Page 13 of The Player Penalty
5-Lily
Rivers Motorsports Headquarters, North Carolina
The garage is smaller with all the people in it. I stay in the back, by the doors, so no one notices me. It’s easy because attention is on Boone Rivers. Julian is on his right side, with Dad on his left.
Our eyes meet, and Julian smiles and nods with his chin. Dad catches the gesture and scans the crowd, curious to see what drew Julian’s attention. I shrink and look at the floor.
Crisis averted. Dad doesn’t complain about Julian as much these days, but he doesn’t approve, either. He also doesn’t know we’re becoming friends or something approaching friends, either. I haven’t told him because it’s possible Julian is merely being nice; that’s happened before. It hurts to realize you’re someone else’s friend more than they are yours. No one wants to be the afterthought.
Boone climbs up the moving stairs as the crowd cheers.
Julian crosses his arms and smiles. We stayed on the phone for the duration of his car trip last night. After listening to him, seeing him chipper this morning is strange.
“The 29 car is guaranteed entry into the round of twelve after last night’s performance. That win is the result of everyonein this garage right now. I want to thank everyone for your hard work and dedication this season. Let’s take a moment to congratulate each other and go back to work. This isn’t over yet, and we have a Cup to win!” Boone Rivers is never excited; he always appears gloomy, and here he is, shouting with joy. It’s probably fake.
“Most of all, my thanks go to our teammate and driver of the 33.” He waves towards Julian, but that’s it. They don’t exchange high-fives or even a handshake. Instead, Julian waves at the crowd. They cheer, and he adds in a mock bow. Boone continues, “He came and gave me the push that did it. It gave me the speed to win last night. Thanks, Julian.” The magical handshake finally occurs. “You’ll be back next year. We both will.”
I don’t understand racing strategy and don’t want to, but even I know Julian’s help cost him the race and the playoffs.
The post-race meeting is almost over, so I leave the garage before anyone notices I was there.
∞∞∞
“Caught you spying,” Julian says.
I jump in my seat at his sudden voice. “Sorry, curiosity took me. I went looking for everyone since the building was so quiet. Are the big post-race meetings always like that?”
“First, never apologize.” Julian rubs my head like I’m a little kid, and it takes everything in me not to slap his hand away. It’s supposed to be a friendly gesture, and it always feels condescending. “Second, they’re worse.”
“What will you do for the remaining season? You could go on a vacation somewhere or visit your family.” He could visit them if they can’t come to his races. Either that or take a long nap.
“You don’t know the NASCAR Cup Series, do you?” he asks.
Julian’s hair is perfectly combed this morning, probably because he went straight to bed after our phone call. If I hadn’t sent those text messages, would he even be standing beside me right now? He sounded miserable on the phone last night, and now we’re pretending it never even happened.
“It never seemed important,” I say.
“I still get to compete, only not in the playoffs. What do you think my strategy should be?” He leans against the table and holds both hands before him like he’s weighing something invisible. “Should I be a good teammate and help them advance?” One hand drops. “Or should I say fuck it and race for myself?” The other hand drops. Both of them wobble back and forth. “Team or me. Team or me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“It would depend upon your goals,” I say.
“What are your goals?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Then what are you studying in school?”
I open my laptop to stare at the marketing plan I’ve worked on the last few nights. “Right now, business. Before that, I wanted to be a psychiatrist until I learned that meant medical school. I also majored in library science for one semester before changing my mind. I want to do everything.”
“You can’t make up your mind,” Julian says. He means it sympathetically, and it feels accusatory. “That’s why you’re still in school, right? Pete said you were close to finishing, and that’s not the impression I get.”
“I started a year early,” I say as an explanation before realizing that makes it worse. “It’s hard sometimes.”
“What is?”
