“Everything hurts,” he pants.
“Quit your belly aching,” Coop hollers from across the room, a sadistic grin on his face. Coop leads by example and works out right alongside us, but he has the stamina of a teenager when it comes to running, and thinks everyone should be able to run five miles on a treadmill every other day like it’s nothing.
“No belly aching here, Coop. I was just telling Cruz how great I feel,” Jones wheezes, making us all laugh.
“I think because Fish is missing these important workouts, he has to do double when he gets back,” my gasman, Chief, adds. He’s lying on a bench, his hands in his wet hair.
“Pssh,” I snort. “The only double in Fish’s vocabulary is a cheeseburger.”
We all have a good laugh, at my friend’s expense, until Coop breaks it up. “All right, guys, let’s get showered and ready for the team meeting. I hear they’re bringing in Italian for lunch.”
After a quick shower, I take a seat on the bench in front of my locker and fire off a text to Lena.
Me: Just finished workout. How’s Oliver?
Her reply takes a few minutes, long enough for me to get fresh clothes on before my phone dings with a response.
Lena: Two words. Diaper. Blowout. *insert gagging emoji*
I laugh out loud, drawing the attention of everyone in the locker room. Instantly, comments echo through the room about what I’m hiding, that I must be texting a girl since I’m smiling, and bets in general with who I’m suddenly sleeping with. You know, typical guy, locker room bullshit.
Ignoring them, I type out a reply.
Me: Sorry to hear, but honestly, glad it wasn’t me. *insert laughing emoji*
Lena: Laugh it up now. You’ll have your turn later.
My mind flashes to something dirty, and I’m not talking about my son’s diaper. I’m picturing Lena, maybe splayed out on my bed, ready for me to do all the dirty things I’ve been dreaming about for the last few years.
Me: I’m sure my turn is coming. Off to a team meeting. If you need me, text. I don’t usually keep my phone on, but I will. Coop knows what’s going on.
Lena: I’m sure we’ll be fine.
Two minutes later, when I’m completely ready to head to the conference room, my phone lights up again.
Lena: Deliveries are here. Lots of stuff. Be ready to assemble, Cruz.
I smirk at the device in my hand and fire off a reply.
Me: I’m always ready, Lean. I’ll bring supper home.
Lena: Have a good day.
Me: You too.
I slip my phone into my pocket and don’t even try to hide the smile on my face. It feels damn good to be communicating with her again. We’ve quickly fallen back into a familiar routine, one that has lain dormant for a few years, but is easy to slip back into now. Of course, having her in my house and helping care for my son does make it a bit easier, but it’s more than that. It’s not just us sharing a living space. It’s sharing a past.
And hopefully a future.
The conference room is bustling when I push through the door. Coop is at the head of the table, the chair to his right empty. That’s where the brass from the office will sit, often Colton himself. He’s very involved in his teams, in the company he built. Truth be told, it’s one of the main reasons I signed with him. Sure, he’s Colton fucking Donavan, a legend in open-wheel racing, but it’s more than that. It’s his passion for the industry, his business, and his family.
“Let’s get started. We have Mid-Ohio coming up, and I want to be ready,” Coop says, as we all take our seats and prepare to discuss the upcoming race. Sure, we have a weekend break before then, but we don’t waste time when it comes to preparing for a race. Especially not since my year hasn’t exactly been what I was hoping for.
What we all were hoping for.
There’s still time to salvage points standings. I’m not too far behind that with a little hard work and a few top-five finishes, I could be right back in the hunt for a championship. I came close last year, only my second year in the series, and I ended at number five. This year, my goal was champion. I have the team, the sponsors, and the drive to win, but I can’t seem to close. I still haven’t figured out what’s changed this year over last, but I will.
I need a good season. The analysts and industry leaders are starting to chirp about last year being a fluke. Fuck them. It wasn’t a fluke. But so far, I haven’t been able to back up my claims. The last thing I want is my sponsors to think I’m a one-hit wonder. Or, a three-hit wonder, in my case. I had a big win toward the end of my rookie season and followed it up by two wins last year. But this year? Nada.
Time to fix that.
Buckling down, I listen to Coop talk strategy. Of course, that may change when we actually get the car on the track and run some laps. Next week, I’ll be behind the wheel again, and I’m damn sure looking forward to it. I hate off weeks. I’d rather be driving, doing what I love. The guys throw out suggestions for car handling and improving fuel efficiency, and the ideas are flowing like wine as our food is delivered to the meeting room.
“Let’s take a break to eat some grub. After, we’ll head to the shop and check out the Ohio car,” he says, standing up and stretching his back and shaking out his legs.
My own legs protest when I stand up and head over to the food table. There are
