Mack gave a firm nod, then stood. She was almost to the door when she asked impulsively, “Do you regret retiring early?”
Janet shook her head, unbothered. “I didn’t retire so much as I stopped kicking a concrete wall. I licked my wounds for a bit, then found a better way to stay in the game.”
“But do you wish you’d done it on the track yourself?”
“Of course I do,” Janet snapped. “Chip Ganassi is one of the most successful owners in this paddock and you don’t think he wishes every year it was his name on the Borg-Warner Trophy instead of his drivers? It was a different time when I raced. There were challenges that had nothing to do with the cars or tracks. Maybe I gave up too soon.” She shrugged. “Looking back won’t help me go forward. I wanted to stay in racing, and this was the best way for me to do that. Stewing in regrets won’t help me win an Indy 500.”
It was the opposite of how Mack approached her racing career. For years, she’d focused on what she’d done wrong, what she didn’t have, what she’d given up, instead of thinking of how she could have it, but differently. She had stewed for a decade, never thinking of how to take her failures and turn them into a future.
“There are a dozen ways to win a race, Williams. You just have to find the right lane.”
Janet slapped her hands on the desk and stood. “Okay, enough emotional shit. Get out there and make the grid.”
“Any advice?” Mack asked.
“Yeah. Don’t get bumped.”
Chapter 35
1 week until the Indianapolis 500
As Mack accelerated through her warm-up lap, she focused on every sound, vibration, and sensation, trying to get a read on the car. By the time she took the green flag for her qualification laps, all she knew was that the car was loose and she had no choice but to mash the throttle and hope she didn’t wreck a second time. On the radio, Jimmy and Janet were silent.
For ten miles, she white-knuckled the finicky car around the turns and pushed the throttle on the straights. Distantly, she felt a sharp ache in her hand and the heavy thump of her own heart but she ignored both. She didn’t think, didn’t talk, didn’t even look at her own speed. She did nothing but drive on the edge of control.
She could barely remember a single second of the four laps, but when Mack took the checkered flag to end her run, she knew the answer in her body before Jimmy called over the radio.
“230.040.”
There were still two hours left in qualifying, her position was precarious, pain radiated up her arm, but Mack was in the Indy 500.
Her body felt effervescent, all pain momentarily forgotten, lifted away by the knowledge that she’d done the thing she’d set out to do all those years ago.
Back in the pits, the crew hugged and slapped her back as if they’d already won, and Mack took a moment to celebrate with the people who’d made the impossible happen. She wished she could tell her twenty-year-old self—the one who’d torn down the posters of her idols, Dario Franchitti and Tony Kanaan and Sarah Fisher, not caring that she ripped straight through the signatures—about this moment. Mack’s heart broke for that young, angry version of herself, and she wished she could go back and tell that heartbroken girl that it would happen, but not the way she’d planned. Not linear, not clean or pretty or easy or fast, but she would get there. She’dmadeit there. And, somehow, being here today felt even better than if she’d traveled in a straight line.
But there were still drivers to qualify, and one absolute truth of the Indianapolis 500 was that the range of fates here were as big as the track itself. A beloved favorite could get bumped out of the race before it even began, like James Hinchcliffe in 2018, or an unexpected rookie could win it all, like Alexander Rossi in 2016. There were still drivers on track and all she could do for now was watch and wait.
Back in the quiet of the garage, she chugged water and wiped her face. She hissed through her teeth as she gingerly pulled the sweaty tape off her hand. The ache from this morning had turned into a fiery burn after gripping the wheel for her qual run. If she had to do it again, she wasn’t sure she could even touch the wheel, much less grip it.
“Congrats, Rookie.”
She turned at Leo’s voice, yanking the last of the tape and jarring her hand. The garage wasn’t exactly private but she couldn’t stop herself from walking over and standing too close to him. He’d been with his own team all morning and she hadn’t had a chance to thank him for the loaner parts. She sighed in relief when he pulled her in close, squeezing her so tightly her spine cracked.
“Thank you, Leo. Thank you.” She couldn’t stop the wobble in her voice. She’d gone from the woman who didn’t cry at the track to the one who teared up at every damn turn. She pulled away and swiped at her eyes.
“Why are you thanking me? You went out there and put down the laps.”
“For the components. I wouldn’t have had a car to qualify without them. If you wreck ...”
“Teammates, Rookie. You’d do the same for me.”
Would she? Her first instinct was hell no, she’d do whatever she needed to protect herself in a race. But Leo seemed to expect everyone else to have his same level of goodness, the same kind generosity, and somehow that expectation turned into a reflection. His easy, compassionate nature encouraged everyone around him to do the same. She watched him rake a curl of hair off his face and realized what she felt for him wasn’t only attraction, it was a tenderness she’d never experienced.
He pointed at the hand she held gingerly against her chest. “What’s going on there?”
“Nothing,” she said automatically. Between the strain of correcting the Judge’s almost-spin last night and the tight grip for qualifying today, the pain was increasing by the minute. He arched a brow and lowered his voice. “You were babying it last night, too.”
Heat exploded up her neck and she focused on rewrapping her palm and wrist. Last night, they laid in the giant bed of Leo’s RV and Mack told him everything—Kelley’s email, Wes selling the track—while he held her tight and listened patiently. She’d never shared so much of her insides with anyone. It was embarrassing, and it was freeing. Her body warmed remembering how he could so easily inspire both comfort and desire in her. But the loud, hot garage wasn’t the place to think about that, so she licked her lips and shook her head. “I hope my time holds. I feel stupid, being so excited about thirty-second place.”
