Wreck Me

Chapter 1

ONE

REGAN

Sweat rolls down my back, tickling my skin as I rev the engine, diving deep into the first turn of Bristol Motor Speedway for my qualifying run for tomorrow’s race.

The roar of the engine thundering underneath my body pulls me into my happy place.

There’s nothing like the smells and the sounds of the racetrack.

The scent of fuel and tire rubber burns itself into my nose.

This is where I feel the most at home—at peace.

“Alright, this is your last chance to beat your last lap time to get that pole position,” my crew chief calls into my ear through the radio.

“I’ll give it all I’ve got, Dad,” I respond.

I push my car to its absolute limits. To the point where I can feel the car wanting to lose control, but I hang on as tight as I can. I cross the start/finish line and slow down to come back into the pits.

“Good enough for second. Good run, Reg,” Dad says as I come to a stop.

I climb out through the window of the car. Once my feet are firmly on the ground, I start to remove my gear. I take off my helmet, HANS device—Head and Neck Support device—and place everything back into the hauler that carried the car and all of our equipment that we need for each race weekend.

My dad is Karsen Brady, two-time Cup Series champion and racing legend. He is considered to be one of the greats in racing. Usually following names like Dale Earnhardt and Richard Petty, and even if you’re not a follower of racing, you’ve probably at least heard of those names before.

Since I could reach a set of pedals, I’ve been racing. I’ve always wanted to be out on the track proving that I can kick everyone’s asses.

Most of the time, I do.

I started racing karts and dirt cars, and now I’m in the Stock Car Outlaw Racing Series, or SCORS. It’s a step below the big leagues, the Cup Series. Anyone who is anyone in racing wants to end up there—to be able to race among the “big guns.”

Racing is everything to me. The track has been my home away from home since my mom passed away from cancer when I was ten.

I do my best to try not to think about what happened to her, and try to only remember the times before she got sick.

It’s been eleven years since her passing, but it’s still too hard to fully think about.

Especially her last days in the hospital. She was so thin and frail. Everyone always says how much I look like Dad. Except my eyes. I have Mom’s beautiful hazel eyes. I see her every time I look in the mirror.

They tried every treatment possible, but the cancer was too advanced, and I think eventually, she accepted what was happening to her.

She had gripped my hand tight, told me that she loved me, and that she would always be with me.

I cried so hard when Dad told me she was gone.

I knew he was hurting, too, and I was so mad and sad, and every other emotion under the sun.

Dad still goes to her grave, every birthday, holiday, the anniversary of her passing. I used to go with him, but after a while, I just couldn’t go anymore. I hate seeing Dad’s face fall every time I tell him I’m not going, but it just hurts too much.

Ever since then, it’s been just me and Dad.

I used to stay home with Mom during the racing season in my hometown just outside of Charlotte, but when she got sick, we all joined Dad on the road.

After she passed, I stayed with him. I did home-school online until I finished high school, and from there, I started racing full time.

Now, here I am, my third year in SCORS, still trying to make a name for myself that doesn’t include my dad. I’m taking my low ponytail down when Dad comes into the hauler.

“Great run there, kiddo,” he says with a big smile. The one that he and I share.

“Thanks. Sucks we didn’t get that pole position,” I say.

“It’s not where you start, but where you finish. You did a great job.”

He always knows what to say to make me feel better.

I always put a lot of pressure on myself, but this year, the pressure is extra high.

One spot has opened up in the Cup Series, and it’s ready and waiting for next season.

This year’s SCORS champion claims that open spot—it has to be mine.

I haven’t put in all this work for all these years for it not to happen.

I’m not saying that other drivers don’t put in the work.

They do.

But not only am I a woman in a male dominated sport, fighting like hell to show that I belong here, I feel like I have to prove that I’m more than Karsen Brady’s daughter. That I’m not just another spoiled rich kid riding off their parent’s name. Something that happens frequently in this sport.

I’m nothing like that. I’m one of the few drivers who’s in the shop all week, working with the team, getting their hands dirty. A good portion of the drivers just let their crew do the work to set up the cars before each race.

Not me.

I like knowing everything about my car before climbing into it. I want to fully understand how everything works so that on race day, as we make adjustments, I can give Dad better feedback to improve the handling.

Every season since I was a rookie, the other drivers would make snide comments about my abilities and knowledge of the car.

What irritates me the most is when they assume that I’m only successful because of who my dad is, that if it weren’t for my last name and my dad owning the race team, I wouldn’t have made it this far.

More than once, I’ve been told that a woman will never be a top contender. And I’m here to prove them all wrong.

“Thanks. I’m going to work on a few things before heading back to the RV,” I tell him. I want to look over my qualifying and practice times and footage to see where I can improve for tomorrow.

“Don’t be too long,” says Dad, and he leaves me to it in the hauler.

The need to push myself even more than what I normally do is so strong this season. Winning this championship and claiming that Cup seat would shut them all the way the fuck up. I would prove that I belong in the sport and keep people from commenting on my abilities.

The worst I can remember was during my rookie season when a reporter during a press conference asked me about my dating life and if I found any of my competitors good looking, rather than asking me about the race itself.

I was dumbfounded at the questions. None of the guys got questions like that.

After the shock wore off, I gave that reporter an earful about how sexist that question was.

That night, I got a call from the president of SCORS, Ramon Vera, about press room decorum.

Although I’m already leading in the points standings halfway through this season, and there is a good chance that I have this in the bag, I have to keep working with my team every week to ensure that we stay at the top. Even the smallest mistakes can cost us dearly.

There is only one thing standing in my way of this championship trophy and a spot in the largest series of stock car racing—Dean Dixon.

He’s currently second in the points standings, and is slowly gaining on me.

He’s just as driven as I am to get that seat, and that is why we hate each other so much.

Well, one of the reasons.

He showed up to SCORS two years ago with Sampson Racing taking him on.

He came in with a cocky attitude at twenty years old, unknown to any of us, and blew all expectations out of the fucking water in his first season.

Usually, someone’s rookie season is full of learning curves and mistakes—but not for Dixon.

He won one race that first season and placed in the top ten in points.

In a rookie fucking season.

He continued to play hard into his hotshot role, even through last season by winning two races and placing in the top five. Now he’s coming for my seat in the Cup series. Now he’s coming for my spot in the Cup series.

I’ve hated him since that first race when he showed his stupid face on the grid, always having a cocky grin that makes his face so—punchable.

Every week, he has some new grid girl on his arm, who only wants to be there for the excitement of being with a racecar driver and getting to see the sights inside of the garage—and inside of his bedroom, I'm sure.

He never brings the same woman twice, either.

It seems like he has a plethora of women willing to hang on his arm.

He seems to be content with his playboy reputation. It just comes off as sleazy. I just don’t see what these women find appealing beyond the notoriety of being able to say they were with a driver.

I guess his 6’2” stature, shaggy brown hair, and green eyes are attractive to some people. Playboy assholes aren’t my type.

I’ve been burned enough by jackasses in the past that I don’t mix racing and pleasure. And crushing on my rival? Not going to happen.