“Visor up if you’re alright.” Pops’ voice was shaky at best. He wasn’t prepared for two bad accidents in two weeks. Everyone would be standing on the pit wall, staring at the remains of the car stopped on track. DJ would still be at pit entrance, hopping into the golf-cart toward the wreck.
Chance’s voice came over the radio. “I’m alright. Dizzy and pissed, but I’m alright. Sorry, boys. Pushed a little too hard.”
In the car, Chance lifted his visor and hung his head. It was done. They didn’t have the spares to fix the car. Even if there was a team willing to part with one of their backups, All-American didn’t have the money to buy it. Every muscle in his body was rigid with rage. Unhooking the steering wheel from the column, Chance tossed it in front of him onto the track.
“Damnit. God damnit.” He focused on the anger, because there was sincere and crippling pain hiding just behind it.
The flashing lights of the rescue vehicles grew in his vision. He shook his head to let them know he was conscious. The hit had been hard, but nothing life-threatening.
Chance tried to picture what had gone wrong; what he had done wrong.
Coming out of turn four, the car had gotten loose. The rear tires lost grip, and the centrifugal force wanted to pull the back end of the car outward, like a child flying from a spinning merry-go-round.
Chance let off the throttle the second that he felt the rear end getting loose. He tried to correct, turning into the spin and hoping to regain traction. Instead, the back end continued rotating until the car was completely sideways, his view the wall on the interior of the track.
By some miracle, Chance kept the car sideways and off of the outside wall. Even as he slid at over two hundred miles an hour, he could smell the burning rubber of his now trashed tires. The car was designed to keep the driver safe, and that meant his head couldn’t move more than a few inches side-to-side. Chance turned as much as he could, and as he slid onto the front straight, he saw a sight that stopped his heart cold.
The entrance to pit lane grew closer and closer. His car was headed for it, and even when Chance planted his foot on the throttle, the car didn’t change direction. He turned the wheel, taking the risk of hitting the inside wall rather than the very blunt and immovable wall separating the pit lane from the race track.
He tried, but the car and physics had minds of their own. The car laid thick lines of rubber on the track as it headed for the barrier. Knowing there was no saving it, Chance took his hands from the wheel at the last moment, crossing them over his chest and letting the air out of his lungs.
The front end of the car hit the barrier at a perfect perpendicular angle, sending Chance and the Fisher Home Improvement Chevy spinning down the front straight.
For a few revolutions, Chance tried to keep track of what direction he was facing, but the force was enough to cause the edges of his vision to blacken. When the car finally came to rest he sucked in a breath like it was his first. He was facing forward, not two hundred feet from the start/finish line; not two hundred feet from a chance at the pole.
The Holmatro Safety Crew helped him into their SUV. He was shaken up, but Chance had no injuries. Still, any intervention from the safety crews meant a free trip to the medical center.
The ride to the infield was agonizing. Chance couldn’t meet eyes with anyone, but as they passed the start/finish line, he glanced out the window, searching in vain for Heather in the stands. She surely wouldn’t be waiting for him.
The doc checked him out and gave him a clean bill of health, but it was like Chance was ten miles away. He couldn’t hear anything but the sickening scraping sounds of Annabelle’s skid plate grinding against the track. He had flown too close to the sun.
DJ was waiting when Chance pulled the curtain back in the medical center. The cigar was in the team owner’s mouth, unlit as usual. His face wore no expression, and that weighed more on Chance than the face of a furious man. DJ looked defeated.
The large man threw an arm around Chance, and the two headed out the doors in silence. They climbed into the golf cart, DJ driving. He pointed the cart toward the haulers.
Chance’s hands shook from the adrenaline still surging inside of him, but when DJ spoke, it jolted him nearly from the cart. “I got a phone call about twenty seconds after the car slid to a stop.”
Chance knew DJ was heading somewhere, but he didn’t know where. “And?”
DJ’s cigar swapped sides in his mouth. “And we’ve got no sponsor. Fisher’s was looking for a reason to pull out with Billy gone, and I had convinced them to hang on. Billy’s father isn’t a fan of mine on a good day, and you know as well as I that today isn’t a good day.”
“No.” Chance prayed that DJ couldn’t hear the quiver in his voice.
“Kid, we ain’t out. We’re down, but we ain’t out. I’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen before. I may be old, but this old cat’s got a few tricks up his sleeve, yet. Gotta ask you for something, though, kid.”
Chance listened carefully. If DJ said they weren’t out, he meant it. The legend never spoke on something unless he was sure. “Name it. Just name it, DJ.”
The old man chuckled as they pulled up to the hauler. Annabelle was sitting on the pavement beside the truck. The front wheels had been sheered off, and the right side of the car had its share of scrapes, dents, and missing chunks. All in all, not nearly as bad as Chance thought, and nowhere near as bad as his accident could have been.
DJ stopped the cart and took the cigar from his mouth. “Kid, I’m gonna need every penny of that fifty-five grand you offered up.”