Crashed (54 page)

His words wrap around my heart, weave through its fibers, and tie us together. I exhale a shaky breath and smile at him. “I love you too, Ace.”

He smirks before pressing a toe-tingling kiss to my lips and says, “Checkered flag time, baby.”

“Checkered flag time,” I repeat.

“See you in victory lane,” he says with a wink before turning and walking back toward a crew standing motionless, waiting for their driver.

I watch them help him slide his helmet on, mesmerized with both love and fear, and then allow Davis to lead me up the stairs to the pit box so I can watch from an elevated level. I place the headset on as I look down over the sill and watch them fasten Colton’s HANS device, yank on his harnesses, and tighten the steering wheel down.

“Radio check, Wood.” The disembodied voice of Colton’s spotter fills my ears, startling me. “Check one, two. Check one, two.”

There’s silence for a moment and I look down as if I’d be able to actually see him through his helmet and the surrounding crew.

The spotter tries again. “Check one, two.”

“Check, A, B, C.” Colton’s voice comes through loud and clear.

“Wood?” The spotter calls back, confusion in his voice. “You okay?”

“Never better,” he laughs. “Just giving a shout out to the alphabet.”

And the nerves eating at me dissipate immediately.

“
The alphabet?”

“Yep. A to motherfucking Z.”

Quinlan grips my hand as I look up at the ticker on the top of the screen counting down the laps left to go.

Ten.

Ten laps to go through the gamut of emotions—nervous, excited, frantic, hopeful, enamored—just like I have the past two hundred and thirty eight laps. I’ve stood, I’ve sat, I’ve paced, I’ve yelled, I’ve prayed, and have had to remind myself to breathe.

“He’s gonna pull it off,” Quinlan murmurs beside me as she squeezes my hand a little tighter and while I agree with her—that Colton is going to win his comeback race in a flurry of glory—I won’t say it aloud, too afraid to jinx the outcome.

I look down below to where Becks is talking furtively with another crew member, their heads so close they’re almost touching as they scribble on a piece of paper. And I don’t know much about racing, but I know enough that they’re worried their fuel calculations are so slim in margin that Colton may literally be running on fumes on the final lap.

I watch as the lap number gets lower, my pulse racing and heart hoping as it hits five. “You’ve got Mason coming up hard and fast on the high side,” the spotter says, anxiety lacing his usually stoic voice.

“Ten-four,” is all that Colton says in response, concentration resonating in his voice.

“He’s going for it!” the spotter shouts.

I glance at the monitor in front of me to see a close up version of what I’m seeing on the track, and my body tenses in anticipation as they fly into turn three, masses of metal competing at ungodly speeds. I swear that everyone leans forward from their position in the booth to get a closer look. I fist my hands and rise up on my toes as if that will help me see more, quickly pushing my prayers out to Colton as Mason challenges him for the lead.

I hear the crowd the same time my eyes avert back to the monitor, just in time to see rear tires touching together, Mason overcorrecting and slamming into the wall on the right of him, while Colton’s car swerves erratically on the bank of asphalt from the force of their connection.

Everyone in the box is on their feet instantly, the same sound, different track, wreaks havoc on our nerves. My hands are covering my mouth, and I’m leaning out of the open-windowed booth to see the track.

“Colton!” Becks shouts out as I gasp, a blaze of red car sliding out of control onto the apron. Colton would normally reply instantly, but there is absolute radio silence. And I think a little part of me dies in that instant. A tiny part forever lost to the notion that there will always be this trickle of unease and flashback of the riotous emotions from Colton’s crash every time I see smoke or the wave of the yellow flag.

I see Beckett pull on the bill of his baseball cap as his eyes fixate on the track. Anxiety rules over my body right now, and yet I still feel those seeds of certainty Colton planted with his confidence earlier ready to root and break through. And I can’t imagine what’s going through his head—the mix of emotions and memories colliding—but he doesn’t let up. The car doesn’t slow down one bit.

And yet he still hasn’t spoken.

“C’mon, son,” Andy murmurs to no one in particular down the line from me, hands gripping the edge of the table he stands behind, knuckles turning white.

Only seconds pass but it feels like forever as I watch Colton’s car aim erratically toward the grass of the infield, heading straight for the barrier, before miraculously straightening out.

And then the whole booth lets out a collective whoop when the telltale red and electric blue nose of the car flies back up the apron and onto the asphalt, under control. And still in the lead. Colton’s voice comes through the speaker. “Fuckin’ A straight!” he barks, the overflow of emotion breaking through both his voice and the radio, followed by a “Woohoo!” The adrenaline rush hitting him full force.

“Bring it home, baby!” Becks shouts at him as he paces below us and blows out a loud breath, taking off his headset and hat for a moment to regain his composure before putting them back on.

Four laps left.

I feel like I can breathe again, my fingers twisting together, my nerves dancing, and my hopes soaring to new heights.
C’mon, baby. You can do this
, I tell him silently, hoping he can feel my energy with the thousands in the stands pushing for him to claim this victory.

Three laps left. I can’t stand it anymore. My body vibrates from more than the rumbling of the engines as the cars pass us one after another in an endless sequence. I shove back from the counter and shrug at Quinlan when she gives me a questioning look about where I’m going. I want to be as close to him as possible so I make my way to the stairs and start running down them.

“Two to go, baby!” Becks shouts into the mic as I make it to the bottom step and stay close to the wall below on the inside border of the pits. I can’t see the track very well from here but I smile as I watch Becks look at the monitor and shake his head back and forth, body moving restlessly, energy palpable.

I look up at the standings and see that Colton is still in the lead before my eyes are drawn to the flag stand where the flagger is getting the white flag denoting last lap ready. And then it waves and my heart leaps into my throat. Becks pumps a fist in the air and reaches over to squeeze the shoulder of the crew member next to him.

Someone brushes against my shoulder and I look over to see Andy beside me, cautious smile ready to light up his face when the checkered flag takes flight. I look back up but my view of the flag stand is obstructed by the row of red fire suits standing atop the pit row wall, watching, waiting, anticipating.

And then I hear it.

The crushing roar of the crowd and the jubilant whoops of the crew as they jump off the wall hooting and hollering in victory. I’m so overcome with emotion I don’t even remember who grabbed who, but all I know is that Andy and I are hugging each other out of pure excitement. He did it. He really did it.

The next few minutes pass in a blur as hugs and high fives are given all around, headsets are removed, and we all move quickly in a big mass toward victory lane. The motor revs as Colton pulls into his spot fresh off his victory lap.

And I don’t know what the protocol is for non-crew members, but I’m right in the thick of it, fighting my way to see him. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from him right now.

My view is blocked temporarily by camera crews and I’m so anxious—heart pounding, cheeks hurting from smiling so wide, heart overflowing with love—that I want to push them out of the way to get to him.

When they shift to get a better shot, I see him standing there, accepting congratulations from Becks, bottle of Gatorade to his lips, hand running through his sweat soaked hair sticking up in total disarray, and the most incredible expression on his face—exhaustion mixed with relief and pride.

And then as if he can feel my gaze on him, he locks his eyes on mine, the biggest, most heart-stopping grin blanketing his face. My heart stops and starts as I take him in. I swear the air zings with sparks from our connection. He doesn’t even say a word to Beckett but leaves him behind and starts pushing through the crowd, the mass moving with him, his eyes never leaving mine, until he’s standing before me.

I’m against him in an instant, his arms closing around me and lifting my feet off the ground as he throws his head back and emits the most carefree laugh I’ve ever heard before crushing his mouth to mine. And there is so much going on around us—utter chaos—but it’s nothing compared to the way he’s making me feel inside right now.

Everyone and everything fades away because I’m right where I belong—in his arms. I feel the heat of his body pressed against mine rather than the press jostling us to and fro to get the perfect shot. I inhale his smell, soap and deodorant intermingled with a hard day’s work—and it has my pheromones snapping to attention, has them silently urging him to take me, dominate me, own me so I’m marked by that scent. I taste Gatorade on his lips and it’s nowhere near enough to satiate the desire coursing through me, because with Colton, one taste will never be enough. I hear his laugh again as he breaks from our kiss and presses his forehead to mine for a moment, his chest rumbling from the euphoric sound.

“You did it!”

“No,” he disagrees, pulling his head back to look in my eyes. “We did it, Ry. It was us together because I couldn’t have won without you.”

My heart tumbles in my chest and crashes into my stomach that’s jolted up as if I’m free falling.
And in a sense I am
. Because my love for him is endless, bottomless, eternal.

I smile at him, tears blurring my vision as I press one more chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re right,” I murmur. “We did it.”

He squeezes me tight one more time and lowers me to the ground with another heart-stopping grin as the world around us seeps back. I step away, allowing everyone else their five seconds with him, and yet all I can think of are his words,
we did do it.

And I watch him—the man I love—and know his words have never been more true. We’ve really done it. We’ve faced our demons together.

His past, his fears, his shame.

My past, my fears, my grief.

He looks over in the midst of an interview question and winks at me with a smirk. Pride, love, and relief flow through me like a tidal wave.

Holy shit.

We really did do it.

I sit back and watch Zander and his counselor work together, and my heart surges at seeing him so actively engaged. He’s talking so much now and beginning to heal. I allow the pride I feel to swell and the tears to blur my vision because he’s doing it.

He’s actually doing it.

I walk from his room where they’re having their session and out toward the kitchen, listening to the music in Shane’s room and the chatter of the rest of the boys building a Lego city out on the backyard patio. Dane’s emptying the last of the silverware from the dishwasher when I walk into the kitchen and plop down on a stool with an exhausted sigh.

“I agree!” he says, closing a drawer and sitting down beside me. “So,” he says when I don’t say anything. “How’s it going with the panty melting Adonis?”

I roll my eyes. “You just wish he was a boxer-brief melting Adonis.” I snort.

“Hell to the yeah I do, but I’ve given up hope that I can turn him to the better side. Only a blind man would miss the way he looks at you.”

“Oh, Dane.” I sigh, a smile spreading on my lips at just the thought of Colton and how great things have been over the past few weeks. At the comforting rhythm we’ve settled ourselves into without even speaking about it. Things just feel natural. Like they were meant to be. No more drama, no more lack of communication, and no more hiding secrets. “Things are great. Couldn’t be more perfect.”