One For The Road

56: Talking

The NASCAR Cup Series Championship was one of the best parties of the year. Music, people, food, racing—I liked to pretend it was a birthday party for me, but now that I was on the wrong side of twenty-five with no contract in sight, there wasn't much to celebrate.

I never made the playoffs and lived the experience, and Griffin had never been a part of the final four at Homestead, where the championship driver who finished the best won it all. Team Moretti had two drivers competing for the title: Tyler Bailey and Ryan Garfield, who was retiring at the end of the season and leaving a vacancy on the fourteen team.

That spot was supposed to be mine. I deserved it.

As soon as I tracked down Andre Moretti, he and I would have a lengthy discussion about that empty car, but until then, I stood by the sixty-six car and watched my old competition prepare for the race ahead.

Only four teams really mattered, and the driver of one of them stopped by on his way to his car.

"Happy birthday, grandma," Tyler said. "Twenty-six, huh?"

"Go fuck yourself. You're literally older than me," I said.

As much as he pissed me off, I missed our friendly pre-race chats.

"And aging like a fine wine, thank you for noticing," he said.

Thirty looked pretty decent on him, sure, but I wouldn't have given him a year of my time after he just about killed me if that weren't the case.

"Whatever. I hope you wreck," I said.

He smiled as he walked away to his car up at the front of the field. He had media to do, so I wasn't quite sure why he was wasting his breath with me.

My good looks, even at the ancient age of twenty-six, were a blessing and a curse, really.

"Don't let him fool you. He missed talking shit to you," Griffin said from the other side of the car.

I smiled. "I don't think I'll ever hate someone the way I hate him. It certainly would be horrible if he got spun out by the sixty-six, wouldn't it?"

I hated a few people more, but not the same way. And as teammates, he wouldn't be allowed to wreck me for fun anymore.

A butterfly popped up into my stomach. And another. And another.

What the fuck?

"I'm not gonna intentionally ruin anyone's chance at the championship probably," Griffin said. "So what are you gonna tell Moretti when you find him?"

I shrugged. "I'll figure out what I want to say when the time comes. I do my best work when I say whatever crosses my mind."

"Is that so?"

I smiled. "Yes, it is. My subconscious is a hell of a lot smarter than my conscious."

"I'll go with that." He laughed. "Just don't fuck it up. I don't know how I'll keep you from driving into a lake if you don't have something to do for another year."

"I know exactly what I'm doing. If I could talk my way into driving a robot, I think I'll be pretty convincing when it comes to something I've been doing my whole life."

With a resume of wins and championships everywhere I went besides the Cup Series, plus an All-Star Race win, I was qualified, no doubt. And maybe I had mellowed with my old age. (I definitely hadn't, but Moretti didn't need to know that yet.)

Before Griffin could respond, Truscott came up to the car and stood on the opposite side of Griffin. "Miss Moore, would you give my driver and I a moment?"