Mack recognized a few faces from the previous day’s visit to the JJR team garage for a seat fitting—a laborious process involving sitting in a puddle of poured foam to create a custom fit—and a crash course on the controls and features of the race car. Mack greeted the other team members and tried to memorize their names.
She did not need to memorize the name of the man smiling at her from the front of the garage. Leo Raisman was the star driver of JJR and one of the most popular drivers in IndyCar. His laid-back California attitude, charming yet self-deprecating YouTube channel, stint on a reality TV dancing competition, and a near-win at last year’s race vaulted him from niche sports star to national fame. On track, he was a captivating combination of steady yet aggressive, and he’d racked up enough wins to take tiny JJR from obscurity to a competitive threat. He was Shaw’s favorite driver and for good reason: Leo Raisman was an all-American star.
He was also alarmingly good-looking in person.
Dark hair brushed his shoulders in loose curls and several days of beard shadowed his suntanned face. Leo lazily chewed a piece of gum while studying her a little too long, like he was trying to keep his eyes on her face but couldn’t stop himself from flicking his eyes down to take in all of her, her compact frame and tight jeans and the freckles across her cheeks. His perusal didn’t make her uncomfortable, but she fought the urge to fidget anyway.
“Hey, Rookie,” he said, grinning. He had tan lines at the corners of his eyes, like he spent a lot of time squinting in the sun. She wouldnotthink about how he looked like a model for a sporting brand, or how his joggers and team polo fitjuuustright. Her focus here was the Indy 500, not Leo Raisman.
She straightened her spine. “I may be a rookie, but you’ll be chasing me down the track.”
Leo threw his head back and laughed with abandon. His teeth weren’t perfectly straight and Mack was annoyed that it worked in his favor. “I look forward to it.” He held out a hand. “Leo Raisman.”
His hand was warm and calloused, how Mack liked a man to feel.Nope, nope, nope.She did not date men who raced. Ever. She would not let his unusually dark eyes make her forget that hard-earned personal rule.
She dropped his hand and rolled her eyes. “I know who you are.”
He nodded. “Likewise. Sick win at Perris a few years back. I saw that one from the stands.”
Mack blinked in surprise. She’d won at the California track eleven or twelve years ago.
“Moving on,” Janet said as she flicked her fingers dismissively in Leo’s direction, but her tone held obvious affection. Mack was grateful for her intervention. She needed to focus on what was important, and Leo Raisman wasn’t it. She turned so she couldn’t see him and gave Janet her full attention. “Lucie and Jimmy are JJR’s engineers. Lucie is with Leo, and Jimmy will call strategy on the eleven car. On race day, he’s the voice in your earpiece and he makes decisions about fuel strategy, tires, pit stops, and the like.”
Jimmy, a stocky Black man in his sixties, gave Mack’s hand a perfunctory pump before returning to the rows of computers at the back of the garage. Mack took no offense; she knew she had to earn respect from her team. Nothing in racing was given, and even drivers with deep pockets had to prove themselves on the track.
Janet pointed to the restroom outside the garage bay. “You may be in the big leagues now but the locker room situation is the same. Get changed and the crew will tow the car out. I’ll wait for you.”
Women were still an anomaly in racing and most tracks had little incentive to add separate locker rooms. Mack had changed in countless bathroom stalls, and in this one she quickly stripped and replaced her clothing with fireproof everything—underwear, tight-fitting long-sleeve top, and borrowed fireproof coveralls. She’d brought her own wornracing boots, and she couldn’t decide if she felt embarrassed or proud of the rusty dirt stains.
Mack exited the bathroom in time to follow the team toward pit lane. Premier race cars were towed from the garage to the track, both because it was important to conserve every drop of fuel on race day, but also because firing up a turbo-charged engine inside an enclosed space could burst eardrums. Janet and Leo chatted easily ahead of her, but Mack lagged behind, too anxious for chatter. Today of all days, she did not need distractions, and Leo Raisman was definitely a distraction.
Instead, she focused on every detail of the moment: the hard concrete under her soft-soled boots, the chilly spring breeze in her face, the crackling sound of the rubber tires on pavement. There was a time in her life when she’d used this exact moment as a visualization technique for success, an image she’d used to motivate herself to work toward her goal of racing at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. In her dreams, she’d walked confidently down Gasoline Alley, but now she had to grip her helmet tightly to hide the shaking of her hands.
God, she wished Wes were here to see this. He’d know exactly what she was feeling, what it meant to stroll down the same pit lane as her heroes, what it meant to be here after she’d thought she’d lost her chance. He’d know how to calm her, how to say the right thing to wipe away distractions. She bit her lip, letting the pain confirm that it was real, that she was really about to drive an IndyCar. She looked all around her, at the enormous metal grandstands, the scoring pylon that jutted almost a hundred feet into the air, the colorful flags that bordered the exterior of the track.
The sight of those signal flags flapping in the breeze brought back a long-buried habit.Ray Harroun. Joe Dawson. Jules Goux ...
She hadn’t recited the list for almost a decade, but superstition won out over pride.
Johnnie Parsons. Lee Wallard. Troy Ruttman. Bill Vukovich ...
She said the names of the former Indy 500 winners, still remembering each one in order.
Mario Andretti. Al Unser, twice in a row. Mark Donohue ...
The exercise settled her breathing like it always had. She finished the list, naming last year’s winner as the crisp air ruffled her hair, and she felt a fizzle move through her blood. She used to feel this way before every race: electric with energy, full of her own potential, certain she belonged, exhilarated by the challenge. Only now, anxiety mingled with excitement. If she couldn’t handle the car today, her Indy 500 chance would be over before it even started.
Muscle memory took over, even while her nerves jangled. She wove her long hair into a quick braid and stuffed the end down the back of her coveralls. Her pulse reverberated in her ears as she inserted earplugs, pulled her fireproof balaclava over her head, eased on the new helmet, and wiggled it into place. Silently, Jimmy helped Mack connect the awkward HANS device, the head and neck restraint that prevented fatal spinal cord injury, and Mack pulled on her gloves. They were new, and she flexed her fingers against the stiff fabric. Beneath her fire suit, Mack’s body erupted in a fine layer of moisture. She would be drenched after a few laps, but she hoped Janet didn’t see her sweating like a rookie before she even took a turn.
The helmet muffled sound, and Mack belatedly realized there were two people in suits walking toward her. Janet watched them, hands on hips and scowl on her face. The man looked nondescript—suit, tie, glasses—but the woman was effortlessly stunning in a light gray suit and black pointed-toe pumps. As she came closer, the woman removed oversize sunglasses and tucked them into her hair.
The woman was her sister.
Chapter 8
3 weeks until the Indianapolis 500
“Sorry!” Laurie huffed as she came within a few feet of Mack and the crew. “I tried to get here earlier, but security thinks I’m suspicious.” She glared at the man next to her and pointed at Mack. “See? That driver is my sister. A woman. On track. Like I told you.”
