Talladega Superspeedway…
Adrenaline surges through every part of me as my foot presses down onto the gas pedal.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than what I’m doing right at this moment.
I was born to race.
From inside my car, I can’t hear my fan’s cheers, but I can feel them.
Just like I can feel my mom’s heart beating faster with fear and Summer’s eyes watching my every movement out on the track.
I’m going to win.
Then I’m going to go claim my girl once and for all.
Ten minutes from now and they’ll both be a done deal.
I can feel it.
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I see one of my nastiest competitors slipping up behind me fast in a surprise last-minute move.
He’s relatively new to the racing circuit and still hasn’t learned the unspoken rules among the drivers.
Mainly that we don’t try to wreck and kill each other just to win a fucking race.
The rule seems like a simple one to me.
Obviously not to him, not with the way he’s trying to crowd me and force my car up high on the track.
It’s a goddamn risky move for both of us and certainly not something a rookie driver should be attempting.
Where the fuck is Steele?
We’re a racing team which means that we work together, the same as players on a basketball team. Whoever has the best shot of winning a race gets the support of the other one on the track.
“Where’s Steele?” I yell into my mouthpiece. “I need him.”
“Too far back,” my spotter yells back. I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine. “Those bastards are coming up behind you fast. Watch out.”
Shit!
Steele’s too far behind to help me with strategy and the rookie driver’s teammate is coming up on my lower side now as we go into the turn.
They’re trying to box me in.
Motherfuckers.
Who the hell talked them into this stupid ass plan? They’re going to get us all killed with their recklessness.
I press down harder on the gas while knowing that the car is already going wide-ass open. It won’t go any faster no matter what I do especially since I’m the lead car.
All I can do is out-drive those bastards.
While trying to stay alive.
They’re pissing me off.
When we get to the winner’s dinner tonight, I’m going to drag their little scrawny asses outside to the parking lot and beat the living shit out of both of them for being so damn stupid.
I spot the flag man high on his post up ahead and fly under him in a blur.
He waves the white flag at me like a maniac.
That’s the signal.
Only one lap left to go.
This is it.
I’ve driven this track so many times I swear I could do it in my sleep. The other two drivers are still tight on me, maybe even closer than they were before. We’re separated by mere inches. All it would take is a tiny tap from either of their cars to send us all tumbling into a wreck.
The rest of the pack of cars are following so close behind us that a crash would take out half the cars running the race.
I blink furiously to try to clear the sweat pouring into my eyes. We come around the final turn and we’re on the straightaway now.
Whoa, baby, here we go!
I instinctively know that I’m pulling ahead, if not more than a hair. I can’t take my eyes off the track in front of me to locate the other cars.
“Where the fuck are they?” I yell into my mouthpiece.
“He’s under you,” the spotter yells back. “The motherfucker is under you. Don’t let them go three wide. Get ahead of them.”
For the first time in years, something doesn’t feel right on the track. When you’re running wide open at speeds of over two hundred miles per hour there isn’t much room for error.
I’m a hotshot and I know it.
What I’m not is an idiot like the other two drivers who are trying to force me out of the way.
If it was Steele or my buddy, Shane Davis on either side of me and we were running for the finish line, it would be a damn good race between skilled drivers.
A real contest.
Right now, this feels like fucking insanity.
My gut is screaming at me to ease off the gas a smidgen and let one of them take the victory.
Winning a race isn’t worth dying for.
Then again, Johnny ‘Boy’ Jones never, ever, fucking gives up.