Chapter 8
EIGHT
DEAN
Standing on my car, my crew soaks me in champagne and confetti that continues to fall and stick to my body. I’ve just won Daytona, one of my favorite tracks; and win number two of this season.
I’m even closer to Brady in the standings. For a second, the thought of Brady gives me a pang in my stomach. It’s brief, but there.
I’m glad we won, but I hope she’s not too upset about how the race ended. I swear that I didn’t hit her. The air between our cars must have shifted, causing her to spin into the grass.
I clear thoughts of Brady out of my head and continue celebrating. Evan Knight appears for my post-race interview, and for once, I’m excited to give one.
“Congrats on another win this season, Dean. How do you feel about this win?”
“It feels great. Two wins this season is amazing and is helping us get closer to the Cup spot for next year,” I say, smiling so much my cheeks hurt.
“With Regan wrecking on that last lap, what was your perspective on what happened? She said you’re reckless, what’s your response to that?”
I look at Evan in shock. She said I’m reckless? I may be sometimes, but never with her. I clear my throat to try and remove the lump forming so I can answer.
“I’m sorry that she got turned around at the end there. It was an accident, but I’m not sorry for using her misfortune to win this race.”
“Do you plan to talk to her about it?”
Probably not.
“I’m sure we’ll have a conversation.”
“Thank you, Dean. Enjoy your win.” He turns to face back toward the camera. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera person gives the signal that they aren’t live anymore, and leaves victory lane.
I think back to what Evan said about Brady finding me reckless. I’m not sure why it bothers me so much. Sure, there’ve been times I haven’t made the best choices, but that happens to everyone, right?
Finally, after taking all the necessary photos, I’m able to head back to the hauler to drop off my helmet and other equipment, and then back to the infield to be able to shower and change. I hear footsteps behind me, but think nothing of it until I hear a familiar voice.
“DIXON!” Brady shouts. She sounds pissed. Now that she’s here, might as well have a little fun and gloat to her face.
“Brady, come to celebrate, have you?” I put on my cockiest grin. She’s still storming toward me. Her brows are furrowed so tightly together, I fear they’ll be permanently stuck there.
Without any warning, her fist comes right for my face. It catches me so off guard that I don’t even try to defend myself. I fall straight to the ground, clenching my face, seeing stars behind my eyes.
Fuck! She fucking punched me.
Hot stickiness coats my hand, and it’s blood—coming from my nose.
She has a mean right hook on her, holy shit.
I can hear her storm off and another set of footsteps comes rushing toward me.
Their voices are in the distance, muffled like my head is underwater.
It takes a good minute for the ringing in my ears to stop for me to fully comprehend what they’re saying.
“Dean. Dean. You okay, man?” Chase asks, pulling me up by my right shoulder.
All I can manage is a slight grumbling noise in response.
“Let’s take him to the care center,” a voice on my left says. Taylor, I think. They each take an arm and take me to the care center.
I’m sitting in Chase’s RV with frozen peas on my face. I have at least one black eye forming from Brady’s punch. I still can’t believe she punched me. Sure, in the past we’ve had loud arguments, and maybe some choice words, but never have we put hands on each other.
And for what? Because she wrecked fighting for a win?
Obviously, she never watched the replay, because if she had, this punch wouldn’t have happened. I never touched her to cause her to wreck.
“Bro, I can’t believe she fractured your nose,” Chase laughs, pushing his red hair out of his face, showing more of his green eyes as he continues to laugh at me.
I would laugh with him, but it hurts too much to do so at the moment.
After Chase and Taylor took me to the care center, we came back here to play some video games.
We ran into Ian along the way, so naturally, he’s here, too.
They’ve been on me nonstop since we walked in.
Which is mean, even for them, considering I’m injured.
“She snuck up on me. It’s not like I can hit her back,” I defend.
“Sounds like she has a mean right hook on her,” Ian jokes while playing Smash Brothers with Chase and Taylor.
Yeah, no shit. I close my eyes to try and relax so that no one else gets hit today.
“You did wreck her on the last lap today. So, I kind of don’t blame her for punching you,” Chase says.
“I didn’t touch her. The air jostled our cars,” I growl out. They know this, I showed them the replay. They just want to continue torturing me.
“Yeah, sure. That’s what happened,” Taylor says with a wink.
Whatever, these guys can think whatever they want. I wonder if Brady still thinks I wrecked her, or if she has watched the replay by now.
“A win is a win, though, and one step closer to that Cup spot,” Chase says, pulling me out of my thoughts. I know that they would love a chance at that spot, as well, but unless something drastically changes, it’s basically a two way battle between Brady and me.
“Brady is good, though. I mean, just look at who her dad is,” Chase swoons. “Racing is in her blood.”
Since when did this become a Regan Brady gushing session?
The only reason she’s here is because she’s Karsen Brady’s daughter.
She doesn’t put in half the work I do to be worthy of that spot.
I work in the race shop with the crew and at a local diner, and I live above the shop to save money to race and pay all my other bills.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to struggle.
To work hard for something. Her life is handed to her on a fucking silver platter.
“Of course she’s good with Daddy’s money and recognition from his name,” I scoff.
Everyone just looks at me. Someone has paused the game and the silence is loud.
“I guess.” Taylor shrugs, his blue eyes blinking at me. “Most people have some kind of connection. It’s how this sport is.”
He’s not wrong now that I think more about it. Taylor is also related to a retired racer, and Chase’s family also has connections. There’s just something about how Brady flaunts everything in my face that just makes my skin crawl.
I watched her latest interview when she called me reckless. Right before the camera panned away, she took out her low ponytail and shook out her silky, blonde hair.
It still shined, even after being inside a helmet for three hours. It looked so soft, and I pictured my fingers running through it to see if it was as soft as it looked—
Whoa. I shake my head to clear the image.
Everyone else hasn’t noticed my drift into space.
Fortunately, they’ve resumed playing. I try to focus on the game they’re playing, but my mind continues to wander back to Brady’s blonde hair and hazel eyes, making my stomach flip.
This is a new feeling, one I’m not prepared to deal with.
What is wrong with me?