Full Throttle(12)

She needed him to be a hell-on-fire driver and a patient-guy-who-understood-the-big-picture. Given all the shouting she’d done this season about him regaining his spark, that was going to be a real challenge.

Pacing beside the pit box, she tried to pretend she cared only about their finish as it related to the team standing. That was her job—get this operation into The Chase, then claw, implore, sail or luck their way into the championship. Nothing else could intrude. Nothing else mattered. Millions of dollars were on the line. Reputations and jobs hung in the balance.

They had a good chance tonight. They’d had good practices. They’d checked every screw and bolt. They’d gone over every procedure. The crew had marked each tire for easy identification and changing during the race.

“Trouble, Turn Two,” their spotter, Bill, said on lap 232, his voice somehow calm and urgent at the same time. “Go high, Kane. Go high.”

Lexie leaped onto the box in time to see Mike Streetson slide by, his car spinning. Though car and driver avoided the outside wall, the front end was smashed by another car. As Streetson limped to pit road, Lexie’s gaze centered on her father.

“Two tires?” she said.

“No.” Her father emphatically shook his head. “We’ll need ’em all.”

“But track position—”

“We’d still need another caution to make it work.”

“Look how many we’ve had already!” Lexie said, leaning close to push her point. “We’ll have another.”

“It’s a big gamble.”

“It’s not.” She smiled. “I’ve got a feeling.”

Her father rolled his eyes. “If I had a nickel…”

Into her mike, as Kane entered pit road, she said, “Let’s go with two, guys. Two tires.”

“Two?” Kane asked, doubt evident in his voice.

“Two,” she said firmly.

He rolled in front of her seconds later, and she beat back the uncertainties that made her question her decision. The dance between logic and chance would always consume her job, but she felt confident with this one. She wasn’t sure why. But when a gut feeling swelled so strong and sure, she was going with it.

She truly felt this was what made her both a good and unique car chief and engineer. She didn’t just look at the facts and figures, she gave in to the emotion of the moment. A woman’s instinct. She smiled inwardly at the ribbing the guys would give her if she ever voiced this theory.

As Kane rolled smoothly into the pit box, the crew jumped into their choreographed ballet of servicing the car. Lexie had seen her own team, plus many, many others, on tape and slow-motion replay. Old-school crews—without the benefit of helmets and fireproof uniforms—and present crews—with all the available technology modern, big-time NASCAR racing money could buy—still had the same job. Get their driver out first.

And their crew did.

As Kane roared away in front of the leaders, high-fives and big smiles dominated the number fifty-three pit. Even her father, who was a card-carrying member of the Manly Stoic Club, managed a smile.

But within seconds, they were all shuffling their feet, sliding cautious glances her way then staring at the track.

Lexie didn’t need a psychic to know what they were thinking: Will the tires hold up? Did we just blow our chance at a top-ten finish with this gamble? We were running great. Did this chick screw us up?

Maybe that last thought was a touch of paranoia. Her crew respected her, female or not. But in the closing laps at Bristol anybody had a right to panic.

She fell back on the old standard—pacing. She listened to the spotter’s directions to Kane and tried to swallow the anxiety threatening to crawl up her throat. So much of racing was trial and error, instinct and experience.

Then there were the crap shoots. She’d taken one. She’d suffer the consequences or reap the rewards with the grace and class that was expected from the Mercer name.

But, damn, she wanted to win.

As she paced, as her stomach tightened and her anxiety ballooned, the crowd roared and pit road grew more tense.

No other caution materialized, but Kane hung on.

Determination, strategy or engineering made it happen. Or maybe it was all three, as her driver rolled across the finish line first.

Their team erupted with hugs, high-fives and, in her case, a few hastily wiped away tears.

They needed this not only for the points, but the psychological boost. They all had to believe they could make The Chase. If not, it wouldn’t happen. The team had to believe again.

And tonight, as they rushed to Victory Lane in anticipation of meeting their car and driver, they did believe.

Teams graciously congratulated them as they made their way to the spotlight. This was the part of NASCAR that Lexie appreciated more than any other. They were all fierce competitors, but at the end of the race, they equally understood how significant any win was.

In Victory Lane, Lexie embraced the jubilant crew. They screamed and let the cheers of hundreds of thousands of fans rain down on them from above. There wasn’t anything like a NASCAR NEXTEL Cup win—the exhilaration and the relief, the sense that you earned the respect of your competitors for at least that day, the wonder that you might keep the job you loved so much a bit longer.

When Kane and his car rolled into their midst, she caught a glimpse of his flushed face and wide, confident smile. She knew her own expression mirrored his. She would have loved to wrap her arms around his neck and absorb his happiness. But their relationship was a complex mix of friends, ex-lovers, professional acquaintances and inappropriately attracted colleagues. And she honestly couldn’t envision anything else.

Confetti spurted all over the car and the crew. As the TV crew zoomed in and the cameras flashed, she hung back to watch James and her father approach Kane. She knew they were handing him a bottle of Gatorade and making sure his hat was on straight, the bill bent at just the right rakish angle.

Like a flash from a movie she’d once seen but wished she could set aside, she remembered Kane sliding out of his race car after his first win at the track in Myrtle Beach. Maybe a photographer had been there to capture the moment, but they hadn’t noticed. Kane’s eyes had been only for her. He’d yanked her into his arms and kissed her long, slow and deep, much to the delight of the raucous Saturday-night crowd.

Crew chief and driver—a team and a partnership. Together forever.

But she also recalled coming to a race during college—after they’d broken up—as a pair of voluptuous blondes tucked their arms through his and kissed his cheeks. While she died inside and realized things weren’t over between them, that things might never be over for her, he flashed the girls his mischievous grin.

They hadn’t survived the stress and distractions. Together never again.

Where did this win stand professionally and emotionally? She didn’t want to think about it. And though she was exhausted with the effort to balance the two, nothing could diminish the pride she felt at having her car in Victory Lane.

Through the swarm of people, she caught a glimpse of her father waving her toward the car. Her stomach fluttering, she quickly moved that way. Was something wrong? Why wasn’t Kane getting out? The team, the media, the sponsor VIPs—every-freaking-body—was salivating for his big exit.

“He won’t get out until you talk to him,” her father said in her ear.

Oh, hell.

If it was possible to be annoyed and flattered at the same time, she was. Emotions she thought she’d buried over the past few days clawed their way to the surface. Her hands shook. Her knees threatened to collapse.

Still, she braced her hands against the window opening and leaned close to Kane.

His dazzling blue gaze met hers. Unspoken emotions passed between them that one day she knew they’d have to face. But for now things were simple. They’d won. And they’d done it together.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing her a grin.

She squeezed his hand and felt a surge of desire, an electricity that never completely dissipated when they were together. “You were amazing.”

He cupped her hand between both of his. “I need you, Lexie. And not just on the track.”

She swallowed. “Everyone’s waiting. We can talk about this later.”

“Let them wait. This is my only chance to get you alone.”

“Alone?” Though she didn’t glance back, she could feel the tension, celebration and anticipation of dozens—millions if you counted the TV audience—pressing against her. “Hardly.”

“But we could be.”

Dear heaven, he was blackmailing her. He was holding people hostage in hopes of her compliance. And as much as she wanted to smirk and walk away, she instead wondered if she really meant that much to him.

She licked her lips. “One night?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll think about it.” She pulled her hand from his, then backed away. Was she angered or flattered by his insistence?

Both. Which was certainly more complicated than one or the other.

A mass of jumbled nerves didn’t help her make the most rational decision. Still, the timing for anything personal was wrong. The moment called for much more than just the feelings between her and Kane.

When he popped out of the car seconds later, the crew showered him with Gatorade and cheers. Jubilation infused the party. The eyes of everyone present lit like sparklers as they gazed up at their driver. They were all part of the team, but he was their symbol. Fair or not. Reality or not. All the celebrations and defeats rested on his shoulders.