Page 114 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
The noise level of the cheers in the bar has me wincing, drowning out all sound from the television. But it’s got nothing on when the second-place car right in front of him moves down on the low side of the track with a trail of smoke billowing out of the back of the car.
Three laps to go.
Strangers exchange high fives. Testosterone rages. The air grows thick with excitement and energy and I can only imagine what it would be like to be in the grandstands at the race right now, let alone in Zander’s shoes.
But once the camera pans to the stretch of track where they’re racing, I realize the only person left for Zander to pass to take first place is his dad, Colton. My eyes flicker back and forth between the red lead car and Zander’s second-place green car, and I wonder if he even thinks about the thirteen car being his dad or if he’s so focused on winning it doesn’t even faze him.
“And the twelve car is trying to reclaim the second spot,” the announcer says as the camera cuts back to where Dane’s car is edging its nose up alongside Zander.
My hand flies to my mouth. I stretch up on the tip of my toes and lean forward toward the television as if my silent pleas for him to go faster will make it happen. Will help him stay in second place.
“And Donavan pushes the car. How much more can his engine take?”
The network posts graphics on the bottom of the screen. The cars’ RPMs sit side by side. Zander’s shoots up as he pulls ahead and cuts back in front of the twelve car. Barely. While the customers hoot and holler, I close my eyes momentarily to rid my mind of the vision that had flashed through my imagination of his car smashed into bits.
Two laps left.
The cars catch up to traffic that’s a lap down. And when the drivers come out the other side of it, they sit one, two, three—Colton, Zander, and Dane—like a train of race cars. They are so close. All I keep thinking is it takes only one mistake. One blown tire. One rub. And then devastation.
One lap left.
I don’t know what to watch. The cars in the center of the track. The RPMs on the bottom of the screen. Or the floor so I don’t have a heart attack from the stress of it all.
The twelve car zags out behind Zander. And Zander reacts just as quickly, zagging out right in front of him with a perfect block. The cat-and-mouse game happens a few more times. Colton’s red car pulls away some. Gets a car length ahead as Zander continues to hold steady and fend off the twelve car.
And the customers cheer in a flurry of noise and high fives and clinked glasses as Colton crosses the finish line in first and Zander a moment later in second place. Liam grabs me in a quick hug in his excitement before he realizes what he’s just done and then immediately lets me go and clears his throat.
We both return to our opposite ends of the bar to fill the orders flying in from the servers now that the race is over.
But the TVs remain tuned to the race.
On Colton driving his car into victory lane. Getting out and pumping his fists. On the crew around him that high-five and pat him on the back, and the stunning woman with her hair pulled back into a baseball cap whom he pulls into a heartfelt embrace before kissing her soundly on the mouth.
I watch it all unfold when I should be pulling pints. There’s no way I can resist taking in these important pieces of Zander’s life with such a different perspective from that of everyone else in the bar.
And then the camera pans away. To a figure fighting his way through the crowd. In a dark blue ball cap and with a sense of urgency in his movements. Body language I know by heart. The crowd parts at its epicenter, where Colton stands, and Zander and his dad embrace in a long hug. The picture they portray conveys a message so much stronger than the words any announcer could ever say.
The rest of the world must see a son congratulating a father, but I know the backstory. I know the history. And so when I drop my eyes to hide the tears welling there, all I can think about is how happy I am that they worked it out. How lucky Zander is to have supportive parents who only want the best for him.
My muscles are sore from tensing them so much, my voice sounds hoarse, and the stupidly silly grin I can feel on my face isn’t going anywhere. It’s exhilarating. This feeling. Watching him race. And being comfortable enough to readily admit I’m in love with him.
How could I not be?
Colton’s interview airs while I fill orders as fast as I can, trying to keep up with the demand, but when I hear Zander’s voice fill the bar, I forget the pulled tap or the beer slowly sliding over the edge of the frosted glass.
He looks tired and sweaty but exhilarated and so damn handsome.
“So, not a bad finish when you’ve been off the circuit, wouldn’t you say?” the announcer asks, sticking a microphone in Zander’s face just as he lowers his bottle of Gatorade.
“Not at all. I would have loved the win today as a great way to make a statement for my team and all of the sponsors, but I can’t complain with the Donavan Racing Team taking a one-two finish here in Pocono.”
“Some people are saying you could have taken the lead with how you were burning up the track.”
Zander nods and shrugs. “Perhaps. From where I was sitting, Colton had the one spot nailed.”
“So you weren’t giving up the chance at claiming a victory today to block for the thirteen car?” he persists.
Zander flashes his grin. The dimple-territory grin, and I immediately understand the reporter is right. “You only get one family,” he says before the camera pans away, leaving me with the image of those dimples front and center in my mind.
