I look over at Mack, his face a weird combination of anger, surprise, and humor, all rolled into one. When our eyes meet, he just shakes his head and goes back to his conversation. Moments later the entire place is buzzing as the countdown to the green flag is on. We gather by the car, his team lining up in a single-file line across pit row. Mack waves me closer as the announcer asks everyone to rise and remove their hats for the playing of our national anthem.
Stepping beside him, I feel the heat of his body wrap around me like a warm caress. A sudden energy sweeps through the pit area; it’s alive and vibrating. Hell, that might be coming from Mack, too. Standing this close, I can sense the eagerness, the anticipation. He’s in a zone, as if he’s preparing for battle. Even though he looks calm and loose on the outside, I can feel what he’s going through on the inside.
He reaches down and pulls the headphones from his side and slips them over Oliver’s ears. The baby barely stirs. I barely stir, even as he brushes his hand over my breasts, just like earlier. This time, he doesn’t make eye contact. He just finishes the job, positions himself shoulder to shoulder beside me, and stands at attention.
That’s when he reaches over and slips his finger inside of Oliver little fist, as if holding his hand, as a young fourteen-year-old girl starts to belt out the words to the one song that gives me goosebumps every time I hear it. Having a baby strapped to my chest makes this part difficult, so I just hold my hand over my heart as best I can. Mack’s eyes are on the flag flying high in the infield, but he keeps his hand nestled with his son’s. And I’ll be honest, it’s brushing against me too. I try not to pay it any attention, but it’s difficult when it’s his hand, and it’s resting against my chest.
I continue to stare at the flag, ignoring the camera that moves directly in front of us. I don’t react, as if it’s completely natural to have a television camera shoved in my face. I mean, sure it was natural way back when, but it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere near one.
Until now.
As she hits the final high notes and belts out the closing lines, the crowd erupts as the fighter jets fly over our heads. I know what comes next. I see the other drivers turn and kiss their significant others before getting ready to be strapped in. My heart starts to skip a beat as Mack turns beside me, our arms brushing against each other. Longing and desire sweep in, and all I can think about is him wrapping his arms around my back and kissing me before he climbs in. It’s like the media is waiting too. They stand right beside us, ready to capture it for the entire world to see.
He doesn’t fulfill their ratings-gold dreams, or mine.
Mack bends down and kisses his son’s head, whispering something only he can hear. I feel his fingers dance on my side, and it almost startles me. He doesn’t say a word, but I know it’s his way of communicating with me, of telling me to stay safe, and to watch his boy. When he glances up, he offers me a small smile.
I want to wish him luck, but he doesn’t need it. He has natural talent and drive, and frankly, it doesn’t seem fitting to say. So, I go with my gut instead. “Kick ass, Mack.”
A flash of something crosses his features. Remembrance, maybe? A touch of nostalgia, even? I know he catches the meaning, appreciates the sentiment, and replies exactly how I expect him to. “Taking names, baby,” he says with a cocky grin and a wink.
Just like he used to before every race in Brenton.
Only this time, there is no panty-melting kiss before he climbs behind the wheel. But do you know what? That doesn’t matter really. He caught what I was doing, saying the exact same thing I’d say before every race back home. And he responded in the same smug way he used to.
It’s fitting.
It’s us.
He squeezes my arm before turning his attention to his car. That’s when I’m whisked away behind the wall and escorted to our pit booth. I’ve watched dozens—maybe even hundreds—of races from a booth, but never with a baby strapped to my chest. Coop is there to help me up and hands me a different set of headphones. I know what these are. They’re the ones connected to Mack’s communication system.
I slide them on and relax instantly hearing his voice. He receives the command to fire his engine from Coop, and suddenly, this is real. I’m about to watch Mack drive in an IndyCar race. I tried once before, on television, but it hurt too much. My dad even went to a few races, but I never asked for details. I needed a clean break, and for the most part, I got one.
Now, I’m right back in the thick of the action, ready to cheer him on as he races. The cars take off, lining up, and heading to the track. A quick glance down lets me know Oliver is none the wiser to what’s happening around him. Maybe he’s the lucky one.
My heart starts to pound as they finally make their way back to the start/finish line. Since it’s a road course, it takes a little more time to reach where they start than a normal oval track race. I scour
