13. Ryder
Ryder
“I ’m sorry to say that this Saturday’s race will be your last with Morrison Motors,” Randall says to me without an ounce of remorse. “The official contract for the trade will be signed tomorrow, and your employment with Wheelie Good Tires begins the moment the race concludes.”
“You did all of this just to get me out of Blake’s life? What’s to stop me from seeing her now?” I ask.
Randall removes a checkbook from his desk. “How about ten million dollars to pad your bank account and the fact that Blake will get nothing from me as long as she’s with you.”
As he begins to write out the check like it’s a done deal, I rise to my full height. “Don’t bother signing it, because I won’t be cashing it. I don’t need your money, Mr. Morrison. I’d just like to know one thing before I leave. Why did you hire me to race for you in the first place?”
“Pity, mostly, and the fact that my son wouldn’t race under the Morrison banner unless I brought you along. When Morrison Motors was viewed as the company that gave the underdog a fighting chance, I kept you on. I’ve tolerated you outshining my son on the track, but you’ve served your purpose.”
I purse my lips, and disappointment coats me like a second skin. “Your actions are costing you your family.”
He signs the check anyway and shoves it at me. “Once a criminal, always a criminal. I’m sure your true colors will be revealed in time. Once that happens, I’ll be waiting for my children to return home, and I’ll do it with open arms. They will come home, Ryder.” His gaze penetrates me like laser beams, and his voice drops low. “You will never be good enough for my daughter, and she’ll eventually realize it.”
“You’re right about that because no one is good enough for her, but I’ll never stop trying to be. The two of us have been brought together for a reason, and I’ll do everything in my power not to waste the precious opportunity. So, take solace in this: she’ll always have someone to lean on, even if it’s not you. I plan to help her achieve her dream of racing, so expect to see her on the track soon.”
He laughs outright at my assertion. “Blake has been out of the game too long. She’d only embarrass herself.”
This time it’s my turn to laugh. “It’s sad that I have more faith in your daughter than you do. She’s already beaten me once at Harris Hill.”
I remove the key to the borrowed McLaren 750S Spider parked out front and put it on his desk. “You’ll probably want the car back. It’s parked next to the Bugatti and the Pagani. Thank you for the opportunity you’ve given me. For that, I will forever be grateful.”
With the strings officially cut, I breathe a sigh of relief as I leave the mansion and join Blake and Teague in the ride-share that’s waiting out front.
“How did it go?” Blake asks.
“About like we expected.” I reach over and take Blake’s hand, bringing it to my mouth before turning it over and kissing the inside of her wrist. “The sad thing is that your dad honestly feels that he has both of your best interests at heart.”
“As long as they align with his,” Teague grunts. “Where to?”
“Bed. I’m exhausted,” I say.
Teague leans forward in the cramped back seat, waving his hand between Blake and me. “Separate beds, right?”
Blake, who’s stuck in the middle, shoves her brother into the door. “Yes, you dweeb. You know my rules. Marriage first.”
My heart begins pounding in my chest at the notion that Blake has been saving herself for the person she plans to spend forever with. Teague uses the back of his hand as he slaps my chest and shares my secret. “Funny thing, that’s Ryder’s stance, too. Why do you think he’s been single for so long? He’s unwilling to bend and trust me, women have tried.”
Blake’s face registers a moment of shock while mine turns twenty shades of pink. Then a smile forms on her face as she kisses the heat from my cheeks. “Hopefully, the woman you’re seeing now is the one that sticks.”
“I hope so,” I say, kissing her temple. “It will be well worth the wait.”
Teague covers his face with the palms of his hands and then stretches the skin as exasperation takes hold. “Ugh! That was sappy! We had a deal!” Teague asks the driver to input his home address first. “I’ll tip an extra 50 bucks if you can get me home in under 15 minutes. Any longer, and I’m likely to explode from a sugar rush. It’s much too sweet in the back seat.”
Race day rolls around like clockwork, and I embrace my crew chief along with the rest of the pit crew. “I’m sure going to miss you guys. Every victory can be attributed to the teamwork and speed of your efforts.”
“So can every loss,” Soup grumbles.
Teague nudges me aside as he addresses my guys. “Ryder doesn’t like to call them ‘losses,’” he says, and then uses air quotes as he adds, “They’re ‘learning experiences.’ Good luck today. May the force be with you.”
“You, too.” Teague informed me yesterday that he would be finishing out the season with Morrison Motors. I guess Randall decided that it was in his best financial interest to keep his son on if he was going to be doling out the cash regardless. However, Teague also let me know that he has two sponsors waiting to pick him up when the season ends—Slickster, a synthetic motor oil company, and Cold Start, the producer of a new energy drink.
I notice Reggie Buchanon head in my direction, but I expect him to keep on walking by like he always does. To my surprise, he holds out his hand for me to shake. I gratefully accept the offer. “You’ll be team Morrison soon enough,” I tell him.
He doesn’t respond, only nods, and then heads to the black Chevy parked two spots over. I turn back to my crew. “Let’s turn and burn, making this last race count.”
Soup grins and leans into talking just loud enough for me to hear over the commotion surrounding us, but not enough for anyone passing by to eavesdrop. “You can’t get rid of us that easily, Ryder. Mr. Morrison has been good to us, but Mark Daugherty made us an offer we can’t refuse. We’ll still be your pit team next season, and I get the feeling that Reggie won’t stick around.”
It’s a cryptic statement, but I don’t have time to ask or worry about it at the moment. I have a race to win first. I enter the car through the window and run my hands over the equipment as one of the crew attaches the safety net. I perform a quick comms check and rev the engine. I pull up behind Darrell Stinson, who won the pole for this race. My time earned me the number three starting position. Teague earned the eighth spot, so he’s a few cars behind me. Reggie is further back on the outside, but with his aggressive driving, it won’t be long before he’s at or near the front of the pack.
The green flag waves, and the race begins. The Circuit of the Americas is not your typical oval track. It’s a road course with 20 turns, including a hairpin at turn 1 coming off an uphill climb. There used to be one at turn 11 until the track layout changed this year for NASCAR. There are several S-turns and four turns at 90 degrees or close to that. It’s one of the most exhilarating courses to drive and is a much grander version of Harris Hill. Win or lose, today is going to be a lot of fun.
Soup’s voice booms in my ear. “When coming around turn 20, stay to the outside of the track. Number 8 busted a hydraulic line, and there’s fluid on the inside of the track. Yellow flag is being waved.”
“Got it. Where’s Teague at?” I ask.
“Two cars behind you,” he barks.
“What about Reggie?”
“Reggie just came out of turn 15 and moved into fifth place, with times getting faster after every lap,” Soup says bluntly. “Reggie is coming after you, make no mistake about it.”
“He’s just getting the feel of the track. He’s toying with us,” I say, gripping the wheel tightly.
“Trust me, keep your speed and don’t let loose just yet. You know this course like the back of your hand, but don’t tip your helmet.”
I downshift while braking through the last turn on the course, taking the outside line just as Soup advised. Either Darrell’s crew chief didn’t give him the memo, or Darrell didn’t listen, because he tries to overtake me on the inside and ends up sliding into the infield. That’s going to cost him dearly. The green checkered flag waves at me like a friend as I cross the line to begin stage two.
“Your fans in the VIP box are going wild,” Soup announces. I invited Trevor, Mina, and their families to join my friends and family from Baggersville. It’s a bit crowded, but that only makes the energy in the box more contagious.
“Did you see Blake?” I ask, weaving through turns 2 through 6. It’s not exactly a straightaway, but the curves are shallow enough that it gives me the moment I need to regain some of my lost speed before I lose it again in turn 7.
“How would I know that? I’m in the pits, Ryder. All I can see from here is a gaggle of people jumping up and down,” Soup retorts. “Get your head in the race and stay focused.”
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.”