Laurie Williams
Partner, Stoeppel Evans PLLC
Chapter 38
1 day until the Indianapolis 500
“Can you imagine being squashed in the Snake Pit? I’d probably hyperventilate.”
“Nah, it would be fun to rave with all those people.”
“Why are we even debating this?” Leo asked. “Isn’t the goal to never have the last Sunday in May free? We don’t want to party in the Snake Pit. We want to race.”
“That’s right. We’re the Track Pack, or whatever dumb shit they’re calling us online now.”
Mack, Boomer, Leo, and Jericho all rolled their eyes. They sat on the cold bleachers of turn three, looking down at the wide expanse of empty track and infield. In a dozen hours, these grandstands would be packed full of fans with coolers and sunscreen, but tonight it was just the four of them under the black sky.
Tomorrow, they’d challenge each other and twenty-nine other drivers to win the biggest race in the world. They should be doing yoga or hydration IVs or spending a quiet evening with their families, not breaking into the empty track and freezing their asses off, but Jericho insisted it was a tradition.
“Okay, but here’s the real question.” Jericho rubbed his hands together. “Who will be the first to piss in their seat tomorrow?”
“Adam Weston,” Leo and Boomer shouted at the same time.
“He told me it’s a Pavlovian response. The engine starts, he pees,” Leo said.
Mack wrinkled her nose. “Well, this is my one shot, so as long as I don’t pee tomorrow, I’m good.” Men were animals, peeing wherever they wanted because they could.
“You never know what could happen,” Leo said, flashing a quick look at Boomer.
Mack shrugged, not wanting to ruin the moment by pointing out that it was easier for men—especially an Indy 500 winner, an influencer, and the child of racing royalty—to find a team. Tonight, she didn’t feel bitter; she felt determined. There was a strong chance she’d watch next year’s race from the same bleachers under her butt right now, but she’d make the most of the one race she got. She would push hard in the offseason to find sponsors, or find opportunities in other racing disciplines that’d keep her on the radar, and maybe, just maybe, she’d be back here again. As Mack looked down the short chute and through the wide flat of turn four, she gave herself permission to hope.
“You can’t leave, Rookie.” Boomer pointed at her splinted hand. Leo’s engineer, Lucie, had created a carbon fiber splint from a piece of bodywork, strong enough to hold her broken bone in place but flexible enough that she could still drive. “First that photo with your dad, and then the story about driving with two broken bones in your hand. You got more interviews than anyone else this week. You’re IndyCar famous now.”
She rubbed at the hand in question, picturing the news story that had run the day after her qualification:Williams Family Back on Track, with a quarter-page photo of Wes holding her face after qualifications, both of them crying. The media loved the daughter-of-a-legend story, and Mack had done interviews, including a Zoom withGood Morning America, on top of the regular series promos that kept them all busy. Laurie stayed by her side at every moment, a makeshift assistant keeping her hydrated and on time.
“And,” Jericho said with a mischievous grin, “can’t forget that photo of you climbing Leo like a koala.”
“Stop,” Leo demanded.
“Look at him blush!” Boomer taunted.
“I’m not embarrassed, jackass.” Leo glared at Jericho. “The way people treated that photo was sexist bullshit. No one gave me shit. Just Mack.”
“Put down your sword, Sir Leo.” Mack rolled her eyes. Her performance on track had nothing to do with Leo, and screw anyone who thought it did. She was tired of caring what anyone else thought, except maybe Janet, who had lectured the two of them on optics and making the crew uncomfortable but hadn’t forbidden anything. “I will let my driving do the talking and fuck the gossip.”
“Amen,” Boomer said softly. Mack hoped one day soon racing would be progressive enough to show Boomer celebrating with his boyfriend. She lightly tapped her nonbroken pinkie on top of his and flashed him a quick wink.
“One of the Track Pack is going to win tomorrow. I feel it in my bones,” Jericho said, his brogue thick. He looked up and down the track, as if watching tomorrow’s race happen in his mind.
“He feels it in hisbuns.” Mack did a bad imitation of his accent and Leo and Boomer burst into laughter again.
Jericho looked at her with wide, serious eyes. “I can’t explain it. I felt it last year, too. I mean I physically felt it in my body from the starting line. It was my year, if I didn’t jack it up. Even when Leo came close on the last lap, I knew it was my year.”
“They say this place picks the winner.” Fans whispered that Boomer had The Curse, destined to come so close to winning the Indianapolis 500 and yet never crossing the bricks first despite having significant wins at all the other tracks in the series.
“Hey,” Mack said, nudging his elbow. “If I can take ten years away from racing and make the Indy 500, anything is possible. I know it’s cheesy, but ...” A month ago she’d been sure she’d never push a throttle again, but tomorrow all of them would floor it to 230 down the very track in front of her. “Never count yourself out.”
A moment of silence, and then Leo whistled long and low. “Life lessons from a rookie.”
