Chance stared at himself in the full length mirror in the hauler. His racing suit still fit him just right, but it was a bittersweet image. Billy’s accident was the reason he’d slide into the driver’s seat, and it wasn’t how Chance wanted to get a ride.
Despite the circumstances, Chance was going to do his job. He was driving for Billy, for himself, and for his team. After a long breath to center himself, Chance stepped out of the hauler. Any effort to calm himself was for naught when he saw Isla leaning against his golf cart.
She had that ever-present smile on her face, as well as the tight white pants and a flower print shirt that showed off a hefty amount of her chest. A long, sparkling necklace drew the eye down, and Chance had to laugh.
“Somehow I doubt you’re here to wish me luck.”
She stood, flipping her amber hair over one shoulder. “Somehow, I think you’re right. I know you and Jack aren’t on the best of terms.”
“You could say that, Isla. Are you here to broker peace?”
She flashed him a flirty expression, inching closer. “You could say that.”
“That’s a no, then.”
Chance tried to step around her, but Isla leaned in, freezing him in place. “Jack is going to win this race, and I just want to be very clear that if you do anything to stand in his way, I’ll have your balls on a platter.”
“You know, Isla, you’d think that the accent would soften your words, but my god, they do not. If you need to talk with me about staying out of his way, your confidence in him is paper thin. My car is held together with spit and duct tape. Why don’t you traipse back to the right side of the tracks, I wouldn’t want you to get a spot of grease on that fine, fine outfit.”
Chance stepped past his ex, his shoulder edging past hers when she refused to move. The smile never left Isla’s face, but he saw the distinct narrowing of her eyes. Chance had nothing to lose, but if Jack was sending in the heavy hitters to try and psyche him out, the defending champ was rattled
Riding through the garage area toward pit lane, Chance took it all in. Crowds of people walked in all directions. A few of them gave him sideways looks. He’s dressed like a driver, but who the hell is he? He smiled to himself. If not for fate two days prior, he would have faded into open-wheel history as another flash in the pan. Chance wouldn’t waste his second opportunity.
He hadn’t lied to Isla when he said the car was held together with spit and duct tape. The nosecone was a plain, unpainted backup, as was the rear wing, neither matching with the sponsorship black and yellow livery. The team had used nearly every spare part they had, including the only remaining engine and transmission.
Cursing his ex for the millionth time, Chance made his way to the pits. He’d have a few minutes in the cockpit to try and put Isla out of sight and out of mind. Her words of warning did make him smile, though. Had Jack sent her? Was he really that rattled?
Speaking of…Chance slammed on the brakes, the tiny tires squealing on his cart. The woman in the yellow shirt stood dead in the center of the tunnel leading to the pits. She stared for a few seconds, then pointed a finger at him.
Before she could say anything, Chance stepped from the golf cart, pointing his own finger at her. “You.”
She cocked an eyebrow, her expression much less cheerful than his own. “You. You’re the dick that tried to shortcut right over my feet.”
“Sorry.”
“Wow, and the Oscar goes to.”
Chance shook his head. “Isn’t it your job to be watching out for vehicles? Literally, isn’t that your job, Miss Whistle? Sorry I had more important things to do than play dodge the yellow-shirt.”
The woman scoffed. “What an asshole. You should have quit while you were ahead.” She stepped aside, waving a hand as if he were royalty. “I’ll keep my eye out for you, and I’ll give you a wide berth, good sir.”
Another yellow-shirt stepped into the conversation, and Chance had to roll his eyes. The man was younger, and his eye shot back and forth between the woman and Chance.
“There a problem here?” The man’s voice was low, his chest puffed out.
“Ugh, Rob, what the hell are you doing here?”
Chance heard more than just frustration in the woman’s voice. He paused, taking a step back from things. Did he deserve the yellow-shirt’s ire for almost taking off her toes? Probably, but there was something else at play.
The man spoke to the woman, but looked Chance up and down as he did. “I just got off work and wanted to check in on you, see how the new gig was working out.” He turned to the woman, searching for her name. As she crossed her arms across her chest, he gave up on the search.
He saw her take a slight step back before she spoke. “Rob, you can’t do this. I told you to leave me alone, and I meant it. This is fucking creepy. You stay on your side of the track, and I’ll stay on mine.”
The man took a step, backing the woman into the waist-high barrier behind her. Chance’s heart revved up as the man growled at her.
“You’re only working here because I made it happen, you ungrateful bitch.”
Having enough, Chance stepped in, grabbing the man by the back of one shoulder. “Hey, hey. I think you’d better step off. The last thing you need is to make a public scene in uniform.
“I think you need to fuck off, cock-jockey.”
The man was throwing a punch even before he spoke. It was instinct for him. Instinct didn’t mean speed, though. Chance saw the fist coming from a mile away. The man had to turn his whole body 180 degrees to connect, so Chance had plenty of time to counter.
With no weight behind the clumsy swing, the man was off-balance from the start. Chance could have leveled him with a quick sucker punch, but there were people around. He could feel the eyes on the trio as the argument fueled up, and bad press like that was not what the team needed. They needed to make sure the car could run, and they needed Chance to do it.
Angling back and to the side, Chance saw the swing slide past him, the man she had called Rob falling forward. Chance raised his hands and stepped away from the pair. People were gathering, more than a few cell phones up and surely recording.
“Hey, you need to calm down. It doesn’t take a detective to see she doesn’t want you around. Why don’t you cut your losses and get gone?”
Rob laughed, reminding Chance of a cartoon villain. “Mind your fucking business. She just needs a little reality check, that’s all.”
The woman spoke before Chance could reply. “No, you do, Rob. I’m not your girlfriend, we never even dated. I wish we had never kissed, because once again, I picked a total asshole. I picked a selfish, muscley idiot that only wanted to get in my pants and became a control-freak the second I tried to stand up for myself.”
Chance was surprised. The girl had some fire in her. She probably didn’t need him to step in at all, but there was no way he was going to let some asshole back her against a wall and lord over her. He saw an older yellow-shirt heading their way. The older man was balding badly but had a military look. The large badge announced that he was a supervisor. He didn’t waste a second grabbing Rob by his collar and dragging him away. “Just what in the blue fuck do you think you’re doing?
“Nothing. This driver was assaulting another yellow-shirt, so I stepped in.”
Chance wanted to throw a punch after hearing that horseshoe. He chuckled as he shook his head. “That’s so untrue. I stopped to apologize to this young lady, when this guy steps in and gets aggressive.”
The bald man looked between Chance, Rob, and the woman. His expression froze on her. “This true?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded. “I was talking with the driver when Rob came out of nowhere. Then, when the driver—“
“Chance, by the way. Chance Pierce.” He knew it wasn’t the right time, but so what? The woman was a little fierce, and he liked that.
She gave him a sideways look. “Chance tried to get between Rob and I, and then Rob tried to punch him out.”
The bald security man rolled his eyes and pointed to the two yellow-shirts. “You two, head into the press room so we can sort this out. You?” He turned to Chance. “Let these people do their jobs, alright?”
Throwing his arms up in frustration, Chance didn’t say a word to the bald man or Rob. He climbed back onto his golf cart, turning to the woman before he took off. “If you need anything, let me know.”
She smiled as the electric cart headed down the narrow lane separating the pits from the crowd. “Thanks. I”m Heather.”
“Nice to meet you, Heather.” Chance laughed and faced forward, navigating through the mechanics and crew working on the other thirty tow cars. Fucked up. That was the only way he could describe what had just happened. Chance just wanted to apologize, and it nearly devolved into a brawl somehow. He had a way of getting pulled into the muck, so what else was new?
He parked the cart, only after inching forward enough to bump Frank in the ass. He stood up in a heartbeat, spinning around with a very surprised and pissed off look on his face.
Chance waved and winked. “Hiya, Frank.”
“Where the hell’ve you been, dick?”
Chance shrugged it off. He didn’t even know where to begin telling the story. “Got held up. How’s Annabelle?”
Kiwi popped up from behind a toolbox. “She’s right as rain. Ready for your laps?”
Hopping off the golf cart with his helmet in hand, Chance just smiled. Was he ready? Does the Pope wear a funny hat?
“She feels great.” He radioed back to the pit stand, adrenaline raising his voice a few notes. Chance didn’t care. The feeling of the Indycar surrounding him and giving him control was overwhelming. Sure, he missed driving, but until he got back up to speed, Chance didn’t realize just how much he missed it.
The rectangle racetrack that made up the Brickyard whizzed past, just a few seconds to breathe on the straights before Chance eased the wheel to the left into the banked turns.
Annabelle felt perfect. Chance felt a hint of guilt at that, but that was the luck of the draw. Whatever transmission issue had caused Billy’s accident was no more. The mechanics had earned every bit of their pay and then some. Chance took Annabelle high, nearly brushing against the wall before diving down into turn three. The car felt like not a thing could unsettle it.
Derek’s voice queued up on the radio. “Temps looking good, no issues with the drivetrain. Ten laps over two hundred. Can you manage that without getting into a fistfight?”
Chance almost laughed as he crossed the yard of bricks at the start finish line. Of course Derek had found out. “Who told?”
“Two oh three. Good lap, bring her up a bit more. Who didn’t tell me. Indycar officials, someone on Andretti’s team, and a yellow-shirt.”
Getting the OK to give it some more, Chance leaned into the first turn, barely lifting from the accelerator. The G-forces pulled him right, and Chance strained his neck to keep eyes level on the short chute.
Gonna be sore after just ten laps. In the off-season, full-time drivers often went down a collar size as their neck muscles shrunk. To train up, they would wear headbands tied to weights, pulling them up while lying sideways on benches. It was an exercise that always caught strange looks at the gym.
Chance hadn’t been able to get into the gym for months. His cross country trek had eaten up all of his time, and every bit of money he could afford to spend. The weeks leading up to the race would be grueling, but the two hundred laps demanded he was in peak physical shape.
After turning a knob on the steering wheel to up the fuel delivered to the engine, Chance hit the comm button. “Did they all tell you that I was the good Samaritan?”
Derek chuckled, a bit of static adding to the effect. “I’ve heard a few different versions already. The officials just wanted to make us aware. Glad to know you haven’t changed any.”
Chance adjusted his brake bias before heading into the third turn. The car felt even more stable as he brought the speed up. He couldn’t believe how comfortable each movement was.
The time flew, even for forty second laps. Derek let Chance know he had two laps left to maintain a speed above two hundred. Easing the throttle up just a touch more, Chance decided to see what kind of qualifying speeds they could expect.
“I’m gonna light the last two up. Keep an eye on the gearbox temps.”
“Copy, go for it, Chance.”
If the thrill of getting back behind the wheel of an open-wheel racer wasn’t enough, Chance loved the feeling of giving the car 100%. It was that thing he’d been missing since his last race; the feeling of true living.
Chance didn’t feel alive unless his heart was at the limit, his attention focused on one thing like it was life or death. As he dove down into turn three for the tenth and last time, he gave the hard and unforgiving outside wall a quick glance.
The track crew had already painted over the dark gouge left by the same car just a few days prior. It was like the accident had never happened. Billy was in a hospital bed, still with a few surgeries to go before he was out of the woods. Chance was going to make it his duty to ensure Billy Moore wasn’t lumped in with all the others who failed the Indianapolis Motor Speedway’s test.
“Check and check,” Derek sounded happy for once in his life. “Bring ‘er in. Fuel map one, low revs, let’s try and save the engine. Qualifying is in one week, and Kiwi will skin you alive if you keep him up for another all-nighter.”
Chance shook his head as much as he could in the cramped cockpit. “Yes, sir.”