Page 101 of The Player Penalty
“I’ll do what I always do.”
“You can’t do that, not this week,” Jake says, pushing back. He gives me a wide smile. “You’re lucky I’m here to guide you.”
“Yes, extremely lucky.”
“You’re top in points, right? Plus, Maddie pushed you two on social media. She even got Pete in on it, and who could have seen that coming? Certainly not me.”
He’s correct. That incident in my trailer last month is already old news. A few images of us on dates were somehow leaked on social media, which I blame on Sarah. Then, Lily and I were interviewed on a motorsports podcast targeting women. She talked while I listened.
“Extra autographs should do it.” Those happen every week. I sign as many as possible before time runs out. To be fair, that’s not the same thing. “A double wave, or maybe a bow. I could blow the crowd a kiss.” I can work crowds, and sponsors are easy. Blowing kisses is too much, even for me.
“Well, think about it.”
Jake’s name is called, and then mine a few seconds later.
The crowd’s roar is deafening, which is better than boos. Starting the race knowing everyone in the grandstands wants you to fail isn’t a great feeling. Boone Rivers probably knows that. I snicker at the thought before raising my hand to greet everyone.
The cheer grows louder. I raise both arms and grin like a fucking idiot.
Are you watching me, Dad?
It doesn’t matter because Lily, Pete, Sarah, Boone, my pit crew, and everyone else atRMSare.
∞∞∞
The 19 car stays next to me. We’re so close that I doubt even NASCAR officials could tell which of us has the lead.
“One more for the history books.” If my introduction got the crowd happy, how would another win feel? “I’m going for it.”
Pedal to the metal. Full throttle. All in.
“Give me that checkered flag.”
As the race ends, I scream, annoying everyone who can hear. The 19 hugs me the entire time.
We cross the line, and the flag goes down.
My lungs are about to burst.
Behind us, cars slow down and return to their pit box.
The 19 car stays beside me, each of us running a cool-down lap.
“Who won? Did we win?”
My pit chief comes on. “I think you. We’re waiting for an official decision.”
Fuck it. I do a burnout and hop out.
Five wins.
Shit me.
“Congratulations on one of the closest photo finishes in the cup series.”
“Thanks, Chris. It feels great. Actually, what was the margin?”
“Officials are telling us you won by .0041 seconds.”
