Smokin' & Spinnin' (6 page)

Ryan sails through driver introductions effortlessly. The crowd goes wild when he is presented to the audience and saunters across the
stage. I fall back into line with him as we walk to a last-minute fan meet and greet in the Nationwide hospitality tent. He continues to ignore me. I have no choice, but to follow Ryan’s lead because I have absolutely no idea where to go or what to do.

We enter the Nationwide suite, and Ryan stops abruptly in his tracks. “What the fuck is he doing in here?” he exclaims, turning back to face me with fevered rage across his face.

What now?

“Who?” I ask, because I don’t immediately see who he is referring to.

“Colton!” Ryan snaps.

I look across the room and spy Colton Johnson, another dashing stock car driver, who is Ryan’s teammate. I guess good looks are a prerequisite for NASCAR drivers.

“Oh, the meet and greet was with the entire team since it is a shared sponsorship,” I say matter-of-factly, like I have been handling this for years.

Ryan immediately jerks me out of my confidence. “We need to get a few things straight!” He explodes into a fit of rage as the entire tent turns to witness his meltdown. “Colton and I may be teammates, but that is it. I don’t do press with him. I don’t do interviews with him. Are we clear?”

Whoa! This is news to me!
I am so embarrassed that I don’t even have a sassy comeback. And I keep my mouth shut to avoid any further mortification.

“Yes,” I mutter quietly. “I am sorry, Ryan!” I add an apology in hopes he will calm down. My face must be seven shades of purple, and I
suddenly can’t breathe. Ryan must notice my vulnerability because he doesn’t miss a beat.

“This is exactly why I was against you taking this position, not to mention the fact that you were over an hour late this morning! But that’s fine because if I have anything to say about it, this will be your
first
and your
last
race.”

He accents those last words with utter contempt for me. Tears spring to my eyes. I look down so he can’t see them.

Ryan turns on his heel and vacates the Nationwide venue without even meeting the contest winner. I am so upset and embarrassed that I am livid. I cannot even think straight. I walk over to where Colton is talking with the fan to apologize.

Colton smiles at me sympathetically on my approach. I begin to profusely apologize for Ryan’s behavior and for my errors. Colton immediately puts me at ease.

“Whitney, that is typical Ryan Carter. There is no need for you to apologize!”

I smile at him and let out a huge breath that I didn’t know that I was holding. I hold out my hand to him. “We haven’t officially met, but as you know now, I am Whitney Parker.”

Colton smiles a gorgeous smile that lights up his green eyes, and he extends his hand to firmly grip mine. “The pleasure is all mine,” he says smoothly.

He is beautiful. He has the most vibrant olive skin, which lets me know that he must have some Italian heritage. I want to reach out and caress his face.
Cool it, Whitney!
Colton is the kind of handsome
that Ryan could be if he didn’t act like such an ass. The total package.
Why do all these drivers have to be so freaking hot?

Colton leads me out of the tent. “We had better head back to pit road. It will be time for opening ceremonies soon.” I gladly take his lead. Colton guides me through the infield area, into the pit area. He gives me a brief tour of his pit box and shows me where I should sit over Ryan’s pit. “Ryan qualified behind me, so he is further down the lane.” Colton turns my body to face the back as he points out the #62 flag that represents Ryan’s race team.

“Huh?” I exclaim with my best southern drawl.

Colton laughs, “Each driver has to qualify their car before each race. The starting race lineup is determined by who has the fastest car. We line up based on those results. And your buddy is almost at the back. I think he is thirty-first or so.” Colton laughs with a tsk-tsk.

I don’t give a shit about Ryan right now. I am enjoying this time with Colton. He is actually taking the time to show me around and to get me acclimated to this new world in which I am now gainfully employed. It is amazing how nice he is. He is the polar opposite of Ryan, not at all arrogant. However, I do suspect that he has those tendencies. I am sure in this sport, it is a requirement.

I turn back to smile at Colton. “I really appreciate you taking the time to do this because I would have been clueless. Honestly, I walked into all this blindly, and I should have known better or have been better prepared.”

Colton smiles again. “Listen, you will be fine. Ryan’s a jerk. Plus, the only way to learn is to actually get out and do it. Next week, you will be a professional.”

I laugh out loud. “It doesn’t look like there will be a next week for me, according to Mr. Carter. Speaking of which, I better get back over there now!” I say to Colton as I roll my eyes.

As I turn to go, my iPhone falls out of my front pocket. Colton leans over to retrieve it from the ground. Before he returns it to me, I notice that he swipes into the home screen and quickly taps something into it with his thumbs.

I open my mouth to ask him what he is doing, but I am interrupted by the sound of my name: “Whitney!”

I turn back to see who is calling me. It’s Ryan. My face immediately falls. It is evident that he is pissed off
again. Great!

I turn to Colton as Ryan strides up to us. “Gotta go!” I turn to leave, and Ryan blocks my path.

“What the fuck!” Ryan explodes again. “Where the hell have you been?”

I don’t even dignify his question with an answer. As I stride away from Ryan, I hear Colton call out to me, “See you after the race, Whitney!” And he playfully tosses my phone back to me.

What?
I am momentarily confused as I reach out to grab it, and then it hits me. Colton is trying to aggravate Ryan by making him think we have something planned after the checkered flag falls. I laugh out loud. I do really like Colton.

Ryan calls after me again,
“Whitney!”

I continue to ignore him as I waltz into the pit area and scale the ladder up into the pit box like I have been doing it for years. I look down at Ryan, who is regarding me intently, roll my eyes, and take a seat.
As it gets closer to race time, several other team members join me on top of the pit box that overlooks pit road. “Whitney, I assume? An older gentleman in his midfifties reaches out to introduce himself.

I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”

“I am Ben, Ryan’s road manager. I hear he is giving you a rough time so far.”

I smile. “Yes, sir, but it isn’t anything I can’t handle.”

Ben laughs heartily. “Well, from what I hear, you are already giving him a run for his money!”

I laugh out loud at his confession. “I guess we will see about that!”

Ben starts to speak again, but is interrupted by the beginning of the opening ceremonies. He motions for me to stand up with him. The national anthem is sung by a well-known country music artist. Then another person takes the stage, who exclaims, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”

With that command, forty-something race car engines roar to life. It is like a shotgun to my heart. Really, it scares the shit out of me, and I jump instinctively. It is so loud.

Ben laughs, but quickly retreats. “I should have warned you about that!”

I take a deep breath as I try to regain my composure. I can’t even manage a word as the blood sears through my veins. I feel like I have literally been shot. My face flushes from embarrassment again.

Ben hands me a radio with a headset. “Here…take this. You can listen to communications between Ryan’s spotter and crew chief.” I must
have a look of ambiguity on my face because Ben begins to explain. “Ryan’s spotter, Mike, helps him from the tower up there.” He points to a large building over the front straightaway. “Mike helps Ryan to see through his blind spots.”

I nod my head as I take in the information.

“Bobby, Ryan’s crew chief”—he points out a man standing below in the pit area who looks to be in his fifties, too—“he oversees Ryan’s car and any adjustments or repairs that need to be made to it during the race. Throughout the race, Ryan will have to bring the car into pit for gas and new tires. And sometimes any other adjustments the car may need. So, you can hear what is going on between these three major components.” Ben smiles as he completes my mini NASCAR lesson.

When I finally catch my breath, I take the headset, place it over my ears, and adjust the volume. The radio crackles to life, and I can hear Ryan going through a serious of checks with his crew chief, Bobby, as forty-four cars make their way down pit road and onto the track. As the green flag falls, the cars roar to life again. I can feel a slight anxiety build up in my chest, or maybe it is nervousness. Whatever this feeling is, it is foreign to me.

The laps go quickly as the cars speed around the track at upward of 195 miles per hour. Watching the race in person is a hell of a lot different than watching it on television. This is actually exciting, watching the cars sweep into the curves and fire down long straightaways. The speeds alone are thrilling. I listen as Bobby calls the lap speeds out to Ryan. Into the last corner, Ryan accelerated to 210 miles per hour.
Wow!

Halfway through the race, Ryan radios into Bobby. “There is a problem with the car since the last pit stop,” he says anxiously.

“What?” Bobby spouts back.

“The car is good through the straightaways, but it is really tight in the corners. I am having a hard time holding it down.”

I look down into the pit area to watch Bobby as he responds, “Well…fight it until a caution comes up or until the next stop! We can’t lose track position.”

Ryan comes unglued. “What? The next caution will be courtesy of me slamming into the wall!”

I watch as Bobby throws his hands in the air. “Well…I guess you are going to have to work for it today. I will make a track bar adjustment when you come in! Stop whining and concentrate, Goddamn it!”

I wince at Bobby’s harsh expletive. It must have taken Ryan by surprise, too, because he doesn’t say another word.

The track conditions are excellent, as is the weather. The laps start to count down. I keep waiting for an accident as the stock cars battle for position. The cars go three, sometimes four, wide through the back straightway. After the last pit stop, Ryan has not complained about the car being tight; however, he has been unable to get good track position thanks to an accident mid field. I can tell from his actions on the track that he is trying desperately to gain positions. Ryan chases the eighth-place car into turn four in an attempt to gain another position, but he eventually runs out of racetrack. He manages to pull his car across the finish line and take the checkered flag in ninth position.

The whole team is excited since this is Ryan’s highest finish all season. Ben jumps up from his seat. “’Bout damn time!”

I laugh as I follow him down off the pit box. I walk over to the garage where Ryan pulls his car in. The whole team rushes over to congratulate him. I watch from the side as he takes off his helmet and racing gloves inside the car. Several reporters are clamoring for a comment on his season’s best finish. This is where my job comes in. I step over to Ryan as he climbs out of the car. Immediately, I can tell he is pissed.

“Whitney! Deal with them! I don’t have a comment!”

“Ryan!” I exclaim. “What is wrong? That was a great finish!”

Ryan turns back to me. “Do what I fucking said!” And he stalks away. Sweet Jesus!

I turn back to the reporters, who thrust microphones into my flushed face. “I am sorry, but Ryan does not want to be interviewed at this time.” I apologize profusely.
Third time today!
I am getting good at this. It seems as though expressing regret is going to be at the top of my job description.

The reporters retreat, and I realize that I am alone in the garage except for a few random crew members who are milling around. All of a sudden, it hits me: “Damn! My bag!” I must have left it on the pit box. I walk back over to pit road to retrieve it. I have to get back to the airport so I don’t miss my flight home.

I am still upset about the day with Ryan. Being late was my fault, but I cannot handle him being so angry and rude with me. It makes me nauseous. I retrieve my bag just as they are about to roll the pit box away.

Bobby, Ryan’s crew chief, comes out from behind the box as I begin to walk away. “Whitney?”

I turn to acknowledge him as he stretches out his hand for introductions. I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Bobby,” he says gruffly. “Next week you are welcome to leave your belongings in the hauler. Annalise had a locker where she stored her stuff that you can have now.”

I wince at her name. “Hauler?”

Bobby laughs. Here we go again. “Ahh…I had forgotten that they said you knew nothing about NASCAR.”

They?

I nod sheepishly, trying to conceal my embarrassment as Bobby explains, “The hauler is a tractor-trailer rig that we take to the track each week. It hauls Ryan’s stock cars, engines, parts, tools, and so forth. The cars are stored in the top portion, and we use the bottom portion as…sort of a command center during each race.”

I nod again and say politely, “Thank you!”

Bobby must sense my humiliation. He adds with a slight pat on my back, “You will catch on quick! Don’t worry! Oh! And don’t take any of Ryan’s shit. That is the first thing you need to learn.” Bobby chuckles and shakes his head as he walks away.
Nice!

I take my phone out to note the time. I have about three hours until my flight leaves. I have to find Ryan to sort this all out before Monday. My best guess is that he is in his luxury motor coach, which I learned about from Sam, Ryan’s driver, during the race. I walk over to where the buses are lined up, but I am in the middle of a sea of forty-five or more team buses that all seem to look alike.

I walk a couple of rows over and catch a glimpse of Sam, who sat with us on the pit box. “Hi, Sam,” I say. “Is Ryan inside?”

“I believe so, Miss Whitney,” he responds. “I just got back here.”