Page 1 of Be Still My Racing Heart
Ryder
Adrenalinecoursesthroughmyveins as I speed along the racetrack at 180 miles per hour, my heart pounding in my chest as excitement vibrates throughout my body. With two laps remaining before the checkered flag is mine, I’m one step closer to the championship.
I press the button on my steering wheel that allows me to communicate with my crew chief, Levi “Soup” Campbell. “Get that champagne ready, Soup! Victory is within reach! I can already savor its sweetness.”
Soup’s no-nonsense, gruff voice echoes in my helmet, trying to penetrate my thick skull. “If you get cocky, you’ll taste the bitterness of defeat. Keep your head in the race and celebrateafteryou win. That new guy, Reggie, is hot on your tail and shifting to overtake you on the outside.”
Reggie Buchanon is a new racer on the circuit and isn’t taking any prisoners in his quest to reach the top. He’s also not making any friends along the way. Reggie is an enigma, never removing his helmet after a race or giving interviews following a win. It’s as if he can’t be bothered with any of the commotion. He’s becoming more notorious with every race, both a hero and a villain in the hearts of the spectators.
Of course, that doesn’t stop the rest of us from speculating and betting on his identity. My theory is that Reggie is a fugitive hiding in plain sight because he’s a criminal. Soup believes I might be projecting because my father is in prison, but the way Reggie drives is raw, edgy, and unrefined, as if he’s running from the law. He may not be a fugitive, but I’m sure he’s running from something.
“Reggie’s got another thing coming if he thinks he can beat me this time. He isn’t going to snatch another win from under me.” I give up a fraction of my speed to start swerving slightly, forcing my archnemesis to back off.
Soup grunts. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ryder. We need sponsors, and that means you need to drive a clean race—no theatrics. You have one lap to go; make it count and give it everything you’ve got.”
I grip the steering wheel even tighter, gritting my teeth—Soup’s right. We do need sponsors since two of the four we had dropped me after I spent a night in jail for driving 120 miles per hour. It was down an old country road outside the neighboring town of Baggersville. I was recently charged with a Class A misdemeanor and fined $4,000 for reckless driving. The penalty could have been more severe, but my lawyer argued that my reckless driving waswreck-less and that at no time were any lives put in danger. It was a weak argument, but the judge took pity on me because he knew my great-great Aunt Mabel, who is a pillar in the community. He opted to place me on probation and threatened that if I got another speeding ticket within the year, I’d end up doing jail time and lose my license.
Out of the corner of my eye, a sleek, black Chevy inches forward. We’re neck and neck when Reggie gives me a two-finger salute and then waves at me.Argh!I may not be able to see his face, but I can feel his smirk as he attempts to pass me on the straightaway.
I increase my speed, but Reggie matches it, pulling ahead as we enter the far turn. Thankfully, he has more distance to cover since he’s on the outside, but he’s gaining ground little by little. It’s not looking good for me, and in the final stretch, things go from bad to worse.
As we come out of the turn, Reggie finds himself a full car length ahead of me, taking the lead. We’re a quarter of a mile from the finish line when my front end collides with his back end, sending both of us careening toward the concrete barrier on the outside of the track. My car pushes his across the finish line, and the coveted checkered flag taunts me. Better luck next time, Stone.
“What the heck just happened?” Soup shouts. “I told you, no theatrics!”
“I’m okay; thanks for asking, Soup.”
“You’re far from okay. Bennie is furious!” Bennie Driscoll is the team manager and primarily responsible for securing sponsors. Morrison Motors is our main sponsor, and their name is sprawled across my hood, but that doesn’t mean every available space isn’t open for other companies to market their brands.
I cringe as Soup lays into me. “You play things loose and fast, both on and off the track. You can’t afford mishaps like this, Ryder.Wecan’t afford mishaps like this. It’s not just your career on the line. It’s all of ours!”
Emergency response teams arrive as Soup continues to prattle on, and I brush them off as I step out of the vehicle unscathed. I wave to the crowd in the stands to let them know I’m fine, but instead of the cheering I expect, I receive jeers. I frown, not understanding why. Do they think this is my fault? Reggie is the one who cut me off.
I walk toward the #12 car to make sure that Reggie isn’t injured, but when he steps out of the driver’s seat, my snarky side takes over. With a flip of my visor and a smirk, I say, “So much for taking a victory lap.”
I wasn’t intending to be mean when I came over, but Reggie gets under my skin, and I’m trying to goad him into flipping up his visor and giving me a sarcastic retort—anything that might get him to speak or reveal himself. We’ve had an altercation in the past that resulted in suspensions and fines for us both, but I still have no idea who my enemy is, and I’ve made it my personal mission to find out.
Rather than getting what I want, I end up with a shoulder check and a bruised ego.
“What am I supposed to do with you, Ryder?” Bennie asks as I bend down to inspect the damage to the car. I’d like to say that most of it can be buffed out, but the shell will have to be replaced—again. “You’re a great driver, but your reputation is a disaster! We have two sponsors! Two! We need ten times that to keep two drivers. And… and… and the only reason Morrison Motors employs you is that you’re friends with his son, Teague! Mr. Morrison is one moment away from dropping you entirely! He doesn’tneedthe both of you.”
“The accident was just that, Bennie—an accident. I didn’t clip Reggie’s bumper on purpose. You have to believe me! Look at the tapes! It was Reggie who crashed into me! And Morrison wouldn’t get rid of me, not when I’m doing so well. It’s been my best season yet.”
Bennie shakes his head in dismay. “It doesn’t matter who crashed into whom, Ryder, or how great a driver you are. If you don’t clean up your act and change your image, then Mr. Morrison will have little choice.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration and annoyance. I’ve been pegged as a “bad boy” because my father was in a biker gang, most of whom have ended up in prison at one time or another. That includes my father, who is currently serving his last year of a ten-year sentence for grand theft auto. Add in the pictures of me with a string of women on my arm, and now I’m being pinned as a player. I’ll be the first to admit that I like to have fun and enjoy life to the fullest, but I’m not the kind of guy to havethatkind of fun, if you know what I mean.
“What do you want me to do, Bennie? People will believe whatever they want. It doesn’t matter what I do. My heritage casts a very dark cloud.”
Soup, who has remained a statue in the corner while I endure a verbal tongue-lashing, finally speaks. For the past three years, he’s been like a father figure to me. When he talks, I listen. “Ryder, if you want to break free from the hold that the Stone family name has on you, you need to start acting like the man we all know you are. The parties need to stop. Driving fast needs to stay on the track. Instead of being photographed with beautiful women, you should be photographed with your fans and the kids who want your autograph. You need to demonstrate to the world that you’re a phoenix rising from the ashes of your family legacy.”
I begin pacing the small area inside the semi-truck that transports the team car from one race to another, clasping my hands on top of my head as I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth. “Do you have any suggestions? There has to be a way I can fix this.”
Bennie leans against the Toyota stock car with the #67 as his backdrop, folding his arms and crossing his ankles. “Mr. Morrison feels that it would be best for you to volunteer at a place called Play It Forward, where athletes from a variety of sports take a child under their wing and mentor them. He hopes that the experience will be enlightening and that you’ll learn a thing or two about responsibility.”
I stop in my tracks, unsure if I heard him correctly. “Let me get this straight: you want me to mentor a child when you think I can barely take care of myself? Is this like one of those Big Brother/Big Sister programs?”
Bennie and Soup both nod like bobbleheads on a dashboard. “It is. Mr. Morrison’s daughter, Blake, volunteers there, and she’s poised to take over and run Morrison Motors when her father retires. She’s a tough nut to crack, but if you can impress her, then you’ll get to continue racing under the Morrison banner.”
