Mack kisses the side of my head and says, “Let me lock the door.”
Once Oliver is secured in his seat, we head off to Brenton Speedway, the place where it all began. Mack holds my hand as we drive. We’re not too far away, actually. Mack bought a property five miles down the road. It’s eight acres of timber with our house nestled back in the middle. We didn’t build it, but it was as if it were designed just for us.
Mack pulls into the driveway for the house and hops out. I work on releasing Oliver from his seat while Mack grabs the stroller and diaper bag. When I meet him at the back of the vehicle, I notice he has another bag too. My camera bag. I smile instantly, happy to still be able to grab photos of the races whenever possible.
We walk hand in hand across the lawn and toward the racetrack in back. Several familiar faces wave in greeting, a few come over to shake Mack’s hand. We spy my dad near the garage, his head bent over the engine bay. “Everything okay?” Mack asks as we approach.
Dad turns, his eyes instantly zooming in on Oliver. “Hey, if it isn’t my favorite little driver.” Oliver starts kicking instantly, trying to break free from the restraints of the stroller.
“Just a second,” I say to the little guy, bending down to remove him. “Here’s Pop Pop.”
Oliver goes willingly to my dad, who hands him a wrench. “Let’s not put this in our mouth, boy,” Dad says as he turns to show the baby the engine, telling him exactly what he’s doing. Mack joins them under the hood, and I can’t help but grab my camera and snap a few photos.
When they’re all done and the car is ready, we head to the track. Dad carries Oliver, proudly showing off his grandson. No, we haven’t made anything official, but that doesn’t matter to Dad. Or me. The first time I heard Oliver say Mama, I cried tears of happiness for ten minutes straight.
Since Dad is serving as Mack’s crew chief tonight, he hands the baby over to me. Oliver isn’t too pleased about it, but the moment I hand him snacks, he settles down in his stroller. When they get the cue to race, Mack kisses me on the lips, tussles his son’s fuzzy little head, and climbs behind the wheel.
I stay out of the way, off to the side of the track and up the slight hill so we have a great view of the race. This way, we’re not getting a mouth full of dirt all night. Oliver and I cheer as Mack battles for the lead, expertly whipping around the track just the way he did all those years ago. Everyone knows he’s here to win, though any winnings from tonight’s race go to a local charity.
When there’s five to go, I get up from my chair and watch. Mack’s car is in the lead, but there are two more hot on his heels. It’s close and anyone’s race to win. I check on Oliver, who’s been snoozing in the stroller for an hour under a thin blanket and cross my fingers. It’s not every day the defending IndyCar series champion is racing on a dirt track mid-season. If Coop saw this, I’m sure he’d have a thing or two to say.
The white flag waves, and the two cars behind Mack really dig in. The dirt is flying as all three drivers fight for the win. Ultimately, it’s Mack who crosses the line first. I’m jumping up and down, clapping and cheering the entire time, right along with the crowd.
He drives the car to his pit area and gets out of the car. Mack throws his arms in the air, celebrating with the large holiday weekend crowd who came to see a good race. Oliver wakes up, so I scoop him up and we head down to the track. I worm my way through the group congregating in front of the car, and the moment Mack sees me coming, he hops down and helps make room. The second I’m in front of him, he throws his helmet in the seat, the dirty outline from his goggles on his gorgeous face, and pulls me into his arms.
Oliver starts to cheer with everyone else, making us both laugh. “Congratulations, Mr. Bigshot race car driver.”