Leo took an enormous bite of his burger and hummed in appreciation before unselfconsciously wiping grease from his chin. “The simulator looks like a hyped-up video game, but the impact on the brain is real. You’re lifting in the turns because that’s what you’d do on track.”
They’d spent time together every day in the week since her test drive—racing on the simulator machines, team engineering meetings, or doing promotional work for the IndyCar Series. Afterward, they’d grab a bite to eat and talk racing for hours. Today, they’d had a three-hour media session at the Speedway, followed by two hours of racing on the simulators at the JJR garage and a Zoom interview with a well-known sports reporter. By the time they left the JJR garage, Mack was hangry so Leo brought her to Workingman’s Friend, a burger dive bar that smelled like a hundred years of grease and smoke and beer. It was heaven.
It was also packed on a Friday night. Mack and Leo snagged seats at the bar, but people kept bumping into Mack’s back as they leaned forward to order drinks. She shifted closer to Leo to avoid a giant man with body odor ordering a staggering number of PBRs.
“I wish we could get actual practice on track. I love kicking your ass on the sim but would like to do it for real,” Mack said through a mouthful of crinkle fries. She washed it down with a sip of beer, feeling only slightly remorseful. Leo told her it was tradition for Indy 500 drivers to get beers and burgers at Workingman’s during the month of May, and if this was going to be Mack’s only Indy 500, why not go all in? She’d never had a problem with alcohol; she’d simply stopped drinking when she’d stopped partying. And damn it if an ice-cold beer didn’t taste incredible after a hard day of work.
She used to do this after her sprint races, eat greasy food and drink too much and shoot the shit at bars all over the country even though she was underage. After Shaw was born and Mack took over the business, every choice she made put her daughter and dad first, and she took whatever was left. Which was usually not much at all. It felt indulgent to do whatever she wanted without thinking of the consequences. To be Mack, the woman, not just Shaw’s mom.
The thought made her feel guilty, so she checked her phone. No messages. She hated that she felt relief.
“You’ll get to drive soon enough, Rookie,” Leo said, tapping the sticky Formica counter. He had a splotch of mustard on the corner of his mouth, and when Mack handed him a napkin, she felt the calloused ridge of his palm. Under the bar, she shook off the feeling of his touch.
They’d fallen into an easy pattern, a quick friendship based on common interests and the long hours they spent together. They both loved Sturgill Simpson (“‘Water in a Well’ makes me cry every time”) and hated Florida (“too many reptiles”). Leo never took her seriously when she ran her mouth. If she wrecked on the simulator, Leo broke down her errors in a way that was helpful, not insulting, and cheered her on when she made good passes. He challenged her at the gym without being a douchebag and answered her many questions without making her feel stupid.
And yet, there was something more, an undercurrent of interest that Mack couldn’t shake no matter how many times she told herselfthat attraction to her teammate was a no-go. Laurie was right: Leo Raismanwasher type, in all but one regard.
“Tell me something, Leo Raisman. How are you so damn nice?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud—the beer went straight to her head—but there it was. Hewasnice. So far, Leo Raisman lived up to his guy-next-door reputation, both thoughtful and playful, and it was baffling how his kindness made him even more attractive.
Leo laughed, a little self-consciously, and took a long pull from his beer. Someone had cranked up the music, and she had to lean in to hear him over a ZZ Top guitar solo. He smelled fucking amazing, like detergent and motor oil. “My parents are incredibly nice people.”
“Of course they are,” Mack said dryly. “You’ve got that whole Americana thing going on.” She raised a mischievous eyebrow. “And yet, you’re so shady on track.”
“Shady?”
“Sneaky. Stealthy. That little over-under move you pulled at the Barber race? Shady as hell.”
He grinned and she had to look away from his mouth.Stick to racing.“You should have been my hype woman during media day. ‘Leo Raisman, sneaky, stealthy, shady.’”
Their day had started early with IndyCar’s mandatory media day—a long series of headshots, recorded interviews, and promo videos that appeared on television and social media throughout May. Media day was also the reason Mack now had makeup melting down her face. She’d let Laurie slather her in cosmetics even though they’d sniped at each other the entire time. Their cohabitation wasn’t so different from when they were teenagers, rooted in petty arguments. Laurie was still bossy and high-handed, and Mack still responded in defiance. When Laurie suggested Mack use a smoothing balm on her hair, Mack teased her untamed waves even higher. Her sister bitched about a wet towel on the floor, so Mack added some underwear and socks to the pile even though she griped at Shaw for the same thing back at home. They never talked about Wes or the family track or the dark circles under Laurie’seyes when she dragged in the door after work, exhausted and dispirited. They never talked about anything deeper than who left a glass in the sink. But each little spat felt weighted with their history. Getting ready for media day had been no different. Mack knew Laurie wanted to help her and yet she felt her sister’s censure in every brush of eyeshadow and swipe of lipstick.You won’t get a chance like this again.
Mack dipped her napkin in her untouched glass of water and rubbed at the itchy makeup. She didn’t want to think about Laurie or any part of her family. “Media day was weirdly fun. I almost pissed my pants when Jericho told that story about crowd-surfing after his win last year. And I am thrilled to have lots of new information on little Leo.”
As part of the interviews, teammates played a round of twenty questions, and Mack now knew that Leo still slept with his childhood blanket, had thrown up in the cockpit at Texas and still made the podium, and cried at the sight of roadkill as a child.
Leo lifted a finger to her cheek, stopping just before touching her. “Good to see your freckles again.”
“Fuck you,” she said, but there was no heat in it. “No one else had to wear lipstick or have their nose touched up with powder. It’s bullshit.”
“Itisbullshit. You don’t need it.”
She didn’t like Leo’s tone, warm and soft. Or maybe she liked it a lot. She looked away, pretending to study the neon signs while swigging her beer.
They were sitting so close together, unconsciously scooting nearer as the bar filled up, that Mack could see a dimple on his right cheek, barely visible under the scruff of his beard. She pushed her beer away. Used to be she could slam a six-pack and still walk a straight line, but half a schooner was giving her stupid thoughts about her teammate.
She swiped one last mouthful of fries, intending to head back to Laurie’s before she could say or do something reckless, when a heavy weight slammed into her back. The fries flew out of her hand, and herstool went out from under her body, sending Mack flying forward. Her chin smacked the sharp edge of the bar, but strong arms caught her and pulled her upward before she hit the floor.
“Hey, careful.” Leo’s voice was as even as always, but Mack could feel his chest vibrating with irritation. The warmth of his body felt even hotter compared to the cold beer streaming down her back and into her shorts.
“Sorry,” a voice slurred behind her. Mack turned to see the huge PBR guy teetering over the tray of shattered beer steins that had rammed into her back. She started to cuss out the drunk jerk, but Leo held her tightly to his side with one arm while the other tilted her chin up. “Shit. You’re bleeding. Give me some napkins,” he hollered at the bartender.
“I’m fine,” Mack protested. Her chin didn’t hurt much, but she felt powerless to move away from Leo’s embrace. Her body fit neatly under his shoulder, and she could feel those calluses on her waist where her shirt didn’t quite meet her cutoffs. It had been so long since she’d pressed her body against another body, and Leo Raisman had an unquestionably good body. Warm, firm, and that damn smell. She could not stop herself from leaning in a little more, just for one more second.
Leo compressed a wad of paper napkins against her chin, watching her with concern. It was adorable how worried he looked, as if she hadn’t shattered random pieces of her body in a million worse ways. “You might need stitches.”
She gave him a look.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re tough but you at least need a butterfly bandage. The skin is split pretty good. Let’s get out of here.”
