“Thanks. I’m going to work on a few things before heading back to the RV,” I tell him. I want to look over my qualifying and practice times and footage to see where I can improve for tomorrow.
“Don’t be too long,” says Dad, and he leaves me to it in the hauler.
The need to push myself even more than what I normally do is so strong this season. Winning this championship and claiming that Cup seat would shut them all the way the fuck up. I would prove that I belong in the sport and keep people from commenting on my abilities.
The worst I can remember was during my rookie season when a reporter during a press conference asked me about my dating life and if I found any of my competitors good looking, rather than asking me about the race itself. I was dumbfounded at the questions. None of the guys got questions like that. After the shock wore off, I gave that reporter an earful about how sexist that question was. That night, I got a call from the president of SCORS, Ramon Vera, about press room decorum.
Although I’m already leading in the points standings halfway through this season, and there is a good chance that I have this in the bag, I have to keep working with my teamevery week to ensure that we stay at the top. Even the smallest mistakes can cost us dearly.
There is only one thing standing in my way of this championship trophy and a spot in the largest series of stock car racing—Dean Dixon. He’s currently second in the points standings, and is slowly gaining on me. He’s just as driven as I am to get that seat, and that is why we hate each other so much.
Well, one of the reasons.
He showed up to SCORS two years ago with Sampson Racing taking him on. He came in with a cocky attitude at twenty years old, unknown to any of us, and blew all expectations out of the fucking water in his first season. Usually, someone’s rookie season is full of learning curves and mistakes—but not for Dixon. He won one race that first season and placed in the top ten in points.
In a rookie fucking season.
He continued to play hard into hishotshotrole, even through last season by winning two races and placing in the top five. Now he’s coming formyseat in the Cup series. Now he’s coming formyspot in the Cup series.
I’ve hated him since that first race when he showed his stupid face on the grid, always having a cocky grin that makes his face so—punchable.
Every week, he has some new grid girl on his arm, who only wants to be there for the excitement of being with a racecar driver and getting to see the sights inside of the garage—and inside of his bedroom, I'm sure. He never brings the same woman twice, either. It seems like he has a plethora of women willing to hang on his arm.
He seems to be content with his playboy reputation. It just comes off as sleazy. I just don’t see what these women find appealing beyond the notoriety of being able to say they were with a driver.
I guess his 6’2” stature, shaggy brown hair, and green eyesare attractive to some people. Playboy assholes aren’t my type.
I’ve been burned enough by jackasses in the past that I don’t mix racing and pleasure. And crushing on myrival?Not going to happen.
TWO
REGAN
Once I’m done reviewingeverything from qualifying and practice, satisfied that we have a good plan for race day, I leave the hauler to head back to the infield to my RV. I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and then a voice coming from behind me.
Fuck! I’m not in the mood to deal with this asshole right now. I want to keep my mind clear for the race tomorrow.
“Brady!”
Sigh.“What do you want, Dixon?” I call back, not stopping.
“Ready to have your ass handed to you tomorrow?” He chuckles.Fucking chuckles.
I stop and turn to face him and give him my best death glare, hoping it’ll make him think twice about talking shit before the race has even started. I may be 5’4”, but I’ll be damned if I let him intimidate me.
“You sure you want to talk shit?” I chirp back. “Last time you did that, you wrecked less than ten laps in. Or has that escaped that primitive brain of yours?”
I can see the pinch in his forehead; I’ve hit a sore spot forhim. His friends, Chase Sanford and Taylor Hart, chuckle next to him at my response.
Taylor, Chase, and I have been racing together for many years. I used to race with both of them in dirt cars before coming into the SCORS series. We hung out a little bit back then, but once the competitive nature of SCORS kicked in, we all kind of drifted apart. But when Dixon came onto the scene, they all stuck together after that.
Dixon glares at his friends to get them to stop laughing, but it doesn’t do much. Clearly, they’ve forgotten whose side they’re on.Whoops.
“That was not my fault,” he says through gritted teeth. “That was a blown tire, and you fucking know it, Brady.”
I scoff, dismissing his response. Sure, that’s what technically happened. Part failures and blown tires happen to everyone. I just enjoy poking the bear.
The more jostled he is now, the more mistakes he’ll make later—and that’s what I’m banking on.
