Page 82 of The Player Penalty
“You sound like my wife,” he says.
A wave of loneliness hits. Lily won’t be here this weekend due to her semester’s final exams. Matteo had already asked if I wanted to go out after his race later, and I refused. A decent dinner and early bedtime are better preparation, anyway.
∞∞∞
The trailer is dark and empty.
I flip on a light, change clothes, and pull out the prepared meal waiting for me. I’ll need to thank the hauler guys in the morning because otherwise, dinner would be a cold sandwich and chips.
The oppressive silence bugs me, so I flip on the television and find a local news station. Wanting more mindless entertainment, I grab my phone next.
The missed call on the screen isn’t a surprise. My schedule can lead to missed calls and long delays in returning text messages. Everyone in my life is used to it, including Lily. The part that shocks me is the person who called.
Dad.
There’s no voicemail either, which means it could be a butt dial, or he changed his mind. It’s also possible there’s terrible news; horrible enough, he decided to call and tell me directly.
I’m a giant fucking idiot.
At least the mailbox isn’t full this time. “Hi, Dad. It’s me. Your son. It’s been a while. Have you followed me this season? I’m at the top of the leaderboard. Also, I have a girlfriend now, and she’s incredible. Her name is Lily. You’d like her.” That isn’t true. Dad would dislike her as much as he does everyone else. “Anyway, sorry I missed your call. I hope everything is okay. I miss you guys, all of you. Call me back.”
He won’t. That was a butt dial, and my call was a waste of breath, precisely the same as every single one before it.
The news switches to a commercial for cleaning products.
I press mute and dial a different number.
She picks up on the first ring. “How did you know I was thinking of you?”
“Because I spent the day thinking of you.”
∞∞∞
North Wilkesboro Speedway
“Handling is still off.”
“No improvement?”
“Some, not enough. The response is slow. It feels like I’m smearing across the tracks at every turn,” I say.
My spotter kicks in. “You’re about to get lapped. Again.”
“Then enjoy the show,” I huff out. “Because it’ll happen again. How’s my performance?”
“Your lap times improved.” Steve, my pit chief, followed me toRMS.He’s all business, which I appreciate. “Not by enough.”
“Lapped again,” my spotter unhelpfully adds.
“You don’t need to keep that up,” I say.
Pete Webb chimes in. “What’s your status?”
“Mostly grateful this isn’t a points race. There isn’t much I can do out here. The turns are loose, and I’m not getting speed.”
We’re at a short track, which means cars run slower, but mine is barely faster than a bicycle. The one positive is that the race is not for points, so my standing won’t change. It’s an all-star race, done more for PR and buzz than anything.
“Where is Boone?” I ask. It probably doesn’t matter, but if there’s an opportunity to give a boost, I’ll take it. “Can you give me some info on him?”
