46. Chapter 46 #2
“Of course I know—” Colt stopped himself and tugged at his hair, looked at Beau, then back to Walters. “The Overthrow? The tech giant that hosts underground racing tournaments? Who sponsored Tara Wheeler for Indy?”
“That's the one.”
Colt was nearly bouncing in his seat, his fingers going a mile a minute, his leg shaking.
“So, what,” Beau started, drawing his eyes away from Colt and looking at Walters instead. “You want to show-pony him for a sponsor? Put him in another Legend car?”
“Not at all, Mr. Moore.” Walters sat back in Beau’s chair and regarded the two of them with sharp eyes.
“We lost a Cup Series driver this season.
Took one of our biggest sponsors with him, too.
We're bringing one of our current development series drivers up to drive with Vic, and we want Colton to fill his space for the remainder of the season.”
“Pending a test weekend in a Gen 6 car,” Hoyt added from his spot by the wall. “The jump from stock to Gen 6 is nothing to sneer at, and we want to be sure he can handle it before we make a commitment.”
Beau crossed his arms and stared Hoyt down. “He can handle it.”
“I agree.” Navarro adjusted the cuff on her shirt and nodded. “I saw him drive. Sam saw him drive. He's damn good. Raw, natural talent.”
“Exactly.” Walters nodded along. “We've reviewed the data, and we think—”
“What about my coach?”
Every eye in the room turned to Colt, and he wasn't buzzing anymore. He was stone still.
Walters smiled again. She smiled a hell of a lot. “Yes, of course. We brought him in for a reason.” She turned to Beau. “You've done an incredible job, Mr. Moore. I've no doubt that your teachings have been invaluable to this young athlete.”
Beau could taste the ‘but’ coming, and Colt could too, if the way he sat up straighter was anything to go by.
“We want you along for the testing days,” Hoyt said, stepping forward. “For the handoff. You've done great work with him considering your—” He looked around at the shop Beau had owned for over a decade. “Background. I'll be acting crew chief if he makes the cut.”
There it was. Beau’s hand curled against his thigh.
Considering your background. They had no fucking clue about Beau’s background, about the fortune he'd been sitting on since his parents had died when he was fourteen, about his rapid rise when he was in the series.
None of it. Here they were anyway, looking at his grease-stained hands and his shop and seeing someone not good enough for Colt.
What could he say? That he'd raced professionally?
That he had the credentials? He'd spent twelve years making sure no one knew who he was, and he wasn't about to throw that away to win a pissing contest with Marcus Hoyt.
Even if he did, Liberty wasn't going to hire a man who owned a garage three states away to crew chief their development series team. That wasn't how this worked.
“All due respect, Mr. Hoyt,” Colt started, not sounding respectful in the least. “Merc and I have worked together since I started this. He knows me, and he knows how I drive.”
“Mr. Rourke.” Walters leaned forward again, forearms on the desk. “That loyalty is admirable. And we listened to your audio from the race Sameer recorded. He's a good coach. But this isn't about his ability to coach. It's about your ability to integrate with our team.”
“But—”
Beau placed his hand on Colt’s shoulder and squeezed until he snapped his mouth shut. Lips pressed into a thin line, Colt's eyes said everything. This was too soon.
If Colt fought them on this—if Beau let him—they'd see a driver who couldn't integrate, who was too attached to his small-time coach. They'd question the offer. Maybe pull it entirely.
He couldn't let that happen.
“They're right, Colt.” Beau shook his head and ignored the way his heart throbbed when Colt’s eyes went glassy, when his mouth parted. “This was always the plan. I'm not—this is my life. They're yours. I know about Marcus Hoyt. His family. His career. He's going to be real good to you.”
The last time Beau had seen a look like that on Colt’s face had been that first day when Colt had waltzed into his garage like a storm incarnate, all stars in his eyes.
Puppy-dog eager as he'd begged The Reeve to coach him.
Beau still remembered seeing the light drain from his face when he'd crushed that hope, and here he was doing it again.
Colt bit the inside of his cheek. “Alright.”
“Excellent.” Walters nodded and pulled her tablet back. “Now. We've reserved the track for two weeks from today. We'd like to fly you out on Thursday and back on Sunday. Of course, we'll cover room and travel for both of you.”
The phone rang, loud, insistent, and Walters turned to Beau. “If you need to get that, we can be in touch about travel. Do these dates work for you?”
Beau glanced briefly at the tablet she was showing him, didn't see the dates at all, but nodded anyway. Then he stood and walked past Navarro, who was watching him with a shrewd tilt to her mouth, and Hoyt, who was acting like he was furniture.
By the time he was in the lobby, there were two more rings left before voicemail got the call. Beau stared at the phone as it rang once, twice. Then he walked past the desk, opened the front door, and left. Got in his truck and drove home.
There were dishes in the sink from their rushed morning, and Colt’s clothes were scattered on his bathroom floor.
The mug Colt had gotten him months ago was on his counter, banged up by now with how often he'd used it.
He'd filled it and left it when Colt had convinced him to stop by a drive-through coffee shop instead on the way to work.
Beau left his boots by the front door and walked to the bedroom, past the sheets that he hadn't bothered to straighten. He picked Colt’s clothes up off the bathroom floor and tossed them in the hamper.
Brought that to the laundry room and put a load in.
He dropped his forehead against the wall while he listened to the washer fill.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
He slapped his hand against the wall hard enough to sting, and Toast yowled his protest from the other side of the house. Then he went back into the bedroom and dropped into his bed, buried himself in sheets that smelled like Colt, and tried to block the rest of the world out.