Page 24 of Be Still My Racing Heart
Another half hour passes, and the end of stage two is drawing to a close. This signals the halfway mark of the race. As one of the more dangerous courses in NASCAR, I’m surprised the yellow flag has only been waved a couple of times. No doubt in the third stage, drivers will take more risks.
“Come in and pit,” Soup demands.
I follow his instructions, even though I want to stay on track and maintain my hard-earned lead. The tire change takes longer than expected, and I drop to fifth place as I begin the last half of the race. At least I managed to secure the points awarded for the first two stages.
In the second-to-last lap, I’ve moved into fourth while Teague and Reggie battle for the lead. I watch in horror as Evan Szpanick tries to move from third to first by cutting inside on turn 19. In his attempt to avoid a collision, he brakes too hard and fishtails into Teague. Reggie pulls forward with a burst of speed while Teague ends up in the grass on the opposite side of the track from Evan. They both recover, but not until I pass them and take second. With one lap to go, the number of drivers on the track has decreased by a third of those who started the race. There’s not a single car that isn’t a bit banged up.
“If you’re going to make your move, Ryder, now is the time to do it,” Soup says.
“Have you ever had the feeling that you need to lose in order to win?” I ask.
“Nope. Never. This is not the time to have a crisis of conscience. Leave Morrison Motors with your head held high. Win this, Ryder! Reggie struggles with turns 11 through 15. That’s your moment. Drift through the dirt on the inside of the track on turn 12!”
I learned a long time ago to listen to my crew chief, and Soup has never let me down. I refuse to ignore him. I clip the grass as my wheels slide on the dirt, but I maintain control of my car and push the gas pedal to the floor to build up enough speed to overtake Reggie. Hanging back for the last ten laps wasn’t about me struggling to catch up. I’d been watching my competition and analyzing how they handle every turn. Do they cut inside or go wide?
As I enter the last turn, Soup shouts in my ear, “Go! Go! Go!” The moment I’m clear of turn 20, I see the guy hanging over the finish line, ready to wave the checkered flag. Just like running a race, you don’t let up until after you’ve crossed the line. I have the pedal all the way to the floor when the flag signals that I’ve won. I lift the visor on my helmet and look toward the Heavens and say, “Thank you.”
“It’s what I get paid to do,” Soup quips.
“You’re the angel on my shoulder, Soup.”
I do several donuts and burn the rubber off my tires as I celebrate the win while allowing the rest of the cars to cross the line. Once the coast is clear, I take the checkered flag and hold it out the window as I take a victory lap and listen to the crowds cheer from the stands scattered around the track.
Pulling into victory lane, I hand the flag off to Soup as I emerge through the window and wave. Teague is the first to come up and embrace me. “Awesome job, Brother. I almost had you!”
“Next time,” I joke. “Where’s Blake? She should have had plenty of time to get down here.”
The crowd parts as Reggie walks toward me, still wearing his helmet. Randall Morrison isn’t far behind. For the second time today, Reggie shakes my hand. Surprising me further, he leans in and talks low, “Congratulations, Ryder.”
I take a step back in shock, my ears having deceived me. I’m about to open my mouth, but before I can utter a single word, Randall stands next to me. He utters a congratulations to me and then turns to Reggie and with a booming voice says, “At the conclusion of the race, your contract with Wheelie Good Tires was transferred to me. It’s time to remove your helmet and say hello to your fans.”
Teague interjects. “Dad, this isn’t the time or the place. This is Ryder’s moment.”
I raise my hand. “Oh, I’ve been anticipating this all season.” The moment I recognized Reggie’s voice, the deception clicked into place, and I’m not even remotely upset about it. Actually, I’m struggling not to burst out laughing because Randall Morrison is about to get his due.
Reggie slowly unsnaps the strap that keeps the helmet secured and then removes it from her head. She shakes out her damp, short hair and smiles. “Hi, Dad.”
Blake
Theshockonmyfather’s face is priceless, but Ryder grins like a fool while rubbing his jaw. “At least now I know why Reggie hits like a girl,” he jokes, referring to an altercation where he tried to yank off my helmet. Out of reflex, I had turned around and slugged him in the jaw.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I blame Teague,” I respond, pointing to the offending party.
“Why me?” my brother asks. His wide-eyed, innocent look might work on everyone else, but I see the impish nature he tries to hide behind his adorable, but fake, confused expression. Ryder gazes at me, equally as adorable, but his confusion is real.
I sigh. “My brother used to yank my pigtails to get a rise out of me. He would only stop when I responded with force. It became a habit to just turn around and swing. Teague knew what to expect and often avoided the blow. Sorry.”
“Do you think this is all a joke?” Dad fumes.
Ryder steps in front of me, the cameras following his every move. “It’s not a joke, Randall. It’s a desperate measure. Blake only wanted to follow her dreams so that she could give you yours without regret. Every day I spend with your daughter, I fall more in love with her. I’d do anything to make her dreams come true. Why wouldn’t you?”
A female reporter doesn’t hold back and asks, “Mr. Morrison! For a man who prides himself on family values, how are you taking the news that your daughter had to resort to using a secret identity to follow her heart? How do you feel, now that the trade is complete and all eyes are on you, watching and waiting to see how you’ll handle the surprise turn of events?” She puts the microphone in his face while racing fans who are watching from the comfort of their homes wait for his response.
I slide my hand around Ryder’s waist and rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take the spotlight away from you and your epic win. It was a tough course, and you deserve your moment of glory.”
“It’s worth it if there’s nothing left standing in our way,” he tells me. The sincerity in his voice and his searing gaze let me know that his words aren’t meant to placate me but to fill me with truth.
Bennie, the team’s manager, pushes through the throng of people and whispers something in my father’s ear before showing him something on the phone. I didn’t know it was even possible, but the blood literally drains from my father’s face. I’m guessing he’s watching the Morrison Motors’ stock drop after this debacle.
