to each other and a trust—despite the problems with the pit stops—that formed over time. It was easy to see this team, reveling in the victory, and knowing that they could be a champion team as they all saw the bigger picture.

You feel it and maybe understand it, in part, but the unity between a racing team is what drives it forward leading them to victory. Without it, a win could hardly be appreciated.

Soon the announcer was in Jameson’s face asking questions, but he motioned for me to come over before he started talking.

I wasn’t sure he wanted me to come over until he yelled, “Get over here, Sway!”

I trotted my happy little pit lizard ass right over.

Smiling down at me, he wrapped his sweaty arms around me for a burly hug I deemed completely appropriate.

“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered in his ear—his damp hair falling against my forehead.

“Thank you for being here. It means everything to me,” he whispered back before placing a quick kiss on my lips.

This alarmed me.

For one, the sensation left me weak in the knees, and two, there were reporters everywhere.

I could hardly attack the boy like I wanted to, or could I?

The announcer stuck the microphone in his face, and I backed away toward Nancy and Emma who made their way over letting Jameson talk to the media.

“Jameson Riley, you heard go from Kyle and you did.” Spencer screamed in the background causing another bellowed uproar from the team behind us. “Tell us what you did there at the end to catch Darrin Torres.”

“You know, we had an unbelievable car throughout the entire race. The car wasn’t as good on the long runs so we lucked out with the green white checker,” Jameson told them, still smiling. “We had some problems with pit stops, but we had a fast car to make up for it. It’s pretty awesome to win here on Memorial Day weekend. Despite everything that happened in the Winston and with the fine earlier today, all I can say is it feels good to win.” He looked over at his family. “My family is all here ... even my Nana was able to make it. I need to thank my sponsor Simplex Shocks and Springs ... all the people that support us, CST Engines, my dad for giving me a chance.”

“Let’s get him over here.” The reporter motioned for Jimi to come over. Jameson wiped sweat from his neck with a towel that Alley threw at him.

“Jimi, what do you think of your son here?” He shoved the microphone in his face.

“I knew he had it in him.” Jimi smiled. “We’re very proud of Jameson.” He reached for Jameson, heaving him into an embrace, and whispered something to him.

For a moment, Jimi’s hard demeanor shifted showing him remembering what it took for his son to get here, in Victory Lane. This, the sounds, vibrations, smells of racing and the rouse of the night around us was what completed Jameson and, in turn, was highlighted in Jimi’s eyes having made this dream possible.

When Jameson pulled back, he was all smiles.

He had conscientiously tried for so long to gain approval from Jimi as well as separation to become himself even though he still looked to his father for praise.

What Jameson never realized, but then, maybe he did after winning the USAC Triple Crown during our summer together, was that he never needed to separate himself.

Kyle remained near the car, his humble demeanor breaking into a smile of both honor and gratification. The announcer turned to him. “Kyle, you seemed to make the right call there to stay out.”

Kyle shook his head and patted Jameson on the back. “Nah,” he drew out with coyness. “That was Jameson’s call.”

“Well, it seemed to be the right one. Congratulations.”

I watched him in awe as he finished the last of his interviews.

This man made talking to the media sexy.

Once interviews were finished it was time for the “hat dance” as they called it. The “hat dance” was where drivers and their teams wore the hats of their various sponsors, snapped a picture and then moved onto the next one, usually around twenty or so.

It was actually somewhat comical to watch. There were a few times where half the team had the wrong hat on where others didn’t.

It had to have been confusing, but did provide us some entertainment.

Alley, Emma, and I excused ourselves to wait back at the hauler for him to finish. Standing near the doors, Alley talked to Simplex on the phone when Jameson returned with Aiden and Spencer.

“Congratulations,” Alley screamed over the noise of the engines from the car returning to their haulers.

Jameson hugged her and wiped his sweaty face over her shoulders. “You’re an asshole,” she snapped and punched him in the stomach.

Emma threw a towel at him, and he wiped off his face.

“Hi.” He smiled once he was close enough and took a drink of the Gatorade Aiden tossed him.

I laughed. “Hi.”

“I have a press conference to do,” he said nonchalantly with a shrug. “You’re coming to the bar, right?”

I wanted to hit him and hump his leg at the same time when he smirked like that.

“I’m not sure,” I said with a shrug. “I might go check out this Bobby Cole driver. See if he’ll take me home.” I shook my hips at him.

Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “You better be here when I’m done, Sway.” He pulled on the strings of my sweatshirt, his eyes darting to my lips and then back again.

“Whatever.” I countered slapping his hand away with a giggle.

Alley was telling him it was time to go, but he leaned closer. The thick scent of racing engulfed me.

“I’m not kidding. You better be here,” he warned and hip checked me.

Emma, who was standing behind me, placed her head on my shoulder. “Pit lizard.”

I turned glaring at her.

“Whore who’s fucking her brother’s friend,” I quipped back reaching for the black heels she dangled in my face.

I had something to prove tonight, and I was going to need those damn shoes.