Braking Points

by Tammy Kaehler

  After that, I avoided relationships and focused on my racing. The two weren’t compatible in my experience.

  Stuart Telarday had snuck under my guard, annoying me first, then challenging me. I still found him mildly irritating and uptight in his role as Series VP during race weekends. But on a personal level, he made me laugh, encouraged me, and supported me. He was attractive, successful, smart, and, for some reason, really into me. We had chemistry. Were we in a relationship? I supposed so. Was I ready to take the risk and embrace him emotionally? I realized I already had.

  I shook my head. What the hell was I thinking? Grab the reins. The only question remaining was why we were both alone right now.

  I quickly brushed my teeth, dug a sample vial of perfume out of my bathroom kit and dabbed it in strategic spots, and put jogging gear on over the only set of lingerie I owned—which Holly coerced me into buying on our last shopping trip. My heart pounded as I hurried out of Siebkens, over to the Osthoff, and through the hallways to his room. My whole body vibrated with the thudding of my pulse as I knocked on his door.

  He answered, shirtless and in sweatpants. He looked good, better than good, and my throat went dry. He hid some muscles under that Series attire.

  “Kate? What’s wrong? Come in—let me get a shirt.” His voice trailed off as he retreated to the bedroom of his junior suite.

  I shut the door behind me, setting out the “do not disturb” sign and flipping the deadbolt. I leaned back against it, kicked off my shoes, and had my hands on the zipper of my hoodie when he returned, decently covered by a polo shirt. That was a shame.

  “Kate?”

  I hadn’t said a word, not to be mysterious, but because my extensive media training hadn’t prepared me for this. In the end, I said nothing, simply stepped toward him and pulled the zipper all the way down, revealing black and red lace and a lot of skin. It was the first time I’d seen him speechless.

  I shook the jacket off my shoulders and slipped it down my arms. Two more steps and I stood an inch away from him. His eyes darted furiously from my lace-covered breasts—small, but showcased in a push-up bra—and my face. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

  I rose on my tiptoes, put my arms around his neck, and planted my mouth on his. It took him half a second to respond, and then he all but inhaled me, his arms crushing me to him. Seconds or minutes later, I couldn’t tell, I freed one arm and reached down to untie the drawstring on my sweatpants. Once that was loose, my sweats slipped to the ground. I tore my mouth free long enough to whisper, “Lift.” He picked me up, and I wrapped my bare legs around his waist.

  He groaned deep in his throat and cupped my butt. Still kissing the breath out of me, he staggered to the bedroom, stopping to lean against the doorway.

  “Kate, are you sure?” he murmured, leaning his forehead against mine. “This isn’t because you need comfort after trauma? You’re not drunk, right?”

  I pulled his head up by his hair and looked him in the eye. “I’m confused about other stuff, but not you. How about you? This isn’t because I showed up in fancy underwear and you need comfort, is it?”

  His face grew serious. “I have loved you from the minute you swaggered into the ALMS paddock, making every other woman look dull in comparison. You just had to catch up.”

  I had a heartbeat to think, Too much, too soon, too fast. And then he kissed me like no one and nothing else in the world mattered. I stopped thinking. He stepped forward and gently lowered us both to the bed.

  Chapter Ten

  If I gave Stuart the shock of his life the night before, he returned the favor the next morning. I woke up to hear him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He walked back to bed, sweatpants riding low on his hips and unruly hair sticking up in one spot.

  “Good morning.” He smiled at me.

  “Stuart, you look sloppy!”

  He pulled my pillow out from under me and propped it against the headboard with his own, leaning back and ignoring my protest. “The image you have of me.”

  I stayed on my stomach, chin in my hands. “It’s different now. But you always look so neat, clean, and—unmussable. I always feel sweaty and rumpled and….”

  “Mussed?”

  “Never polished next to you. It’s intimidating.”

  He tipped my chin up. “Three things. One, you’re a racecar driver. You sweat and wear horribly hot clothing to do your job. No one cares that rock stars are sweaty and mussed. You have the same mystique. Two, you shouldn’t be intimidated by anyone or anything.”

  He paused, searching my face.

  “Three?” I prompted.

  “Three can wait.” He scooted himself down and pulled me up, and we were lost in each other again.

  Over room-service breakfast later, he said, “Three is you should get yourself a crisis PR specialist to handle media fallout.”

  “That’s for people with real problems.” I heard myself and stopped. It always happens to other people, not you, right? I frowned. “You expect media reaction to be that bad?”

  “Might be already.” He tapped a finger on the sports section of the USA Today that had been waiting outside his room. A one-inch sidebar at the top of the left column read, “Did Female Racecar Driver Wreck Fan-Favorite For Media Attention?”

  I made him write down a referral before he ate another bite.

  By ten o’clock, Holly and I were on the road to Nashville in my Jeep. She tipped down her sunglasses and peered at me from the passenger seat. “You finally did the deed with Stuart.”

  “We’ve been in the car three minutes. What are you, psychic?”

  She faced front again, the cat-got-the-cream expression on her face matching how I felt inside. “It’s the way you look. More relaxed than last night—than you should be for how much garbage is going on. Happy.”

  “I am happy. Except he thinks he loves me.”

  “Sure he does. It’s been written all over his face for months.” She saw my frown. “What’s the problem? You like him, too.”

  “I like him. I don’t know if I love him. Now I feel guilty I haven’t said it back and worried he feels more than I do. I can’t deal with this.”

  “Tell me what’s really wrong.”

  I took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, then released it. Felt calmer. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “It’s an eleven-hour drive to my house, sugar. Lay it on me. We’ll work it out.”

  By the time we reached the outskirts of Chicago, we’d talked through my litany of problems and what my plan of attack might be for each: the accident and the racing world’s subsequent doubts about my driving ability (“kick ass at Petit,” Holly said), pressure from my father to meet and be part of his family (“go slowly,” I decided), my stupid response to Miles Hanson’s fan (“apologize and ignore it,” she said), my concern Stuart was in love with me (Holly shook her head), and the grief I felt about Ellie. There weren’t any solutions to my sadness over Ellie—or for my confusion about Stuart—but Holly let me talk about my memories.

  At one point, soon after she’d taken over driving duties, I looked at her. “You’re the only one I talk to about this stuff.”

  “Your emotions, you mean?”

  I considered. “Put that way, I sound like an idiot.”

  “No, you sound like a guy. It’s no surprise, Kate. You work with guys, hang out with them. The racetrack isn’t a place to get all Maury Povich and talk about how you feel. But sometimes you have to. For those times, I’m here for you. Also to drag you shoe shopping.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  After that, I was ready to face the music. Using Holly’s smartphone—and swearing to get one of my own the next day—I checked racing news and blog sites, and found my name had gone from mud to something lower. I was being trashed in the comments on articles, with one in two
comments on every article using the word “bitch”—when they were being polite. Any supportive voices among the mob were vilified in my stead. It took me two hours to gather my courage to look at the Racing’s Ringer blog.

  Racing’s Ringer, whoever he—or she—was, posted information in two categories. “Eyewitness accounts” comprised two-thirds of the blog posts and contained anecdotes, incidents, or stories he or one of four trusted sources saw or heard personally. Those were marked with an icon of the word “eyewitness” under a cartoon of a pair of eyeballs in a car. “Unconfirmed reports” were little more than gossip, apparently gathered from any and all sources via a prominent “Send Me News!” link on every page. Those were prefaced with the word “unconfirmed” and followed by the Ringer’s spin and judgment. All posts were accompanied by a photo or video.

  I read through two dozen short entries, many of them unconfirmed, about past accidents I’d been in (whether I’d caused them or not), reporters or fans I’d snubbed (by mistake), and assorted misdeeds and misbehaviors (everything from wearing sweats while picking up dry cleaning once, to gloating over another driver’s misfortune that allowed me to win a race…when I was twelve). He used two unflattering images of me in rotation.

  By the end of five pages containing multiple blog posts, I wanted to pound on the dashboard, throw something, or scream. Each story from the Ringer and every comment from a blog post or article felt like another pebble placed on top of my chest, making it hard to breathe. Crushing my spirit. I was exhausted, yet frantic—and I, too, thought this Kate Reilly person was lower than pond scum.

  I twisted in my seat to face Holly. “Why does Racing’s Ringer hate me? Some of this is true, but most of it is willful misreading of situations. When do I catch a break for being human?”

  “Maybe you should ask him. I don’t mean defend yourself. But ask why he’s so set against you.”

  “He’d make fun of me. Then again, how could he get worse?”

  I faced front and wiggled the seatbelt to a more comfortable position, sifting through my emotions. I was furious at being falsely accused and made a spectacle of, as well as scared about the drama damaging my career. I felt helpless, at the mercy of faceless hordes who only saw or read part of the story, which made me mad again. Underneath it all, I was hurt that someone I didn’t know—I assumed I didn’t know—hated me that much.

  I stuck with rage, because dwelling on the pain might make me curl up into a whimpering ball of self-pity.

  “I’m doing it.” Before I changed my mind, I typed a note in the comment form: “Dear Racing’s Ringer, Why do you dislike me so much? You take delight in reporting mistakes and missteps in my career, and I’d very much like to know why. Kate Reilly.”

  Maybe I’d get something to work with.

  The next task was my voicemail. After the first two post-race calls from reporters, I’d sent my grandparents and other key people e-mails telling them I was fine, but not to call. Then I’d put the phone on silent—checking for text messages, but ignoring calls. I knew there’d been dozens of attempts and messages, and I dialed voicemail via speakerphone, so Holly could hear also.

  From eighty-three missed calls, there were twenty-five messages, mostly requests for comments or interviews. Nineteen from media outlets I’d never heard of, and five from publications or reporters I knew. All referenced the accident in the race and Miles’ injury; half of them also referenced Ellie’s death. One was Juliana, devastated about Ellie and asking how I was doing. She also warned me her SGTV bosses hoped I’d do an on-camera interview with her. Holly agreed that might be the best tribute to Ellie.

  The single non-media message was from a man claiming to be Miles Hanson’s biggest fan and telling me I would burn in hell for what I’d done. Hearing a stranger’s voice saying something so hateful was worse than vituperative comments on a blog, and my hand shook holding the phone. It took fifteen minutes of deep breathing to regain my equilibrium.

  The last hurdle was my professional e-mail inbox, which I pulled up on Holly’s phone. I clicked through seventy-three of the 1,238 unread messages. Six offered support of the “you go, girl” variety. Sixty-seven were complaints or hate messages about Miles. His injury was my fault, of course, but I was also blamed for other problems he’d had in his NASCAR races, for making people quit being fans of racing, and for the cost of race attendance. Moreover, I was proof women don’t belong on the racetrack. One guy called me the devil. A couple of them threatened personal harm, should I show my face around Miles again or should he suffer lasting injury. Five wished I’d die in a wreck, one said I should have died instead of Ellie, and three threatened to kill me themselves.

  Once I stopped hyperventilating, I called Stuart’s crisis public relations company, which turned out to be a husband and wife team based in Los Angeles. Matt and Lily Diaz had written the book on crisis management, marketing, and publicity after steering two pro basketball players, a golfer, three NFL players, and a tennis ace through the media minefields of misdemeanor and felony accusations. Even a couple trials. Someone with a problem in the motorsports world was new for them.

  I explained who I was and started to describe my recent image problems, mentioning the death threats. Matt stopped me, instructing me to hang up and call the police, then call them back. I started with Lieutenant Young at the Sheboygan County Sheriff’s office, who took down the details and advised me to notify the police wherever I stopped, so local authorities had record of the situation. He made it clear no agency could do much based on threats alone—unless someone acted on them. I assured him I’d contact Nashville and Atlanta police when I got to those cities.

  After I hung up with him, I called Matt and Lily again. Before I could resume my explanation of the problems I was having, Lily interrupted me. “Tell me, are you an ‘aggressive hothead out to succeed over men at any cost?’ Or not?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Lily,” Matt Diaz spoke before I gathered my wits. “Give the poor girl a chance.”

  I cleared my throat. “You’ve been reading blog posts.”

  “We looked around while we waited for you to call back,” Lily said. “But we’ll get totally familiar with your situation over the next couple days. By Thursday night, we’ll have a plan.”

  I gave them websites, blogs, and news outlets covering the story—covering me—especially those whose representatives had left me voicemails. I gave them my e-mail login information so they could see what they were up against. And I promised to send a schedule of my sponsor and team obligations for the next two weeks, as I had a full calendar starting Friday. When I hung up, I felt better than I had in days. They were expensive, but having them on my side was worth it. A call to give Tom the latest news, a quick stop for lunch, and it was my turn behind the wheel again.

  We were eight hours in when Holly looked up from her phone. “Uh oh.”

  I glanced away from the road to her worried face. I took three deep breaths and a sip of Diet Coke. “I’m ready.”

  “First of all, you’re trending on Twitter.”

  “I’m not even on Twitter.”

  “I know, but you’re trending with a couple hashtags.”

  “Hash-what now?”

  She sighed. “Sugar, really, social media? What generation are you from? Hashtags are for search terms or topics. Hashtag ‘Kate Reilly’ is getting some use, and hashtag ‘blame Kate’ is making the rounds. You need to join Twitter.”

  Before I could comment, she held up a hand. “There’s more. Racing’s Ringer responded to you—complete with the creepy eyeball graphic. He’s a jerk and he’s wrong, but he explains his problem with you.”

  “Read it to me?”

  “‘An open letter to Kate Reilly. Dear Ms. Reilly, You wrote today asking me why I dislike you. Why I have such fun repeating tidbits about your career. I’m happy to explain to you and my Ringer Readers.’”

/>   “‘Ringer Readers?’” I broke in. “That’s dreadful.”

  “Agreed. He continues, ‘It’s not true to say I dislike you. I have no use for you and, honestly, I don’t get the hype.’”

  “Hype? I have hype?”

  “Let me finish reading. ‘So you’ve done nothing of value, particularly off the track. Like so many others, you can drive some. But color me unimpressed, because you have a growing voice in the racing industry and the sports world you don’t use. You’re a role model, do something about it! Give back to the fans and little girls who admire you. Contribute to a cause, speak out for an organization. Stand up for something! You’re a public figure and it’s your responsibility to inspire those around you. So until I see you stepping up to your responsibilities, you don’t get my respect. Signed, Racing’s Ringer. P.S. One thing that’s outright unforgivable is your lack of response to Ellie Grayson Prescott’s death. Sources tell me she was a good friend of yours back in your formula racing days, and you found her dead, but can’t be bothered to comment or show remorse. If this is how you treat friends, how do you treat your enemies?’”

  For three miles down the road, I had no words to express the injustice.

  Holly broke open a bar of dark chocolate and handed me a piece. “You did ask.”

  “When was I supposed to make a statement about Ellie? The night it happened, when I was in shock? Don’t I get time to cope? Do I call a reporter today and make a statement? I don’t get it.” I ate the chocolate square.

  “He’s holding you to a higher standard than most drivers. Shoot, most boys steer clear of DUIs and speeding tickets, and they’re golden. I wonder if the Ringer is a woman, and that’s why she—he? it?—is so hard on you.”

  “On one side I’ve got people threatening to kill me because I did something. On the other, I’ve got someone berating me for not doing something. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”