The Player Penalty (SteelTrack Racing #3)

6-Julian

Homestead-Miami Speedway

“One more game, and then we quit.”

Lily’s indulgent sigh comes in over the headset. The sound tickles my skin. “I’m supposed to work on a paper.”

“Only nerds do school work on Saturday nights.”

“One more game,” she says.

There’s a smidge less excitement in her voice this time. We’re communicating through a headset, and I can still feel her pulling away. I shouldn’t have said that. Lily takes her schooling seriously, which I admire, but it’s easy to forget how much effort it takes her to finish.

Florida is supposed to be year-round sunshine, and that’s a bunch of bullshit. It’s been gray skies all day, which ruined my morning beach trip. At least Lily can keep me company, even if it’s virtual.

“You’re going to kick my ass again, aren’t you?”

“No mercy.”

Three races later, and my ass is kicked. Lily is good, but I’m also not trying hard. Her expression the first few times we played: deep satisfaction, shining eyes, and shy smile all told an obvious story. There’s no way I’m taking even the hint of a win from her, even if it’s over something small, like a round of Mario Kart.

“You never answered my questions,” I blurt out once the console is off.

It’s dark out, which means the parties have started. There’s no reason to spend more time in my trailer, and she has schoolwork to do.

“What question? Remind me because it appears I didn’t pay you any attention.”

This girl is learning how to get her digs in. I chuckle. “What should I do tomorrow? Help my teammates or go for my win.”

“You wouldn’t ask me if you didn’t already have an answer. Recognition feels good, while invisibility hurts. That is, unless you want to be invisible, and I’m not sure that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask.

“This stupid paper is calling my name. Don’t stay out very late, Julian. Goodnight.” She disconnects before I can respond.

I throw the headset on the console table and turn off the TV. This late in the season, and in Miami, means the parties will be in full swing. It’s better than my empty trailer, too.

“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.

“Where’s the 29?” I ask.

Boone Rivers isn’t visible in my windshield, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t hiding somewhere.

“Three rows back.”

My spotter chimes in. “He’s pacing the 48. Looks like neither can get speed out.”

I’m cut from the playoffs, so that’s no longer my concern. Between Jake and Boone, Jake is closest to the cut line. The big wreck might help him to the next round, but I can’t do that kind of math when the final lap is coming up.

“I’m increasing throttle,” I say.

“Go all in. Go, go.”

Fucking car. The air isn’t helping, and I can’t get the speed.

What was it Lily said yesterday? Some people crave recognition, while others seek invisibility.

I prefer to shine like a diamond.

A bump rattles me, the car shoots forward, and the checkered flag drops.

I may be out of the playoffs, but I know how to win a race.

****

A giant trophy helps ease a headache. Go ahead and jot that piece of wisdom down.

Pictures and interviews are done, so I can escape to my trailer and count the minutes until it’s time to go home.

As soon as the final task is complete. “Thanks for that lift there at the end,” I tell Jake.

He came down to victory road after parking his car to join the celebrations. He’s not an official team member, but our newly created partnership is close enough. Jake is putting the effort in, and I respect that.

“It’s my payback. You rode incredibly well today. One of the best cars there at the end.”

I had some of the fastest lap times today, too. “Your bump gave me that speed.”

“I couldn’t find a lane, and you were second best. Congratulations, and I look forward to repeatedly kicking your ass next year.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

I not only won today’s race, but I performed better than every driver still in the playoffs. Plus, my sponsors like me, and that will help with contract negotiations next year. Boone acknowledges how much I add to our organization, even if somewhat grudgingly.

Why do I feel so fucking miserable?

The headache. I need some medicine and a few minutes of silence.

∞∞∞

Back in the trailer, I quickly remove my fire suit before stripping everything else off. The bathroom mirror reflects a couple of faint bruises on my neck. Women cover them up with makeup. I could do the same. Either that or invest in the latest in turtleneck fashion.

I swallow some aspirin and spread out on the leather couch.

Lily: I watched you the entire time. You’re not invisible, Julian.

Her text arrived almost immediately after the race ended. Lily cheering me on the entire time may be my favorite part of the day. I should respond to her.

I toss my phone from one hand to the other and give up after failing to come up with a witty response.

One more ritual to complete, and then the rest of the day is mine.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me, Julian. Your son,” I say after the familiar beep. Does he even listen to these? This may no longer be his number, and I’m dumping family problems on some stranger in Boise, Idaho. “In case you missed today’s race, I won it. A teammate pushed me there at the end, putting me across the finish line. I’m getting better. Maybe you and Mom could watch one?” I’m not that big an idiot. There’s no point in begging a bitter old man who resents my existence. If your father says you’re dead to him, believe him the first time. It will save you a lot of pain. “I mentioned Christmas in my last message. It looks like we won’t get together this year too. Is this still your number? I don’t know if you’ll even get this, and I no longer care. Life happens when you’re busy being miserable. Say hello to Mom for me.”

Julian: You want to play? The flight isn’t for a few hours.

My phone rings seconds later.

“Okay, hear me out. It’s a bold plan, but it just might work,” she says.

“Hit me.”

“We play something else.”

The throbbing headache is gone. The aspirin took care of all my lingering soreness. That was surprisingly quick. “It’s a risk. What do you have in mind?”