Smokin' & Spinnin'

by Miller, Andrea

  What is he saying?

  Does he mean he is ready to go public with us, our relationship? He may be, but I’m not so sure that I am. It has only been a few weeks. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure of how I feel about of his declaration and his honesty, but Ryan doesn’t give me a chance to respond. Without another word, he grabs the steering wheel, and we begin our journey back up to his home. I snuggle into Ryan’s embrace as we drive. It is a tender moment between us, and I leave those questions alone in my head. It has been a great day, and I don’t want to complicate things any further. If it ain’t broke, eh?

  “You wanna go back to sleep?” Ryan says, bringing me back from my deep thoughts.

  “Yes, I would love an afternoon nap with you,” I say softly as we pull back into his garage, but I know sleep is the farthest thing from his mind.

  Chapter 29

  This weekend is one of the toughest ovals in motor sports, Loudon. Ryan says it is an intense track, with high speeds exceeding 145 miles per hour and sharp corners all condensed into a one-mile radius, which has caused several racing tragedies at New Hampshire Motor Speedway. Remembering his stories of past accidents sends chills down my spine. Ryan will be rounding this short track about three hundred times today. That task in itself seems impossible to me.

  The anticipation for today’s race has been building since qualifying on Friday. Ryan secured pole with a qualifying time of 27.81 seconds, which means excellent field and pit position—not to mention the coup de grace of winning the pole position in back-to-back weekends. Word around the garage is that Ryan has the car to beat. I am so excited that I was not able to sleep at all last night, especially alone in my hotel room.

  Overnight, it seems our relationship has advanced to the next level due to Ryan’s recent revelations. And now his parents know, but that is all for now. I don’t like to be away from Ryan, but I refuse to sleep in his million-dollar luxury bus that stays parked in the infield during race weekend. It is his haven away from the madness. Ryan needs to be focused on the race and finishing well. The story of us complicates that, I am sure of it. Plus, I don’t want anyone else to know about us yet. I am not comfortable with my job being under scrutiny from Jerri, or any of my other coworkers for that matter. After I pleaded my case late Sunday night after brunch with his parents, Ryan agreed, but only after I agreed to stay with him during the week. My heart swells at the memory because it is still hard to believe that he wants me around at all, not to mention sleeping in his bed.

  I arrive at the track early, and Ryan and I attend all of the events together. It’s hard for me not be affectionate with him, but I maintain a safe distance. At the morning devotional, which is much like a normal church service for the drivers at the track, I look up at Ryan as he listens intently to the speaker. All I want is to be able to hold his hand. He looks down at me and smiles, a gesture that makes me believe he feels the same way too. I look back to the speaker, trying to focus on his message, but I can’t concentrate. I look around the room at all the drivers, their families, and team employees in attendance. My eyes immediately meet up with Colton’s. I notice him watching me closely, and my stomach turns. I have not seen or spoken to Colton since our intense moment in the garage at Daytona. I smile cautiously at him. He gives me a look that I am suspicious of, a look that makes me think he knows about my relationship with Ryan. Then again, I could be paranoid.

  After the national anthem and invocation, Ryan crawls into his #62 Chevrolet for three hundred miles at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway. I am about to make my way to my seat over pit road, when Ryan motions for me. I quickly return to his car and lean over into the window. He covers his speaker so Bobby, his crew chief, or Mike, his spotter, cannot hear our exchange.

  “I changed my mind,” Ryan says softly.

  “Oh! What about?” I say, confused.

  “I’m not sleeping without you anymore! I want you on the bus with me from now on,” he commands almost in a whisper.

  I know now is not the time to argue, so I smile smugly but feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest with happiness. I don’t have the strength or desire to tell him no. “Is that an order, Mr. Carter?” I question jokingly.

  “Yes, it is!” Ryan snaps back at me.

  I laugh, “Whatever you say, RFC!”

  He winks at me as he closes his helmet shield! Oh! I love that!

  Ryan secures his window net in place as a celebrity gives the traditional “start your engines” call. Forty-four stock car engines roar to life, as does the blood in my veins. Ryan was right about the adrenaline rush, which is still overwhelming to me, but I love it. It is addictive. I scramble up to my seat next to Ben in the pit box overlooking pit road. It is an absolutely gorgeous Sunday afternoon in New England. The temperature is about ninety degrees with a slight breeze, but that is nothing compared to the heat and humidity last week in Daytona.

  I am giddy like an errant teenager, which must show on my face, because Ben asks, “Is everything okay, Whitney?”

  I smile like I have a grand secret because, of course, I do. “Yes. Everything is perfect!” For once in my life, I truly believe that everything is.

  The race begins and is fairly uneventful, mainly because Ryan is dominating the track. He is executing all the right moves. Plus, his pit crew is cranking out awesome times today. They are all still on a high from Daytona. It looks like Ryan will be making a trip to victory lane as the race laps quickly count down. It is exciting. I wonder how I am supposed to act if he wins. How will Ryan act?

  I am broken from my daydreams of the winner’s circle due to a scheduled pit stop. Ryan takes on four new tires and a full tank of gas. There are no other adjustments that need to be made. His Chevrolet is on time today. But before Ryan can speed away from his pit box, Colton comes from out of nowhere to beat him off pit road. Where did he come from? I hear Ryan ask the same question over his radio frequency. I look over to Ben, who only shakes his head at me in confusion.

  There is no way Colton could have beaten Ryan off pit road because he qualified poorly and has a pit stall way in the back. I don’t understand. I listen intently to the communications between Mike, Ryan, and Bobby. The radio correspondence that I am tuned in to helps me clear the air.

  Apparently, Colton took on only two tires in that scheduled stop even though it called for four. Ryan takes the track back effortlessly from Colton, but he refuses to move his obviously slower car out of the way. Colton keeps shifting his car to block any pass attempts made by Ryan.

  What is this about? Does it have something to do with the look Colton gave me in the service this morning? A pool of dread bottoms out in my stomach, making me nauseous.

  I take a deep breath as I watch the monitor in disbelief. Ben steals a nervous glance over at me. He, too, is anxious.

  Ryan explodes through the radio, “What the fuck is he doing? Mike! Tell him to get the hell out of my way!”

  I cringe at his sharp words and frustration. Ryan is hot, literally. I need to caution Bobby about Ryan’s language, but I know now is not the time.

  I hear another series of conversations between Ryan, Mike, and Bobby. Mike is consulting with Colton’s spotter as Bobby heads down pit road to speak to Colton’s crew chief. What is happening? I don’t understand. Even though Ryan and Colton don’t get along, they are still teammates. I stand up and begin to pace the pit box, but it doesn’t help my nerves, so I sit back down.

  Ben and I sit in shocked silence as we watch the monitor. I hear a NASCAR official begin to get involved with Bobby. Hopefully, NASCAR will black-flag Colton. His actions are just unprofessional, not to mention out of character.

  Finally, Ryan is able negotiate a pass high on the right side entering turn three. I can hear Mike guiding him through the turn. He almost clears the #58 Chevrolet, when Colton drifts up intentionally and rams into Ryan’s stock car.

  Oh No!

  Ryan’s car slams hard into the wall of turn three at 139 miles per ho
ur. His car bounces off the wall, ricochets back down the track, and clips Colton’s Chevrolet, which causes them both to spin violently into turn four. I jump to my feet instinctively. A million things flash through my mind, but the most prominent are Ryan’s stories of the horrible accidents at this track. I am unable to stifle the sob in my throat.

  “Oh my God!” I cover my mouth with my hand.

  My reaction takes Ben by surprise. He reaches over to take my hand. “It’s OK, Whitney,” he says softly to reassure me even though he doesn’t look as confident.

  Ryan is silent over the radio even though he is prompted by Mike and Bobby to speak. He didn’t hit head the curve head on, but I know it’s bad. The impact alone, especially at that speed, could kill him. Please God no! I fight the thoughts away. I listen carefully over the frequency, willing Ryan to speak. I hear nothing from him. Again, both Bobby and Mike call out to Ryan, but still no response. His car rests in the infield grass out of turn four, smoking.

  I feel like hours have passed, but it has been only a matter of seconds. Sweat is running down my back, a lump is suffocating me in my throat, and the blood in my veins is searing. If it was not for the adrenaline, I am sure tears would be flowing freely, too.

  Finally, the radio crackles, and I hear Ryan’s voice. “Sorry, guys, I thought I was clear.”

  Ryan! I fall back into my seat feeling dizzy and nauseous.

  Ben looks ashen too. “Whew,” he says as he releases my hand to rub his own head in relief.

  Ryan is OK. However, this situation is not good. I can feel it in the air, like that Phil Collins song. I sit helplessly over pit road as Ryan pulls his battered car into his assigned box. The crew hastily begins working to repair the damage to Ryan’s Chevrolet. It’s bad and I know it. Within seconds, sheets of metal fly off, new tires go on, and a mallet loudly hammers out a dent in the front fender.

  Ryan is unnervingly quiet over the radio. My instinct tells me that this must be the calm before the storm.

  “Go! Go! Go!” the pit crew calls out, and Ryan pulls out to head back to the track. I and the rest of Ryan’s management team sit in silence, intently listening to his radio transmissions.

  My stomach churns with pure trepidation. Ryan’s spotter guides him back onto the track, and I can hear the car accelerate. I watch the monitor as he negotiates the first turn. So far so good! Then the second turn. He comes out of it smoothly and hits the gas to thunder down the straightaway. We have lost precious positions, not to mention we are several laps down, but if anyone can turn this around, it’s Ryan.

  Within seconds, I hear a noise from inside the car, and Ryan sprays our ears with a stream of horrible expletives. “That motherfucking son of a bitch!”

  I wince. That outburst is going to warrant a penalty from NASCAR, and I make a mental note to do damage control. I can hear Bobby speaking to Ryan in terms that, of course, I don’t understand.

  Bobby takes off his headset and slams it to the ground. “We’re out! Something broke in back! Ryan isn’t sure what!” He looks at me. “Whitney, you better get over to the garage quick!”

  I know exactly what he means. I don’t even think. I jump up and off the pit box. Ryan is mad as hell and guaranteed to make a scene. His language over the radio has already assured him a fine from NASCAR, but we definitely do not need a suspension to boot.

  Adrenaline and anger fuel my pace as I run to the garage area. I make it over there in time to see Colton stopping his damaged car in the middle of the lane. I stop in front of his car and throw up my hands.

  “What the hell?” I shout at him as he jumps out of his car, abandoning it in the middle of the roadway. Colton ignores me, so I hit the front hood of his car. “You clipped Ryan on purpose, Colton!”

  Colton rips off his helmet and throws it angrily into his car. “I guess you decided to violate company policy after all.”

  I am confused, but then my internal light bulb goes off. He knows. Shit! Deny! Deny! Deny! “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Colton is furious. He walks angrily toward me, scaring me. He jumps up in my face and grabs me by my left arm, above my elbow. “Why him? Why that son of bitch?”

  I wince in pain from his grip on my arm. “Colton, I don’t know what you are talking about!” I continue to lie and try to wriggle from his grasp, but he clamps down harder. Ryan’s warning comes to my mind from Daytona. “If he lays another hand on you…” I shudder.

  “Come on, Whitney! I saw you with him this morning at chapel. I saw the way you looked at him. I am not stupid.”

  I try in vain to come up with a believable story, but I am not good under pressure. Colton eyes me with utter contempt. I can’t breathe, and panic has stricken my chest. “You are mistaken…” I say, but before I can respond any further to Colton’s tirade, we both turn to acknowledge the sound of an injured car roaring into the garage area. It’s Ryan! However, instead of slowing down, he guns the gas pedal to accelerate his engine, which is still in working order. The engine roars, and Ryan slams his car into the back of Colton’s Chevrolet.

  Colton instinctively jumps out of the way, but I am frozen where I stand. I can’t move. The force of the collision causes Colton’s car to advance forward, clipping me under the knee. I hear a sickening crack, but the impact throws me up into the air and a few feet away before I hit the concrete facedown with a thud. I look up in time to see the front of Colton’s green stock car roll over the top of my shoulder, crushing me to the ground and suffocating me like a thick, heavy blanket.

  The commotion is deafening to my ears, and I can’t assimilate the aftermath. I hear many unfamiliar voices and incoherent shouts. I try to speak, cry out, but my voice fails me. I try to move, but my body does not obey my commands. I am pinned under Colton’s car, wedged between the tire and the front spoiler, but strangely, I feel no pain.

  I somehow manage to reach out my hand. Suddenly, it is grasped by a familiar touch. Ryan!

  I recognize Colton’s voice as he shouts out to Ryan, “Don’t! Don’t touch her! We don’t know how badly hurt she is!”

  Hurt! Am I hurt? The shock of the accident must be taking over. Ryan releases my hand. No, please! Don’t leave me! I hear more commotion and shouts, then what sounds like a scuffle.

  I begin to feel disoriented, and an intense panic starts to well up in my chest. I scream out in my head because my voice won’t obey me. Then, the overwhelming smell of gasoline and burned tire rubber takes what’s left of the air from my lungs. As I try to breathe, I hear a series of shouts, “One! Two! Three! Lift!” Suddenly, blinding light rips my eyes as the car is pulled away and the pain rages. There is a searing pain in my shoulder, neck, and back.

  It hurts. Everywhere. Instantly, strong arms pull me up from the asphalt. Ryan is on the ground with me, pulling me into his arms. “Whitney!” he exclaims. “Look at me!” I recognize his voice, but am unable to focus on his face. I cry out in pain as hot tears flood my face.

  “Whitney! Damn it! Please! Look at me!” I can hear the anguish in his voice

  I manage to look up into Ryan’s distressed blue eyes before the overpowering darkness takes over.

  Chapter 30

  Iawake in a small, quiet hospital room. It is peaceful. The only sounds present are the hums and beeps of the medical equipment that keeps track of my vital signs. The sounds are welcome and soothing. After the horrible commotion in my ears at the track, this quietness is therapeutic.

  It takes me a few minutes to adapt to my surroundings. The room is dark, but I can see Jerri sitting in a chair to my left. How did she get here? She looks frazzled, like she has aged in the last couple of hours. God bless her. She has looked after me like my mother since I started at GCR. Over in the right corner, Ryan sits hunched over with his head in his hands. He still has on his tracksuit, but I can’t tell if he is asleep or awake. I begin to feel dizzy and nauseous.

  I close my eyes to steady myself. Suddenly, the memory of being pinned under Colton�
��s Chevrolet comes barreling through my mind. I can still smell the gasoline. A sob wells up in my throat. Why can’t I be one of those people who forgets what happens in a traumatic accident? I am afraid to open my eyes to look at my wounds. If I am in the hospital, it must be bad.

  Carefully, I open my eyes again. I slowly survey the damage on my body. I can’t see my head or face, but I can feel a patch of cotton with tape over my left cheek. I bet that’s pretty! My head…eww! It’s throbbing! I look down. My arms are good, though marred with several scratches and bruises, but the small fingerprint marks above my left elbow bring tears to my eyes. Those purple bruises are from Colton, not from the accident. I close my eyes as I remember the fiery look in his eyes and how angry he was. I shudder at that memory.

  I have an IV secured in my right arm that must be providing some type of medication or fluids. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. My eyes move to my legs. My left leg is propped up under several pillows and is cast from the thigh down. I gasp out and the sob escapes from my throat, “Oh no!”

  My sudden outburst alarms Jerri and Ryan. They jump up, shocked that I am awake, and are both immediately by my side.

  “Oh, honey, are you in pain?” Jerri offers with a pained look of concern on her face. I nod. “Let me get the nurse for you.”

  Ryan interjects softly. “No…I’ll go.” I can’t bear to look at him. I am unsure of my emotions, and I pray not to make a scene in front of Jerri. I close my eyes and offer up that silent prayer.

  Jerri begins to speak softly. “Your mother is on her way from Georgia, and I have released a statement.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “What do you need me to do for damage control?”

  Jerri gapes at me. “Oh honey! We will handle all this. It is being taken care of as we speak. Please don’t worry! I need you to focus on getting better, which you will have plenty of time to do.”