I passed the start/finish line and it flashed away beneath me.
I smiled again, imagining Alyssa’s eyes resting on the car as I raced past the pits.
One lap down; 160 to go.
AT LAP thirty-six, a safety car was called so I took the opportunity to pit. After I’d climbed from the car and seen Dane away safely, I grabbed a bottle of water and settled in behind Morgan to watch the race on the monitors we had. There were less of them than in the Sinclair Racing camp, but it was enough for us. I could see what was happening around Dane, and I could see everyone else’s track position.
I watched as Dane used the space I’d earned to push the car faster and faster.
“You two make a great team,” Morgan murmured.
“Almost as good as you and I would have been if we could’ve raced together again.”
“Aww, you getting all mushy on me there, Deccy-boy?” Morgan made kissing noises until I punched his shoulder to shut him up. A few of the pit crew laughed until I shot them a warning glare.
“Just keep your eye on Kent and make sure he doesn’t crash that car, will you?” I chided Morgan, half-jokingly.
Alyssa, Phoebe, and Mum were hanging around behind the pits. I waved them in with a smile before downing another mouthful of water.
“You’re going really—” Alyssa started to talk, but I pressed my finger against her lips to silence her.
“Don’t jinx me,” I warned.
Alyssa laughed and kissed my fingertips lightly. She then clasped my hand, holding it tightly as she stood beside me while we watched Dane complete lap after lap.
He pitted once, and I focused on the crew as they flew around the car, changing tyres, brakes, and adding extra fuel. I saw Dane give me a thumbs-up through the window and stared after him with renewed excitement as he drove away to complete the last laps of his day. I was going to take the reins back for the last fifty or so laps.
He came in just before lap 110 to hand the car over to me. I couldn’t have been happier with the way things were going when he patted me on the back as we changed over.
“Go get ’em,” he whispered softly just before securing the netting and shutting the door.
I nodded as much as the HANS device on my neck would allow—which wasn’t much—and gave him the thumbs-up.
I would beat Hunter, or die trying.
I DRIFTED PAST McPhillamy and headed into Skyline.
For the first time in the race, I was closing in on Hunter. It had taken almost every one of the laps I’d had left. Everyone had made their final compulsory pit stops and all that remained was to battle out to the end.
I wasn’t sure what Hunter was doing, or why I was able to finally gain some ground on him, but I was catching glimpses of him more and more often. It was hard not to feel paranoid even though it was entirely possible he was running the car on a lower throttle for fuel conservation. That would have given me that little bit of extra power over him.
Maybe he’d pitted early, hoping for a safety car—a popular strategy at the Mount Panorama track. If that was the case, he was probably concerned about making it around the track for the remaining laps. More than one car had miscalculated their fuel load and ended up stopping midway through the final lap or two as the tank emptied.
I, on the other hand, still had plenty of fuel left and a relatively fresh set of tyres—perfect for an aggressive push. Dane and I had chosen to pit later in the windows, using the emptier tank and hot tyres to push ahead on the track. So far it seemed to have worked for us, because we were in the top five with no compulsory pit stop left. In the last leg, there had been a little bit of jostling between the cars ahead of us, and I kept swapping places with one of the Ford boys.
If I could position myself correctly through the S bends, I had a chance to get the jump on Hunter and overtake him down Conrod Straight. I wasn’t sure whether my car would really have enough in it to get around him, but based on Morgan’s voice squawking excitedly in my ear, it was possible.
My lap times were a good half a second ahead of Hunter’s.
My current push, if successful, would see me jump out of the fourth-fifth-sixth pack and into the second-third pack. I could almost taste a podium finish. We were barely ten laps away from the end. It could all change in an instant though; the track was notorious for last-lap breakdowns and accidents. The mountain was a cruel mistress. Regardless, I was ahead of where I’d finished the previous year.
I put my concerns about what might happen out of my mind and concentrated on what was happening. My breathing steadied as I pushed the car into a faster rhythm again. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. One, two, three, four.
I saw Hunter’s brake lights ahead, and then I braked late before pushing hard to the left.
Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting. Reid Park. Past McPhillamy and into Skyline. Float through the S bends and the Dipper.
Within a few laps, Morgan informed me I’d cut Hunter’s lead from just over a second to mere fractions of one. He didn’t need to tell me though, because I could see how close Hunter was. I could feel the slipstream coming from his car embracing mine tightly and tucking me neatly behind his arse. If he was working the fuel conservation angle as I suspected, my position had to be driving him crazy.
We were coming up to the straight; there was just a soft right and then a hard left around Forrest Elbow first. Hunter slammed his brakes aggressively before the hard left, and I had to go wide to avoid running into the back of him. I twisted the car around as quickly as I could, feeling the tail get a little loose on the marbles, but I held control of it. I slammed down a gear and then pushed the accelerator hard, using my position to run door to door with Hunter down Conrod Straight.
As much as I could in the HANS, I turned my head to watch as I raced past him on the outside. I felt like waving, but realised that would have been a little bit too obnoxious; especially considering I was stealing third—his chance for a podium finish—from him.
My place on the outside put me in a perfect position for the soft right coming up, but I needed to ensure that I dominated the track to get ahead of him. And I needed to be sure that I had the line for the sharp left that followed or I’d lose the ground as quickly as I gained it. I pushed as hard as I could, but he lost speed rapidly as we approached the corners.
Without warning, he twisted his car toward me, and if I hadn’t been paying so much attention to him, I would’ve missed his next action. The thought that he’d misjudged the corner and understeered would’ve crossed my mind if it were any other driver, but I knew him too well. He’d glanced in the direction of my car before he’d flicked the wheel toward me once more.
I turned the car away from him as quickly as I could, sending it wide around the corner and flicking the tail out. It had the intended effect, removing myself from the danger of Hunter’s car, but also left me scrambling to get back onto a good line on the track.
Because he didn’t have my car to stop his turn as readily, Hunter speared off toward the wall before righting and slotting himself directly behind me. I felt his front bumper scrape my rear bar and winced, wondering momentarily how much that little scrape was going to cost me.
That thought speedily left my head when I realised I was in third place.
I was in third.
After everything that had happened over the last year—the last four years, in fact—I couldn’t believe I was actually in third as a privateer. More than that, I felt completely in control behind the wheel for the first time ever. Even at the height of my career, I’d never felt so in command of every aspect of my life. I was on a high, and not even Hunter swerving from side to side in my rear-view mirror could bring me down.
Just as I was settling in to try to close in on second, my car lurched forward sickeningly. Hunter had leapt forward on the accelerator behind me, giving my arse a love tap. I cut across his nose, boxing him in before slamming on the gas and launching the car as hard as I coul
d down the straight. Hunter came up the inside of me, edging further alongside my car with each second. He gave my car another love tap, this time on my rear quarter panel—at almost the exact spot he’d hit Morgan’s car—and the rear of my car spun loose, allowing him to gain even more ground on me.
I wrestled with the steering wheel and dropped off the accelerator to regain control. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to beat him to win the bet, just stay on the track. The old me—the hot-headed one who was angry with the world because of the stupid decisions I’d made—would have chased him down and gained ground on him, stupidly throwing away everything that mattered in the race just to settle my own personal vendetta against the fucker.
A part of me still desperately wanted to, but I didn’t.
Instead, I concentrated on solidifying my track position and ignored Hunter as best as I could, while still paying enough attention to be certain that I would be ready for any more smart-arse tricks he had up his sleeve.
I followed Hunter’s taillights closely through the rest of the lap, never letting him out of my sight and ensuring he didn’t gain even a fraction of a second advantage over me. In almost no time, we were back to the lead-in to Forrest Elbow. This time, I didn’t let Hunter get the jump on me. I slammed on the accelerator, took a risk, and snuck up the inside.
I had the racing line. According to CAMS guidelines, he should have relinquished the position to me, but instead he pushed his car heavily into mine. I had two choices, push forward and risk getting tangled up with his car because it was obvious he wasn’t playing by the rules anymore—if he ever really had—or back off, allow him to gain the position, and then lodge a complaint with the officials.
“Let him have it.” Morgan’s voice filled my ear just a fraction of a second after I’d tapped the brakes to get myself out of the fray.
A second later, Morgan informed me that Hunter had already been given the white-and-black flag for unsportsmanlike driving. I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face as I heard the news. Hunter was obviously being relayed the same information, because his car suddenly lurched to the side, allowing me plenty of room.
There was no doubt in my mind that he had something more up his sleeve though, so I was cautious as I crept up alongside him, ensuring I left plenty in reserve. I dialled up my throttle a little more to give myself that extra push I might need to get away.
Our cars were side by side, my door was level with his, when he once again tugged sharply on his steering wheel, but I anticipated his movement perfectly, slamming down a gear, ramming my foot flat to the floor, and accelerating away from him easily. Because of his speed and desperation, his move sent him straight into the barrier.
I heard the crunch of metal on concrete behind me and felt bad. Just not for Hunter.
Instead, I felt terrible for Danny, who’d have to pay for the repairs; for the guys in the Sinclair Racing pit, who’d all worked so hard over the weekend to ensure the car was at its best; and for every other person whose hopes and dreams for the weekend were resting on that arsehole’s shoulders.
The yellow flags came out along the track and my stomach began to flutter at the possibilities that had just arisen. We were so close to the finish, just a few laps remaining, and the field was about to be bunched up by the safety car. I could almost taste a victory sweeter than any of my entire career to date.
A victory with my wife and little princess watching.
A victory that I’d had a huge role in orchestrating.
When the cars bunched up, I sat impatiently on the arse of second, twisting the wheel from side to side occasionally to keep the tyres warm.
“Relax.” Morgan’s voice sounded anything but calm as he issued the command.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I murmured in response.
“Just finish. That’s all you need to do now, squirt. You’ve already proven yourself to everyone watching.”
I clenched my fists tightly around the steering wheel as the lights went off on the safety car. My heart was in my chest, and I could barely even breathe. All I could do was concentrate on the bulk of metal and machine surrounding me.
I felt the car as if it was an extension of my own body. The dents and scratches that Hunter had caused were nothing more than bruises and battle scars. For the weeks after last year’s Bathurst, I’d battled with injured ribs. I’d managed. This was no different. The scratches and scrapes wouldn’t stop me from achieving what I wanted to.
The safety car peeled away and we were racing again. The car in fourth place tried to take me around the outside, but I was too quick. I darted forward, with the car in front of me squarely in my sights. There were only two laps left in the race, mere minutes to stake my claim after hours and hours on the track.
I stuck to the bumper in front of me like glue, refusing to let him shake me and taking advantage of his slipstream. Slowly, the car behind me slipped further away, until there were spots on the track when I couldn’t see him in my rear-view mirror at all.
Before I knew it, I was on the final lap. My heart was still thumping wildly somewhere behind my Adam’s apple as I came around the final few turns. I pounced on the driver in front of me as we hit the chase, running through it side by side. He had the speed, but I had the racing line. I darted around until we were side by side again on the run up to the start/finish. I watched as the chequered flags waved excitedly just ahead of me, signalling the arrival of first place.
Crossing the line without claiming the ultimate win didn’t affect me the way that it would have just one year earlier. I was easily able to concentrate on what I had achieved, rather than what I hadn’t. Everything that had happened over the last year led me to where I was and I couldn’t have been happier.
I’d finished the race. That alone was huge. It no longer mattered what position I finished in, just that I finished. I had achieved what I had set out to, and I hadn’t let Alyssa’s hard work be in vain.
That I’d finished on the podium with my pride intact was fan-fucking-tastic.
As I climbed out of the car, I could hear camera shutters whirring all around me, but I only had eyes for two people.
Morgan and Dane raced out, followed closely by the boys from the pits. I was slapped on the back and congratulated repeatedly, but I walked past them all in a daze. At the back of the rabble, Alyssa stood, wearing a small, triumphant smile and a look in her eyes that told me she hadn’t doubted my ability for a second. Phoebe was perched on her hip, shouting loudly to be heard over the din around them.
The sounds and people around me faded to white noise, a slight humming with only a few key words standing out. Third place. Terrific achievement. Rare accomplishment for a privateer.
Instead, I heard Phoebe’s words as if she were shouting them to me across an empty room. “Yay! Daddy won!”
I took another step forward and it felt like time stood still. It was like a dream where no matter how fast I could run, it wasn’t fast enough. I wanted to already be by Alyssa’s side, but instead I had to cover a great distance. Another step through the crowd and slowly my boys began to realise what I was after—or more specifically who.
My path cleared gradually and the faces whirled past me in a blur as I broke into a run toward the two people who meant the most to me.
As soon as I was close enough, I hugged the two of them tightly. I gave them each a kiss on the cheek. I wanted to say something meaningful or poignant, or just . . . anything.
But I couldn’t.
I was completely lost for words. When I met Alyssa’s eyes though, I realised there was nothing more that needed to be said.
Everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.
And the rest of our lives were only just beginning.
EPILOGUE: SWEET VICTORY
I RAN MY finger over the photo on the wall across from Phoebe’s room—a picture of me on the podium as champagne flowed freely. It was my permanent reminder of the sweetest victory I’d e
ver experienced, and she’d insisted I hang it where she’d see it every day. I could never have guessed my placing third would mean so much to her.
Even now, almost six years later and heading toward her tenth birthday, she wouldn’t let me move it. Honestly, I couldn’t think of a win or placing in the rest of my career as a driver that meant more to me than that one either.
The days, weeks, and months that followed that meeting were some of the most interesting I’d ever lived through.
WHEN I’D returned to Sinclair Racing after placing third at Bathurst, I didn’t think I’d ever seen happier faces. Everyone had congratulated me and slapped my back. I didn’t think a single person was upset that Hunter had crashed or that I had beaten him in our little bet.
Surprisingly—or maybe not so surprisingly, given his personality—Hunter arrived at work shortly after me. He laughed off our bet and refused to acknowledge the fact that he’d lost or that he was effectively welching on the deal.
It had taken him a little over an hour to confront me. There was little doubt that he wanted to approach me sooner, but didn’t want to do it around anyone else. He was up to his old tricks again, but somehow they didn’t bother me anymore. They couldn’t. It was like I was impervious to his bullshit. In fact, I even had a plan to deal with him. Well, a plan that Danny and I had hatched together.
It started with the new security cameras Danny had included in the sheds, and ended with ensuring I was down there alone. When Hunter appeared around the corner, ready to strike, I slipped my hand into my pocket and leaned against the conference table, waiting for him to act.
“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” Hunter hissed.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Ducking and weaving like that on the track,” he seethed.
I shrugged, smirking at the very idea of him being kicked out of Sinclair. “I was just driving to the conditions you created.”
Declan Reede: The Untold Story (Complete Series) Page 135
