Hart's Victory (2 page)

H
ART
H
AMPTON
was ticked. Angry. Furious. There were much worse words he could use, but ever since his father had washed his mouth out with a horrible-tasting soap at age five, Hart never cussed.

Still, he could think of quite a few foul things he wanted to say right about now. He stood in his office, which was a separate five-room building on his seventy-acre estate west of Charlotte, North Carolina. His office contained trophies, memorabilia and family photos, but what concerned Hart right now was the woman standing in front of him wearing an oversized Carolina Panthers sweatshirt and tight jeans.

Hart glared at Cynthia Jones, his fifty-six-year-old office/business manager and technically his boss. She was also his aunt and forty-five-percent owner of Hampton Racing, which meant that his loving aunt Cynthia figured she could take liberties, such as telling Hart exactly where he could, and couldn’t, go.

“What do you mean I’m not going to be at Darlington this weekend?” Hart repeated, working any angle to make Cynthia reconsider her earlier decision of sidelining him from the race track. “I like Darlington. It’s one of the few places where you race the track more than the other drivers. I could win Darlington. Lead some laps. Earn some desperately needed points.”

“You scraped the wall there several times last year,” Cynthia said, hands planted on her hips. “And I’m not risking more stripes on the car.”

Hart bit his lip, for a moment wishing he could stand up, pace and let his five-foot ten-inch frame dominate his aunt by at least the one measly inch he was taller. However, sitting in his leather office chair right now was probably better�and safer. He hadn’t yet returned to a full hundred percent following his crash at Richmond.

Richmond. Hart tried to stop berating himself for that, but not mentally replaying the accident fifty million times was hard. Thinking about the race made him angry. While NASCAR had made racing much safer, drivers still often bumped each other as they jockeyed for position.

Hart hadn’t been far enough forward when Doolittle had bounced off the wall, and the impact had sent Hart’s front end spinning. And then somehow he’d landed on McDougal’s hood, and rolled over�out of the race and his top five finish.

“Stop thinking about the crash,” Cynthia commanded. She’d known Hart since his birth and knew him far too well. “Sometimes it all boils down to fate.”

“Yeah, and crappy driving on my part,” Hart said grumpily. He’d been making far too many errors lately. Thankfully, McDougal had been okay�the infield hospital had seen him and released him. Hart, however, had suffered a lovely post-race excursion to the hospital. While the staff doctor had thought overnight observation might be best, Hart had managed to get himself released and cleared to race.

But none of this solved the problem of the following weekend and the five-hundred-mile race he was going to be sitting out. Hampton Racing had the cars. The crews were ready. But management had decided to sit Hart out and place NASCAR Busch Series driver Ricky Senate behind the wheel. And Hart wasn’t happy.

“Cynthia, it’s bad enough we’ve got to substitute Ricky next weekend, but I’ll live with that�this time�since he’s gaining Cup-level driving experience. But you’re killing my standing. I have to at least start the race to earn my driver points.”

“No,” she said flatly, shifting position.

“Listen, I’m going to be at the track. Other drivers are there with their teams. One raced in pain after suffering burns when he wrecked in that non-NASCAR race a few years ago. Remember that? Then in the weeks following, if he couldn’t finish, a sub went in. Same with Anderson when he separated his shoulder. He started the races, too.”

Cynthia’s arms remained folded across her chest. She didn’t plan on capitulating. Still, Hart had to try.

“How can the car’s main driver not be at the track with his team and his substitute? What will people think, especially when Billy Easton and Mitch Bengal are still driving their own cars?” Hart continued, throwing out the names of Hampton Racing’s other two NASCAR NEXTEL Cup teams.

Cynthia simply arched a brow. “Your teammates didn’t wreck. You did,” she pointed out. “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be there. I don’t care that NASCAR cleared you to race. I don’t care that this is something probably any other owner or team wouldn’t do.”

She uncrossed her arms and then refolded them across her chest. When she made that movement it always reminded Hart of his father, Cynthia’s older brother, who’d retired from racing five years ago. Carl Hampton’s name was as revered as much as any of NASCAR’s other dynasties.

“My dad would have been at the track,” Hart stated. People often said he looked like his dad: same dark brown hair, same green eyes.

“Don’t think this is just because I’m your aunt,” Cynthia said. “Although I admit that this time family plays a major part of it. Your parents both agree with me, and our ninety percent to your ten makes this is a business decision. You’re Hampton Racing’s best driver and we’re not ready to lose you in any capacity. I know this is hard, but driver points aside, it’s the best decision for the long run.”

Hart tapped his fingers on the leather armrest. Cynthia and Hart’s dad had founded Hampton Racing, a legacy that would eventually pass to Hart as he was the only child and had no cousins.

“Trust me on this. Besides, I don’t want them to be thinking about you,” Cynthia said suddenly.

“Them?” Hart queried.

“The media. If you’re at the track, they’ll want access to you. Hampton Racing can’t ignore requests for interviews. And while we can put a positive spin on things, I don’t want the media finding out what your personal physician said. We have to tightly control the press surrounding you from this point forward.”

“I’m fine,” Hart said as his head started to pound. Since Cynthia was here, he refused to rub his temples or the back of his neck, lest he show any weakness. While a headache wasn’t enough to keep Hart out of the driver’s seat, his doctor had warned that another accident this close to the last one could make matters worse.

The medical explanation had been long and confusing, but in layman’s terms, Hart had rattled way too much stuff upstairs over the years and not just from racing. The bungee jumping, parachuting and four-wheeling hadn’t helped. His personal physician had said that another blow to the head, even just falling around the house, could knock him out for the entire season�especially if he lost consciousness or his memory.

That was definitely a risk he couldn’t take, especially as he had been crashing a lot lately, more so than normal. Usually lucky with the Number 413 car, it was as if his muse had left him. Hart wasn’t necessarily that superstitious. While many other drivers avoided things such as peanuts and the color green, Hart embraced both. Still…

He frowned. Maybe he did need to take some time, at least one weekend, off the track to heal like his doctor suggested. While Hart would fall in driver points and the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup standings, Hampton Racing would still get the owner points. But to not even be present at the race and in the pit, that was unthinkable. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cynthia beat him to it.

“Here’s how we’re going to handle this. I thought that you would go to camp for the weekend.”

Hart blinked. “I’m going camping?” he asked.

“Yes.” Cynthia pushed a silver hair off her face. “The camp for chronically ill kids you always donate to.”

Hart knew exactly what camp she meant.

“I participated in their fundraiser in Nashville back in January,” Hart reminded Cynthia. “But why do I need to go to camp instead of the track?”

Her mouth thinned, as if his constant questions were starting to annoy her. “Because I don’t want you at the track. And you love this organization.”

Hart arched an eyebrow at her, asking silently if that didn’t just prove his point. “I do, but I still want to go to Darlington.”

Cynthia exhaled a long sigh of frustration. Having no children of her own from her marriage to Hampton Racing’s president, Liam Jones, she’d practically been more Hart’s second mom than an aunt.

“No, and that’s final,” Cynthia said firmly. “Liam and I both agree with this. If you’re at the track, you’ll want to give Ricky advice. That’s your crew chief’s job, and the last thing you need to do is second-guess Wally, especially when it’s not your rear out there driving. And with you absent, the press will interview me. You know how good I look on camera.”

“You don’t,” Hart said, taking her bait like she’d wanted him to do. Because she was five foot ten and still had what she called her “basketball build” from her college playing days, Cynthia hated being on television.

“So there you go. My point exactly. The newshounds aren’t going to want to put me on TV for longer than a second unless Hampton Racing places in the top five. Unlike you, I’m not sexy enough.”

Hart made a face at her. His status as a sex symbol bothered him. It was about racing, not underwear. Still, every driver, including Hart, knew that the money to run a racing team came from sponsors, endorsements and merchandising. And racing teams needed millions.

“When I am interviewed, this is what I’m going to do,” Cynthia continued, ignoring her nephew’s scowl. “I’m going to say that you’re fine, you’ll be back in a week, and that you’re spending the weekend volunteering. Your volunteerism shows that you’re active, which will completely take the edge off your crash and speculation that you’re all washed up.”

“I’m not washed up,” Hart insisted angrily. One idiotic blogger had just posted something to that effect yesterday on one of the fan Web sites. Hart was still ticked.

“Of course you’re not washed up, but since your Daytona win, you haven’t placed higher than fifth. At Bristol you didn’t even make the top twenty.”

“You’re the one killing my points. Are you sure you’re not getting a kickback from some of the other car owners?” Hart asked.

“Stop it,” Cynthia said, rolling her eyes skyward. “Go to the camp. I’ve already got your schedule rearranged and you’ll stay in your motor home. They’re expecting you at five.”

“Aren’t you efficient,” Hart said, conceding only because his head now pounded with a massive migraine. Maybe his aunt was right, and surely a bunch of kids would be quieter than the roar of race engines and squeal of burning tires.

Besides, he’d hate to be standing on the sidelines like an unused wheel. He’d done that once, and had felt like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. He’d been stymied. Frustrated. Even more so than right now. “I guess I have no choice.”

Cynthia smiled now that the matter was settled. “No, and this is the best thing for everyone. I told you earlier to trust me. Have I ever been wrong?”

“There was that time when…” Hart began.

“Yes, well, I’m not perfect,” Cynthia said quickly. “And that was a rare foible. I’m at least ninety-seven percent in my statistical correctness.”

“Whoopee,” Hart said. He raised his finger in the air and made a small circle.

“Such a smarty-pants. You get that from your dad. By the way, are you planning on signing while you’re over here? Your mom and I laid out about three tables’ worth in there before she left for the airport.”

“Yeah,” Hart said. His office building included a room where he had tons of fan-mailed-in items to sign. He tried to knock out a lot of signing autographs at one sitting so that his fans only had to wait about four months to hear back from him. Although his parents and his aunt controlled Hampton Racing, Cynthia’s husband Liam oversaw the day-to-day operations, freeing up his wife and sister-in-law to meddle in Hart’s life. And meddle they did�giving advice on everything from women to endorsements.

Of course, there were benefits. Hart never saw his mail unless his mother and his aunt felt the letter was worth a personal reply. They’d become fantastic screeners over the past ten years he’d been racing professionally. They handled all the mundane details of his life, such as hiring his household staff, managing his investment accounts and paying his bills. This freed him up to focus on fun and racing. A hands-on driver, Hart lived at his race shop. He helped build engines. He assisted in the fabrication of his car bodies. He was determined to be the best, no matter what the effort and no matter how hard the work.

Had there ever been a time he hadn’t planned on being a race car driver? Probably not. Hart had grown up with racing in his blood.

Hart’s father Carl had made his money the old-fashioned way�by inheriting it from his father. But Carl had had little use in the family’s coat hanger manufacturing firm in St. Louis. He’d sold the company at the first opportunity, relocated and sunk his entire fortune into founding Hampton Racing twenty-five years ago.

The gamble had paid off. Hampton Racing now owned two truck teams, five car teams, and three of those NASCAR NEXTEL Cup contenders. Since Hart was a ten-percent shareholder, he technically owned a part of his team and his car. Most drivers didn’t�they were hired to drive by the car’s owner. Still, like many of his peers, Hart was paid a salary to drive and kept about half the race winnings.

“I’m going to get out of here and leave you to your autographs. Call me if you need anything. Since your parents are touring Europe for the next few months, I don’t want them worrying. They deserve this vacation,” Cynthia said.