Lena shrugs as she replies, “My dad was a crew chief.”
Now she has everyone’s attention. “Who’s your dad?” Chief asks.
“Jim Stanley.”
The entire area is quiet as the group just gawks back at her. “Jim Stanley’s your pop? You’re shitting me, right?” Jones asks.
She shakes her head in reply.
“Holy shit, he’s a legend.” This from Pete, his eyes wide with shock and, like everyone else, eager for more information.
Lena lifts a shoulder. “He was okay.” She knows she’s playing off the footprint her dad left on the industry. She knows it, and they know it.
“Okay? He was one of the greatest in the business. I mean… Damn! Fuck it. I don’t care if you’re Mack’s girl or not. You drink Budweiser and your pop’s Jim Stanley. You have to marry me now.”
A few balls of napkins and even an empty beer can fly toward Cookie, who takes cover behind his arm. “All right, goofballs, let’s get this done. Grub’s almost ready,” Coop chimes in, pulling our attention back to where he stands in the center of our makeshift circle.
Our crew chief goes over tomorrow’s lineup of events, including when we need to be ready to go. Qualifying starts mid-morning, so we want to make sure we’re set long before I slide behind the wheel. No doubt my team will do everything they can to make sure we’re at top running performance for tomorrow, including staying up as late as necessary to work on the car. Not that there should be anything wrong with it, but my guys are perfectionists, and they want the best qualifying times and race positioning possible.
When Coop is done speaking and the food is ready, we all head over to grab a plate. He grilled up brats with some sausage links, and Coop’s wife made sure we have plenty of sides. The woman loves to cook, so the guys all throw in money every race weekend to have Beth whip up some amazing side dishes. She even does desserts.
We all gather around the hauler, taking whatever seats are available. Lena tries to stay off to the side, but with this crew, there’s no out-of-the-way. You’re in the thick of it, like it or not.
Cookie shoves half a sausage in his mouth and barely starts to chew when he asks, “Lena, you comin’ to the race track tomorrow?”
She uses her napkin to wipe her mouth before replying. “Oh, uh, we haven’t really discussed it,” she says, glancing my way.
No, we haven’t really discussed it, but I realize how badly I want her there. “She’ll be there.” Our eyes meet, but I can’t read what she’s thinking. It’s unnerving.
“You ready for the shitshow when the press finds out about Oliver?” Coop asks. I can tell he’s already concerned about my state of mind behind the wheel. Not that I blame him. I mean, it is his job, after all.
“Ready. I was thinking they could come to qualifying tomorrow. Maybe everything will blow over by race time,” I offer, though I know that won’t happen. The press will be like rabid dogs with a new bone. They’ll start digging into my past, into Renee’s, and quite possibly even Lena’s.
Coop, sensing where my mind is at offers, “Why don’t we do an interview? Then it’s out on your terms. We can do it before or after qualifying, whichever you prefer, but to be honest, I’d prefer after. I want your mind fully vested in our laps.”
“Agreed. Let’s do that,” I reply, hating talking to the press, but knowing it’s such a big part of the business. Sponsors pay top dollar for their name to be blasted, not only on the car, but by the teams as well.
“That’s why the suit is here, isn’t it?” Lena asks, recalling the extra passenger on the flight. I figured what was up the moment I saw him, but no one said anything. Maybe they were just waiting for me to join the party.
“Abbott’ll want to speak to you before,” Coop adds, basically answering Lena’s question without actually answering her.
“I figured. Tell him to be here before qualifying, and we’ll get the details ironed out,” I reply to my crew chief. I have no problem talking about this shit in front of my team. We all know way too much about each other; nothing is kept secret for very long. Like how Chief dated this girl from Europe last year and was constantly doing those video chats while jacking off. No one wanted to get anywhere near his bunk. Or how Fish’s ex-wife is trying to keep him on a leash, dangling shit he wants from the house in front of his face, just to fuck with his head.
“You ready to be front page national news?” Jones asks, but when I glance at him, he’s not actually looking at me. He’s watching Lena.
“Me?” she asks, seemingly startled by his question.
“Yeah, you. As soon as they hear the golden boy over there has a baby, they’re going to be all over it,” he states. I hate it because I know it’s true.
“Oh, ain’t that the truth. Cruz can’t even take a dump without a photographer waving a camera in his face,” Chief adds, making us all pull a face.
“Jesus, Chief, that’s nasty. And so untrue,” I reply, shaking my head. I turn to Lena. “But they have a point. You need to be prepared to be photographed. Everyone is going to want to grab the first photo of Oliver. They’ll be all over you both.”
Lena lifts a shoulder. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been hounded at the track. After my mom died, those first few races, the press practically followed me everywhere. Even after my dad did a press conference before a race and asked them to give us privacy, they still wanted to capture their precious photos.”
Everyone is silent for a few seconds. Noise filters in around us as the other teams enjoy the early evening night, the smells of their grills penetrating our camp area.
“I remember that photo,” Coop says, his eyes full of sympathy. “It was everywhere.”
Lena toys with her potato salad before scooping some on her fork. “It was.” That photo is framed on Jim’s wall. It’s the most heartrending photo I’ve ever seen. A young Lena standing next to her father. He has his hand on her shoulder, their right hands covering their hearts. They did a moment of silence right before the national anthem in honor of Jim’s wife. Tears stream down Lena’s dirty face, making dark track marks on her fair skin, as she looks up at the flag. It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful photograph that won the photographer an award of some sort. “So, don’t worry about me, but I want to make sure Oliver is protected.” Her gaze is fierce.
That’s the woman I love.
Wait. What?
That’s just crazy talk right there. No way do I still love her. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other. Hell, we’ve barely touched in the nearly two weeks she’s been staying with me. Besides, she’s here for Oliver, and even though I would love for her to stay, I’m just not sure that’s realistic.
“Me too,” I reply, my eyes meeting hers.
“All of us do,” Coop says, looking down at the sleeping infant in his lap. His left leg is thrown up so his ankle is resting on his right thigh. The position creates a triangle, which is perfect to hold Oliver, who seems as content as ever sleeping on my crew chief’s lap.
“Yeah, we’ll make sure he’s safe,” one of the guys adds, but I’m not really paying much attention. At this point, my eyes are on her, watching her eat, watching the way she interacts with my crew. She’s at complete ease in the setting, which makes me grateful. I’m not sure what I’d do if my personal life clashed with my professional one.