“We’re cutting it close but yeah, we’re good.”
I whip out to the right, try to slingshot past Mason but he blocks me and the ass end slides way too fucking close to the wall. “Asshole,” I grit out as I fight to gain control back of the car.
“Watch the loose stuff,” my spotter says into the mic. I bite back the smartass comment I know it’s there because I’m busy fighting its pull on the wheel. Hitting the concrete barrier beside me at two hundred miles per hour because of loose debris on the top of the track isn’t on the agenda today.
Three laps to go.
My arms burn as I fight the wheel into the next turn. My eyes flicker to the traffic ahead of me, to the car right in front of me, and to the ones on either side of me so I can find a sliver of space to try to pass.
I see it just as Becks yells into the mic. “He’s out! He’s out! Go. Go. Go. Wood!”
Split seconds of time. Luke Mason beside me. Luke Mason on the apron at the bottom of the track as I pass him.
Gotta have gas to go, asshole.
Fuck yeah. One car down. One car left to go. C’mon, baby. I press the throttle and check the gauges to make sure I push her to the brink because there’s one lap left. I refuse to leave anything left in the car when I can lay it all out on the start/finish line.
Steady, Colton. Steady, I tell myself as the tach edges the red line just as I get up behind Stewart’s ass end. Getting sucked into his draft helps conserve my gas. And thank fuck for that because I’m sure Becks is busting a nut on pit row questioning if I’m going to burn her up.
White flag. One lap left.
Turn and burn, baby. Turn and burn.
“Traffic is coming up in two,” the spotter says as I come out of turn one and see the cluster of lapped traffic clogging the track. “Go low,” he instructs, causing Becks to swear into the mic. Means I’ll have to let up a little, and I can’t let up when I’m chasing the one spot.
“You sure?” Becks asks. He never questions this kind of shit. I don’t have time to wait for an answer because I’m already moving down to the white line of the apron praying to fuck this works since lapped traffic usually stays low to make way for the lead cars.
And just as I start to question him a hole opens up between the top of the track and the middle in front of me and it’s only big enough for one car: Stewart or me. I slingshot around the car I’m behind, use the conserved energy from the draft to help give me the boost. Our tires rub. Stewart from the top line. Me from the bottom line.
It’s like a game of fucking chicken. Split-second reactions. Who’s going to back off? Who’s going to keep their foot on it? And I’ve faced a whole shitload of fear in my life so I’m not letting it own me right now. No way. No how.
I hear the squeal of tires as the car begins to get loose again when we connect. Forearms straight and hands gripping, I fight to keep the wheel straight as we fly an unheard of four wide out of turn two.
And I know it’s crazy. Has to look like a suicide mission to those watching, because there are four of us and not enough track to keep this up, and yet no one backs off. Something’s gotta give and it sure as fuck isn’t going to be me if I can help it. Fear is temporary. Regret lasts forever. And another press on the gas pedal ensures I’ll have neither.
We barrel into turn three as the two outside cars fall off. It’s Stewart and me, nose to nose, coming into the track’s final turn.
And the final stretch to clinch the win.
I slingshot out of the turn and give her all she’s got: throw the car into the red and pray it pays off. I can’t tell who’s ahead, our noses seem even, our cars testing the barriers of machine’s ability against man’s will.
C’mon, one three. C’mon, baby.
The checkered flag waves one hundred yards out. Keep the car straight, Donavan. Out of the wall. Away from Stewart. Don’t touch. If we touch, it’s over for both of us.
“C’mon, Wood!” Becks shouts into the mic as the checkered flag waves and a whelp comes through the radio. I have no idea which one of us won. Split seconds pass that feel like hours.
“Goddamn right we won!” Becks yells. Elation soars through my tired body, reviving it, and bringing it back to life as I pump a fist in the air.
“Fuckin’ A straight!”
Victory lane. People and cameras are everywhere as I pull the car into it. Becks and the rest of the crew greet me. Funny thing is I’m still searching for the one face I want to see the most and know isn’t there.
And I don’t think I realized how much that would fuck with my head—how much it mattered she was there every race—but pulling into the checkered victory lane without seeing her feels a little less complete. She’s so much more than just my wife. She’s my goddamn everything.
And then I laugh when I look up as I take the pin out the wheel to see Becks standing there. “Motherfucking victory, Wood,” he says. He takes my helmet and balaclava, handing them off to someone else as he helps me stand from the car. My legs are wobbly and I’m hotter than fuck, but when my best friend pulls me in for a quick hug, it sets in that I’ve finally won the elusive title on this track I’ve been chasing for so damn long.
“Great job, brother,” I tell him as I grab a baseball hat Smitty hands me and put it on, body dead tired but fueled on the adrenaline of victory.
The next minutes pass in a blur: confetti raining down, speeches thanking sponsors, interviews, the cold Gatorade that has never tasted better, the spray of champagne onto the crew. I’m riding that high, so goddamn glad to have this monkey off my back in winning this race. I do my proper dog and pony show, thank the sponsors, talk well of the competitors, thank the fans, but all I really want to do is get back to the pits, call Ry, take a shower, and sit back with Becks and have a stiff drink before facing more media circus.