Page 16 of The Player Penalty
“I’ll stay out as late as I want,” I say.
No one answers.
Outside, the faint din of partygoers carries through the rows of trailers.
“Hey, Julian. Great job at Quals today.”
Jake Knowles steps out of the gray darkness, dressed in a worn Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. They clash, but if Sarah Rivers is happy, his lack of fashion sense is none of my business.
“Fourth. Not bad.” I check out the plastic bag in his hand. “You can get your food delivered here instead of going out for it.”
“It’s tiramisu, one of Sarah’s favorites. Finding it was a bit of a hunt, but worth it.” He lifts the bag so the contents shake. “Are you heading to one of the parties?”
They’re technically private affairs, but after a short time, each one blends into the other until it’s one big alcoholic binge. I met Sandy at one last year and spent both nights of the race with her.
“They’re almost as much fun as the race. You two are welcome to join me,” I say, knowing the offer will be refused. Jake is one of those stereotypical wife guys. I don’t get it.
Jake’s slow shake of the head isn’t meant to be judgmental, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it. It’s not his style, plus, like I said. Wife guy. “She says she loves me every night, and we always drink tea on the back porch. There’s no way I’d trade the most amazing woman in the world to return to that bachelor life. It’s better over here.” Jake catches himself as his eyes go big. He raises his empty hand in apology. “I’m not calling your life empty. I’m sure it’s fulfilling and deep, in a good way. It’s more that I never want to do any of that again because it’s torture. But the good kind for you.” His geniality takes the sharpness from his words, and I’m not even angry. He’s a decent person who also happens to be a wrecking ball.
“I got you. It’s fine.” That’s not a hundred percent true, but I’m not telling him that.
“Yeah, that’s my hint to go. Dessert and a book before going to bed at a reasonable hour. Fucking bliss.”
Fucking horrible.
“Oh, and good luck tomorrow. You’ve had some great finishes here, yeah? Let’s see you doing that again,” he says. “You were there for Sarah when she needed it; I’ll be there for you tomorrow.” Jake smiles. We don’t interact much, which almost made me forget just how damned friendly he is. “If there’s an opportunity, and it doesn’t cost me anything. Anyway, enjoy your debauchery, and I’ll see you at the track in the morning.”
Sarah and her brother had a blowout earlier this season and didn’t talk for weeks. Jake was the one who stepped in and made peace between them, primarily by ending a bitter rivalry between him and Boone. More accurately, he reduced it to a low simmer. I took their side, mostly because I don’t like Boone.
Southern rock blares from nearby speakers, with a few couples dancing nearby. A disco ball twirls under an open tent, reflecting out some fairy lights. It’s not the most exciting festivities I’ve seen, but it’ll do.
“Hey, you’re Julian Murphy.”
A couple of guys in their late twenties introduce themselves, and I offer an autograph. That’s a hard rule. Unless it’s time to race or a sponsor wants my attention, always sign the damn autograph. It takes a few seconds and creates a ton of goodwill.
A bottle appears in my hand, and I take a sip. Cold and cheap. Perfect.
I scan the crowd, hoping for a familiar face.
“Do you remember me?” she asks. Tall and curvy, with teased blond hair.
“Sandy. I hoped you would be here.”
She grabs me by the shirt collar and leads me to the crowd’s edge. “My flight is three hours after the race starts, so let’s make the most of it.”
Fun for the night with no expectations for more. That’s exactly what I hoped for.
∞∞∞
Ten thousand laps remain, and my head is throbbing.
“Four laps. You got this,” my pit chief says. I may have slightly exaggerated the number of laps. “Fine racing today.”
“Fine luck today,” I say.
A caution ten laps back put me in an excellent position for the restart after several of the best drivers were knocked out from a wreck. The idiot rookie driver of the 52 car decided to shove his way through a three-wide in a pathetic effort to move from 23rd to 18th. Some of the newer drivers are convinced pretending we’re in a game of bumper cars is the easiest path to success. Stupid aggression will never replace skill. They either figure that out, or they get washed.
The 52 is washed, and I’m three wide with two laps to go.
