Chapter 22
Mack stood outside one of Indianapolis’s most renowned establishments, certain Leo had either given her the wrong location or was pulling a rookie prank.
He’d said they wouldn’t be out late, but this was certainly not a place where patrons popped in for a quick minute.
The famous neon sign buzzed as she squinted through the dark windows, looking for Leo.
Behind her, a valet discreetly cleared his throat.
Before he could tell her to leave, she yanked open the heavy door.
The interior of the restaurant was every bit as plush as she’d ever imagined, the dim lighting making the dark wood and brass-studded leather finishes look even deeper and more luxurious.
The tigerwood back bar stretched to the ceiling, flanked by thick columns with carved wood flourishes, and the wall-length mirror reflected hundreds of bottles of expensive booze.
Every seat at the bar was occupied and all the tables were packed.
Mack flexed her toes inside her sneakers and rubbed her arms on the polyester of her blazer, certain her cheapness stood out.
“Rookie! You made it!”
At the far end of the bar, tucked near the open-concept kitchen, Jericho, Boomer, and Leo sat in a row, waving her over like she was a good friend they’d been waiting for.
Boomer had shaved the scraggly ginger scruff that usually dotted his cheeks, and Leo’s long hair was carefully tucked behind his ears.
Jericho tapped the empty stool between himself and Leo.
They all wore dark suits, all obviously expensive, like a row of Wall Street bankers.
“I had to fight off a very unhappy, very important Man in a Suit for this seat, so sit your ass down and give the bartender your order. Nice blazer.”
Billie had gifted her the jacket, and Mack refused to admit that she loved the giant silver bedazzled “11” on the back. She slid onto a wide leather barstool. “I thought this was a no-drinking kind of night.”
Boomer flipped his gaze between Leo and Jericho. “You didn’t tell her?”
Leo shrugged, but his dark eyes glinted with mischief. “The tradition is a surprise for the rookies.”
“A tradition that helped me win last year,” Jericho boasted, his finger pointing down the bar. He called out loudly, “Right, Craig? We’re ready! Bottoms up!”
Mack opened her mouth to protest—she’d been dead serious when she’d told Laurie that she wouldn’t let anything get between her and the Indy 500—but Leo waved her off with his snaggletooth smile. “It’s not booze. We’re clowns but we’d never sabotage the race,” he promised.
The soft lighting of the bar highlighted the shine of his dark curls and the warmth of his skin.
His beard was neatly trimmed and the suit was a nice touch too, except .
. . Mack laughed when she realized the T-shirt under his sports coat boasted My Best Friend Won the Indy 500 and All I Got Was This T-shirt.
A glance at Boomer revealed he wore a T-shirt with his blazer and dress pants, except his proclaimed I Pee in My Seat.
Jericho wore a crisp lavender button-down and a shit-eating grin.
“They never should have taken the bet,” he boasted. “These numpties agreed to wear a design of my choosing if I won.”
She gestured up and down. “You know the lumberjack beard ruins the sharp-dressed-man effect, right?”
“Who needs handsome when you’ve got the winner’s ring, yeah? And my fiancée loves the beard.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Boomer rejoined.
“Says the man dating the enemy!”
Boomer rolled his neck from side to side, and Mack could hear the loud crack of his spine over the noise of the bar.
It was the worst-kept secret in IndyCar that Boomer was in a long-term relationship with a crewman on another team, but auto racing was yet another sport where too many people kept quiet about their romantic lives in order to remain in good graces with sponsors.
It was infuriating, especially considering the only scandal was that Boomer’s boyfriend was on a rival team.
“Anyway,” Boomer said irritably. He waved a finger between himself and the two others.
“These jokers had two 500s under their belt by the time I was a rookie. I was so nervous on the final day of practice that I kept dashing to the porta-pots. My two friends here, one of whom is my teammate”—he scowled at Jericho—“decided to help me relax the night before quals by bringing me here so I could really roast my guts.”
“Right on time,” Leo said as a man in a gray sweater approached with a large tray.
“Mack, meet Craig Huse, the owner of this fine establishment and purveyor of the finest shrimp cocktail in the world. Craig, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my first-ever teammate and the fastest woman in Indianapolis, Mack Williams.”
Craig smiled and leaned forward with a small bow.
“It’s an honor. I hope your taste in food is more sophisticated than your taste in friends.
” Despite his teasing, the mutual respect between the restaurateur and the drivers was obvious.
He wished them luck and promised he’d be watching from the stands tomorrow before placing a pewter goblet in front of each of them.
A handful of plump pink shrimp lined the rim of the cup and chunky red sauce filled the interior. “Godspeed!”
Boomer and Jericho cackled as Craig backed away, grinning and shaking his head.
She suspected there was a prank coming but she was distracted by the sheer joy of the camaraderie.
The whole thing was ridiculous, the T-shirts and the bragging and the keeping her in the dark, and she loved it.
When was the last time she’d hung out with friends, having fun?
And when had she ever done that without taking it into chaos?
Leo banged his fist on the polished bar. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Right,” Boomer agreed. “It’s almost bedtime. On three?”
“What’s on three?” she demanded, but the three men ignored her and plucked the shrimp off the side of their silver cups. Boomer braced like he was preparing for a punch and Jericho did some shallow breathing that Mack vaguely remembered learning in a birthing class.
Boomer held the cup of overflowing cocktail sauce. “Drink up, Rookie.”
“What?” she shouted a little too loudly.
“Drink It!” the three men yelled back even louder. Mack was vaguely aware of other patrons watching them, and for reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she took the cup from Boomer and downed the sauce.
Other than the odd sensation of drinking a condiment, Mack really didn’t see why it was such a thing for these guys but maybe—
Oh shit goddamn holy fucking piss on a power line she was suddenly dying.
Dying. Her tongue went hot and numb, and the gums above her teeth felt triple their normal size.
Salty water spontaneously poured from her eyes and she was pretty certain she had snot running out of her nose and over her lips, but she couldn’t feel anything in the general region of her mouth.
The inside of her nose felt like she’d inhaled a flamethrower.
“Water!” she gasped, fanning her face with her hands.
“No water!” Leo wheezed.
“Be brave, lads!” Jericho choked out. Boomer sat silently crying, his tears pooling on the shiny wood of the bar. He was smiling, or maybe trying not to vomit. Mack couldn’t tell.
“Fuck this is terrible!” She had no idea if she was shouting or whispering.
“Okay, okay it’s starting to burn down,” Leo rasped. Mack’s own mouth still blazed but she no longer felt like death was imminent.
“Well, obviously the rookie lost,” Jericho said. Even through the burn of the cocktail sauce, he sounded cocky.
“Of course she lost,” Leo said. His voice was returning to normal and he dabbed at his eyes with the napkin. “We didn’t tell her the rules.”
“How the hell did I lose? What did I lose?”
“First to ask for water loses,” Boomer informed her. “Rookie always loses. Consider it an initiation.”
“You’re saying that because you were the first rookie to lose,” Jericho taunted.
Mack swiveled her head to take them in, a lightness flooding her body.
She didn’t care that she’d probably ruined her taste buds for life, or that she’d lost some stupid trick.
These people cared enough to initiate her into a tradition.
An Indy 500 tradition. “You’re all fucking nuts,” she said through laughter.
“But now you are, too,” Leo said, grinning. His nose was still red but he otherwise looked like he’d never inhaled a full cup of potent horseradish. She was certain her own face was blotchy. “Welcome to the Indy 500, Rookie.”
“Extra horseradish this year for extra luck,” Craig said, the pride of his work evident in his toothy smile. A round of applause echoed across the bar.
The entire restaurant was staring at them and clapping. Some of the patrons blatantly took photos with their phones.
Jericho lifted a beefy arm and pointed his finger at Mack. “A new rookie!”
Clapping and a few whistles echoed around the pressed-tin ceiling before calming into excited chatter across the storied restaurant.
Craig swiped the bar with a towel, bowed gracefully, and disappeared down the length of the bar.
Mack could feel the heat in her face—both from the cocktail sauce and the attention—but she didn’t hate it.
Far from it. She felt giddy, almost like she had a good beer buzz, to be included with the knuckleheads sitting next to her and the atmosphere of excitement bubbling through the entire city.
It was impossible not to love everything about Indianapolis in May.
Her joy was tempered by a tiny prick of bittersweet knowledge that next year some other rookie would take her place while she spent the weekend back home.