The Rookie (Racing On The Edge #7) (2 page)

Kyle looked over at me rolling his eyes and wiping sweat from his forehead. “We’re trying to, E.”

Though it’s April, I know the heat of the night is getting to both of them. It’s not necessarily the heat though. It’s this race and the man behind the wheel. He expects perfection this year. From everyone. Me and his team included.

The radio crackled when Easton came on again. I watched him as he passed by the front stretch. “Yeah, well, not hard enough. Fix it. And what the hell is wrong with this goddamn radio?”

“Everyone is having problems.” Kyle held the radio in his hand searching for a good signal. “Change to channel five.”

The caution came out for debris in turn two but no one made a pit stop. On the restart, Easton got the inside coming to the green. The inside on a track like Richmond was crucial because of its unique layout. Running the top groove all night, I could tell on that last run it was gone and Easton was searching for grip anywhere he could find it.

Paul Leighty spun the tires on the restart and wound up kissing the wall but managed to get off it before too much damage was done. It allowed Easton to get the jump he needed. It surprised me a little that Paul, being a veteran driver, would spin the tires on a restart. It wasn’t like him at all. Yeah, definitely not a good night for racing.

Easton got a good lead after two laps with fifty to go.

He may win tonight. He probably will. He dominated tracks like Richmond.

Mentally I started to prepare myself for what comes with a win these days, and the days following.

It’s not that I don’t want my husband to win. I do. It’s not that at all.

What I don’t want is what that win brings with it. That all-consuming spotlight and the interest into E’s life, and mine too. I don’t want the press conference and the late night getting home. I don’t want the media down his throat waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

I don’t want the pressure put on me either.

Everyone wants to know why the only daughter of Jameson Riley doesn’t race or what I’m wearing for Christ sakes. Like my goddamn clothes matter at all.

Does it really matter if I’m wearing designer jeans in victory lane or a name brand dress to an awkward banquet?

It does to them. It doesn’t to me.

There’s so much shit in this life that doesn’t matter, but yet, it does. There’s extreme competition, bitter rivalries and soul-wrenching guts needed that are all part of this beast. That matters. That gives the fans what they want in a lifestyle of speed, adrenaline and desire.

It’s not a look they want, or a face, or even a name. It shouldn’t be what they want.

They should want the heart of NASCAR. The hometown wide-eyed rookies. The champions and legends. When I think about NASCAR I want to think about parties and Bristol short track tempers flaring. Daytona drafting, homegrown heroes, moonshining and cloudless summer Sunday skies. The fighter jets, honoring our country and forty-three V8 engines revving. I want to think about twelve second pit stops and the smell of burning rubber and racing fuel only to finish with a green white checkered. I want the wind of two hundred miles an hour and turning left. It’s what I want every fan to take away from the sport but only about half do.

Coming out of three I saw Easton battling his car again within five laps. He’s talking so fast Kyle can’t understand anything he’s saying much less work with him on what he needs to correct.

These days there’s not a lot about Easton that I understand. Fame changes people. It does.

Doesn’t matter who you are, it’s going to change you.

You go one of two ways. You’re either desired or distanced by it. If you don’t understand that, think about it. It’ll make sense eventually.

My dad once told me that and it’s taken me twenty two years to understand it.

My dad is the smartest man I know and my hero in more ways than he’ll ever understand so I take most everything he says to heart…I just don’t always understand it. I couldn’t always say this about him, there was a time when we butted heads on almost everything. Just ask any young teenager who knows everything and they will wholeheartedly agree. But now, my dad is my rock, the man I look up to and who every man in my life must aspire to be like…and not because he’s a racing legend.

“Cautions out,” Nick, his spotter said. “Stay low. There’s a splitter laying in three up by the wall.”

“10-4.”

“Pit road will be open next time by,” Nick said.

“Bring it in E. We’ll make some changes.” Kyle told him, looking over the monitors and talking to Tray, the car chief. They made a plan and relayed it to the crew, all waiting and ready on the wall, the bright lights of the track sparking rays of light off their black shiny helmets.

“Okay boys, four tires, half round down on the wedge.” Kyle ordered to the crew. “Check the splitter and that right rear where he brushed the wall.”

Easton didn’t say anything. That’s when you knew he was mad. He goes silent. And I know now, should he win, it won’t change much of anything. He’s the type of person who stays mad for days. I am too. We make quite the pair when it comes to arguments.

Pushing myself to the edge of my seat, there’s a rush in the pits, guys shuffling around doing what they do best, giving Easton the car he needs to win.

Every Sunday and the occasional Saturday, they do what they can for him. You’ll never see a team work harder than these boys, I believe that.

Easton’s pit was right after the entrance to the garage. It made is easier to get into the pit, which he always seemed to struggle with. The boys went to work, impacts and engines revving, shouts and squealing tires surrounding us. Kyle watched intently, his eyes on the crew and the activity on pit lane. High above the track, Nick waited to guide him off pit lane.

“Come on!” Easton yelled when the pit stop neared thirteen seconds. “Let’s go!”

The left rear tire changer got caught up on the lug nuts, dropped the impact and then got them on.

That got Easton pissed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snapped, barely controlling his voice. The crackle of the radio only amplified his annoyance. All night long they kept losing radio frequency and having to switch to another channel. “We need perfection. Get this shit right!”

Kyle drew in a deep breath beside me, shaking his head before blowing it out. “We know kid.” His true age showed these days in the tired eyes and the pensive stare.

He was third coming into the pit and ninth going out. The pace car kept a steady pace in front of them, cars swerving, cleaning and warming fresh tires. Easton stayed in line, never moving, silent on the radio. I bet he wasn’t silent in the car though. We could see him hitting the steering wheel when the broadcasting station showed his in-car camera.

Kyle let out a tense laugh. “He acts like we’ve never wanted to kick his ass before.”

It’s times like this, in the heat of everything, I sensed Easton was in over his head.

Thursday night, he raced in the truck series, won that race. Friday night, he raced Nationwide. Won that race too. Now the pressure was on to win the Cup. Very few drivers can pull off all three in one weekend, let alone compete for a championship as well. For a while they said drivers could only compete for points in one touring series. Maybe they knew it was too much. Since then they’ve let the boys race what they want.

I told him I didn’t want him doing this but he didn’t listen. No one was going to convince him otherwise when he had it in his head this was the way to emerge from the shadows of greatness. In some ways, I understood exactly what he was doing. It made complete sense to me.

I may not be trying to break any records but I will forever be Jameson Riley’s only daughter. That in itself makes me untouchable in a lot of ways. Ways that control me and everyone around me.

In other ways, I hated it because I knew what this kind of mentality in this sport brought with it.

Hunger. The desire to be the best and then some.

He was always going to want more. More wins, more championships, more of everything until there was nothing left of him. I’ve seen it happen before. Even to the toughest.

With ten laps to go, Easton got his lead back but Brody was tough competition for him. Always was.

Brody Williams was one of those guys you hoped was smarter than he appeared to be.

Unfortunately he wasn’t. He was as dumb as a fucking door knob at times but could drive the shit out of a car. He has talent, unbelievable talent. I think it’s his night life that makes him dumb and the choices he makes solidifies my assumptions.

On a track like Richmond, he’s nothing for what Easton could do. He knows the turns, his car, and right now, he’s believing he can do it.

And he does. Having grown up on the short tracks of Wheeling, Ohio, he knew his way around and how and when to be aggressive.

This aggressiveness has gotten him to where he is today. It’s bittersweet for me because everything that goes along with Easton’s passion is exactly what I want to avoid. I don’t want the glory, the fame, the life-sucking moments where racing is everything in his world. I want to be his world yet I constantly feel that I’m second priority to this life that I’ve grown up with. Not everyone can handle it, many relationships fail…just look at Kyle. My mom and dad are the exception and I’m not sure that I can accept being an afterthought to a sport that I’ve grown up with, lived, and breathed for twenty-two years. Easton’s passion will ensure his trifecta this weekend, I have not a doubt in my mind. And then the unrelenting process starts again.

With two laps to go, both Brody and Asher were less than a second behind Easton and gaining on him. Easton’s tires were gone but he was holding on and talking about as fast as he was driving. “What’s my lap times?”

Kyle looked at the screen in front of him and then the track. “That lap it was a 21.23. They’re running at 21 flat behind you.”

“Fuck. Uh…is this the last lap.”

“No. You got two to go.”

“How far is fourth place back? What’s his lap time that last lap?”

“He’s two point five back and his lap times are 22.45.” Kyle said, watching his lap top. “Stay focused and dig.”

Easton went silent again, and I could almost imagine him in the car right now, breathing heavy, sweating, checking his mirror and seeing his boys coming strong. They’d race him clean, but they’re just as hungry for a win as he is. There’s no doubt about that.

I had chewed my fingernails off with one to go. Brody and Asher were right on his bumper waiting for him to slip up. They’d easily take the spot and more than likely leave him to finish third.

“You got this, kid. Just drive the car.” Kyle was reassuring him in all the ways he usually did, feeding him the confidence he needed. “Don’t worry about what’s behind you. There’s no need. They’ve got nothing on us.”

Coming out of three on the last lap, Brody went high and Asher went low leaving Easton in the middle for a three-man-free-for-all.

“That’s it, nice and smooth. One to go at the line.” Kyle nodded, he knew Easton could pull this off.

Easton’s good under pressure behind the wheel. When he knows another car is behind him, he turns it on and he did. They remained three wide through four but when they hit the front stretch, Easton gained a little ground and pulled ahead enough that he was able to get the checkers.

I felt the relief just as much as he did when he won. Especially right now.

“Thatta boy!” Kyle smiled standing up the pit cart and leaning forward to beat on the side. “That’s how you do it!”

“Whew! Yeah baby!” Easton screamed into the radio. “Great job boys! Good fucking job! Way to sweep the weekend!”

We didn’t waste any time before Kyle, Tray and I made our way to victory lane with the rest of the crew. Behind us I could see the smoke rising up from the bright lights of the track as he did his burnout and smiled.

“I think he just blew up the engine.” Kyle put his arm around my shoulders as we walked. “He’s pretty amazing.”

I knew he was. To be here you had to be. There’s no room for error in this series anymore and Easton had the talent. There was definitely no doubt about it.

My phone was in the pocket of my jeans. I felt it blowing up with what was probably congratulations texts directed at Easton. I took a fleeting glance at the screen to see a text from Dad.