by Eden Connor
Feeling the doubt rolling off Caine in waves, I grabbed his hand. “You’ve got to trust me. I’d never cut you off from the sport that runs through your DNA. I understand what’s at stake. I have to counter the fallout from the drag race. And I have to do it in a way that makes major sponsors walk uphill to throw money at us next season.”
Caine looked into my eyes for a long moment while I held my breath. “Okay.”
I waited for the ‘but’ that never came. Overwhelmed, I thrust the tablet into his hands. “Give me your opinion, please.”
He scanned the text. “You don’t even dirty your mouth sayin’ his name.” Handing the tablet back, he added, “Rick says we’re supposed to meet in the lobby at nine-thirty. Have you seen my phone?”
I glanced at the time before handing him the device. Eight-fifty. “I better get dressed. Be out in ten. And, Caine, you have got to change clothes.”
“On it.” He opened a closet while I rushed to pee.
When I stepped through the bedroom door several minutes later, Phillip grinned from one of the lounge chairs. “Your brother, huh? Wicked.”
“We don’t take that brother-sister stuff too seriously.” I held up my middle finger, then thrust the tablet into his hands. “Be sure this won’t get me sued, please.”
In the kitchenette, Caroline leaned against the counter, watching Harry like she thought he might try and make off with the silverware. She snapped her fingers in the direction of the banquette, where my brothers and Jonny sat.
“Stand up, y’all, so she can see.”
Caine got to his feet first. He sported a black tie, covered in lavender polka dots, over a pearl gray shirt. I recognized the black Chino slacks from Christmas. Colt pushed to his feet next, turning slowly. A sparkling white shirt set his eyes aglow. His deep purple tie boasted tiny crowns embroidered in violet. Jonny wore a vivid swath of amethyst silk that popped against his black button-down.
“Where’d you get those?” I gaped at Caroline.
Colt smoothed a hand along his shirtfront. “They’re to wear to your graduation.” He pointed. “Jonny’s wearin’ Dad’s.”
Don’t cry. Can’t fall apart now, not when I’m the glue holding us together.
“Very nice.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek and Caine’s in turn. “Before we get out there, I want to say something. As far as I’m concerned, everyone in this bus is my family, to the bone. Y’all are the only real family I’ve ever had.”
I slapped my palm in the center of the table, meeting Caroline’s eyes. “Hannah-Built. To me, that means Dale built this for us. All of us. We will not let him down, not tonight or any other night.”
Caroline dropped her hand over mine. “Hannah-Built, y’all.”
Caine’s hand came down next. “Race one Hannah, you’re racin’ us all.”
Jonny clapped his hand atop Colt’s. “Hannah-Built.”
Colt laid his hand on top, but said nothing.
“Uh, what in the hell are all these?”
I turned. Harry gestured toward an open cabinet crammed with cardboard boxes.
Caroline turned with a scowl. “Hats. Dale had me pick ‘em up this week. Said he planned to give ‘em away while the team was racing in his hometown.”
“Let me guess. That’s his idea of marketing?” Jonny shook his head, catching my gaze. “Free hats?”
I laughed, partly at the way Caroline was eyeballing Harry. Poor man. He couldn’t fix what was wrong with Dale, but he had to fix something. If the situation was reversed, I had a hunch Dale would be tuning Harry’s engine. “Bet the man thinks a hashtag is for playing tic-tac-toe, too.”
Harry ripped the tape off one box. “Rewarding a dedicated fan base is a damn good marketing ploy, actually.” He darted me a grin. “I realized, if I took sixteen more credit hours, I can finish a second major in marketing. One of my professors waxed rhapsodic about the brand loyalty of NASCAR fans just the other week.”
Loyalty was what we needed.
I narrowed my eyes on those boxes. “Then, let’s give some away. Harry, can you and Phillip pass them out during the press conference? Hang on to a couple of boxes, in case Dale had something specific in mind for them.”
“Done.” Harry dragged two boxes onto the counter. “That way, Phillip and I can eavesdrop. Take the crowd’s temperature, so to speak, about your speech.”
Caroline ran her hand along the arm of my dress. “That color looks so damn good on you.”
I glanced down, unsure. “You don’t think we’ll look like a bad family portrait?”
She giggled. “I picked my boss’s brain about everything. He might have been a jerk, but he’s a jerk who graduated from the Harvard School of Business. If you’re sellin’ cancer, you can’t leave nothin’ to chance. It’s subliminal advertisin’. People won’t see Rick’s team now, they’ll see yours. It’ll counteract what George’s tryin’ to do by havin’ the crew stand up there.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“Your makeup needs to be heavier than normal,” Caroline urged. “You don’t want to look washed out when they turn on those bright lights.” She reached over my shoulder to grab my purse strap. “Sit. Let me do it. My boss got himself interviewed a lot. Total glory hound.”
I chafed under her ministrations, unwilling to be late. When she was done, I didn’t bother with the mirror. I got to my feet. “Y’all need to wear your Ridenhour hats, so Rick can’t bitch.”
“No.” Caroline shook her head. Turning, she grabbed three hats out of the top box. The hats were black. Thick purple embroidery stood out atop my feather stripe graphic. I snatched the one she handed Caine. Hannah-Built. And in smaller letters below, Detroit Tough. Carolina Cool.
With a grin, Caine held out his hand for a new one when I settled his on my hair.
“Make sure you have my cell phone,” I reminded Caroline, who waggled the device with a grin. “Phillip? What do you think?”
The young attorney held out the iPad. “I can tell you dated a lawyer’s son. You’re golden.”
I grabbed the tablet in one hand and Caine by the other. I’d never felt ‘golden’, but Caine’s hand around mine, pushed back the darkness.
“Ready?”
The minute Colt and Jonny stepped out of the bus, shouts went up from the street. I waited for Caroline to go ahead of me. As soon as I stepped onto the asphalt, a man near the fence lifted his lighter and flicked the wheel. The streetlights washed out the tiny flame, until the woman beside him raised hers, and in a blink, hundreds of white lights danced in the air.
“We’re praying for Dale,” someone cried.
“Team Hannah!” yelled another. “Barnes ain’t shit.”
The security guards surrounded us, blocking my view of the crowd, but I took heart from the twisting flames.
Caroline turned. “They had to get Team Hannah from your Twitter feed.”
“Harry?” I craned to look back, peering between two beefy guards. Harry and Phillip came down the stairs with boxes under each arm. “Start there.” I swept a hand toward the fence.
“Oh, my God,” Harry said. “Shelby, Dale’s a rock star.”
My heart twisted.
“I told you that.” Phillip snorted.
Chapter Thirty
George, Richard, Doris, and the rest of the Ridenhour crew milled around in the hospital lobby. George’s scowl relented when he spied Jonny, Colt, and Caine, but Richard pulled me aside.
“Listen, I think this’ll go better if George and I do the talkin’. We’ve done hundreds of these. You think it’s gonna go fine, and then you see all them cameras in your face. Easy to freeze up and forget every word in your head.”
George stepped to my side. “He’s right, young lady.”
I forced a smile. “This is your press conference. Do it any way you see fit, sir.”
Uncertainty flickered in England’s eyes. “Well, of course, you can tell ‘em about Dale’s condition and this here... medical coma.”
Make him lower his guard. I faked the warmest smile of my life and blinked real fast, so he’d think I was touched enough to cry. “Thank you.”
His wary look made me want to laugh, but he pushed through the front doors. The wide porch stood three steps up. Security held the crowd back. So many flashes went off, it looked like noon for a moment. Lights atop shoulder-held cameras obscured all but the closest faces, but I could tell that people covered the entire lawn. Some stood on the benches lining the walkway. Posters waved, but I couldn’t read the messages for the spots floating in front of my eyes.
George and Richard approached the podium. Led by Jamie, the Ridenhour employees filed into a double line at their backs. The team stood in identical poses, legs wide and hands locked together in front. Standing near the hospital doors beside Caroline, I’d never felt more like the red-headed stepchild in my life.
“Will Kolby drive in the All-Star race?” Multiple reporters shouted the same question. Anger burned like a flame in my chest. Is that all you care about? George held up a hand. It took a moment, but the rabid reporters fell silent.
“I know y’all been waitin’ a while for a statement, and I’m aware you’re on a deadline, so I’ll be brief. Today in the pits, emotions ran high. The entire Ridenhour team can tell you, last year was a tough one and this year ain’t been much better for them. I’m certain every man involved regrets lettin’ his temper get the best of him today. I’m gonna sit down tomorrow and talk to the witnesses, in order to sort out what I think needs to be done. I’ll issue any penalties from today by Tuesday, same as always. But tonight, if you could, let’s all bow our heads and pray for Dale Hannah to pull through.”
I didn’t bow my head. Instead, I scanned the faces of the reporters and the few faces I could see on the fringe of the massive crowd. The eye rolls, exchange of lifted brows, and murmurs of disappointment spoke volumes. As my eyes adjusted to the blinding lights, the blurred crowd resolved into individual faces. I spied several drivers, clustered together, off to my right, surrounded by security. Those men didn’t bow either, but cut hard eyes at one another.
Do they hate Kolby? Will they back me?
George took two steps away from the podium, earning a few loud boos. Richard moved to the microphone. The crowd fell quiet.
“Our team didn’t have much of a leader in me today. I let the heat and disappointment get the better of my emotions, and for that, I’m truly sorry. Knowin’ the life of my crew chief and friend of twenty-five years hangs in the balance ‘cause of somethin’ I started breaks my heart. I deserve whatever punishment the board sees fit to hand down. But come sunrise, Ridenhour Racin’ will pull together and focus on next week’s races, because to the last man, we know that’s what Dale would expect.”
So Richard had been persuaded to fall on his sword? For the good of NASCAR?
Nice try, George. But, if that’s all you have... that red flash you’re about to see? My tail lights, asshole.
Richard stepped away from the podium. George moved forward again. “We aren’t takin’ any questions at this time, but this is Shelby Roberts, Dale’s stepdaughter. She’ll give you the lowdown on Chief Hannah’s condition.”
I watched the fidgeting crowd and tried to calm my racing heart until George moved away. Praying my legs held me, I stepped to the podium. I hadn’t planned to speak until the Ridenhour crew moved away, but, to the last man, they stood still. Peering over my shoulder, I got a couple of nods, one from David and another from Jamie.
I cleared my throat and tipped the mic lower with a shaking hand. Richard wasn’t kidding about stage fright. While I tried not to squint under the pitiless lights, my knees knocked together.
Get it together. This is for Dale.
I sucked in a ragged breath and laid the iPad on the podium. “In the morning, a Cabarrus County judge expects Dale to show up and make his formal adoption of me final. That won’t happen now, but, with your indulgence, I’d like to re-introduce myself.” I raised my chin and squared my shoulders. “My name is Shelby Hannah.”
I had to battle tears when the crowd cheered. I waited for them to quiet.
“First of all, my brothers and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the outpouring of goodwill toward our dad that we’ve seen today, both here and on social media.”
“Team Hannah!” The call peppered the crowd.
This is it. The most important speech I’ll ever make. Heat from the camera lights baked through my clothes. Sweat ran down my sides, leaving behind an itch I longed to claw. “This semester, I took a class I wish I hadn’t signed up for. It’s called the Hero in Literature.”
I clenched the edges of the podium. “I hated every lecture, because, in my entire life, I’ve only known one hero. So, when my professor described anyone who wasn’t Dale Hannah, I thought a word that starts with ‘bull’ and ends with ‘t’, and then, my attention wandered.”
The laughter wasn’t loud, but seemed genuine. A hand flapping at the edge of the closest bystanders drew my attention. Someone raised their palms a couple of time. Okay, speak louder.
“Dale’s easy going, pleasant to everyone, always joking, but when he decides to get your attention, he doesn’t mess around. For example, the day my mother introduced me to him for the first time, she told me they’d gotten married at lunchtime. That’s the Hannah way. See it? Want it? Go hammer down till you get it. The man doesn’t know what a small gesture is.”
Louder laughs came from the spot where the professional drivers stood.
“And, tonight, I hope to walk in his footsteps and get your attention.” Please, God, let my voice stop shaking.
“I wasn’t a sports fan before Dale strode into my life at seventeen, and certainly not a NASCAR fan. He never told me who he was. I only learned about his career after I went off to college and met people who knew him, or who were his fans.”
“Along the way, I started a little site on You Tube, dedicated to the fans of my first car—a loaner from Dale. Not many can say their first car was a ’71 ‘Cuda convertible, but thanks to Dale, I can. Between talking to the many people who loved that car, and hanging out with my stepbrothers, I realized just how much America worships her sports heroes.”
My damp palm slipped on the podium. I took a tighter grip and locked my knees.
“We invite these heroes into our homes on the biggest screens we can afford. We snap up extra cable packages so we can get just that much closer to these larger-than-life figures who dominate the sports we adore. We follow them on social media. We stand in the rain to purchase tickets and we wear merchandise emblazoned with their names.”
Heads bobbed, buoying my confidence. My heart rate eased. “We hold them up to our children as examples of what can be accomplished with some aptitude, hard work, and a little luck. And yet, time and again, from professional football, to baseball, and yes, to NASCAR, our heroes have tracked mud all over our living rooms with their bad behavior.”
The cameramen inched closer, twisting their lenses to zoom in. Bored reporters straightened and inched closer.
“Dale has dedicated his life to two things, his family and NASCAR. And I guarantee, if the man wasn’t in a coma with a tube down his throat, he’d tell you that his goal is to show you the real deal every time the Ridenhour team hits the asphalt. Genuine heroes, who battle fatigue, mechanical failure, the clock, and every law of physics, from the time the green flag comes out until the checkered flag drops.”
Hooked the story to their passion. Check. Go for the jugular. “Not some poser who loses his cool time and again, and expects you to overlook his shortcomings.”
I swept a hand toward the crew at my back, as I felt was their due. “Not a man who, thanks to the solid teamwork behind him, can win on any given Sunday, but chooses instead to throw their hard work away to pursue his own grudges.”
I paused to breathe. “I think we all want the same thing. Hard racing without the continuous temper tantrums. Tonight, I’m begging Mr. Eng
land to hold our heroes’ feet to the fire and insist they be more than mere winners.”
A smatter of applause came from the spot where Harry and Phillip stood. “Please join me in demanding that NASCAR tell their drivers and crews, loud and clear, that we deserve heroes who embody the principles of good sportsmanship and character, along with their competitiveness and skill, because our children are watching. Because we are watching.”
A low murmur rippled through the reporters, but applause came from all over the crowd. A few shrill whistles pierced the air—but not many. Not enough.
I turned toward George England, locking gazes briefly before turning my attention to crowd once more.
“Barring that, get him some help. Spend some of that fine money on anger management, to help this member of the family. Making money by giving a man a chance to show off his skills is the definition of professional sports. Making money off a man’s self-control issues is reprehensible.”
“Now, I’m just one voice. One person who understands that fans expect to see a hard-fought race. Tradin’ paint is part of the sport. I have no wish to slow that down. And yet, if I may borrow the exasperated tone of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, when he attempted to define hard-core pornography, I know an intentional act—a modus operandi, if you will—when I see one.”
I gathered the breath to finish. “So, if you also want NASCAR to give us back our heroes, then here’s what I’d like you to do.”
Dropping my gaze to the iPad, I enlarged the first graphic I’d made. “Hashtag Make Mine Heroic. Post it everywhere NASCAR has a public presence. That’s Twitter, Facebook, You Tube, Instagram, and any open comment section of their official website. Mr. England can ignore me. But, I guarantee, he cannot ignore you.”
I turned the screen toward the closest camera and gave Caroline a nod. Her thumbs moved across my cell phone, sending out the message on Twitter, but I was gratified to see how many reporters scribbled down the information.
Yet, the crowd was too quiet. Not... inspired.
