the network. I stand as far away from the camera line of sight as possible. The guys move around in determination. They make sure everything is ready: their tools, the tires, and the full gas can. I can see the focus on their faces, in their eyes. This is what they do, and they’re ready.
Once the camera crew moves on, Coop steps in. Fish comes by and shakes his best friend’s hand, whispering in his ear and making him laugh. With a slap on the back, Fish turns to make his way to the grandstands, to where the spotters congregate high above the track. Before he gets too far away, he jogs toward me, that big dopey grin on his face. “Thought I’d come over and get a quick good luck kiss,” he announces a little too loudly, drawing attention. I’m pretty sure I even hear a growl.
But when he steps forward, his lips aren’t angled at me. No, they’re turned downward and go straight to Oliver’s bald head. “I know you’re wanting to give me a kiss, Lena, but I don’t think ol’ Cruz would like that too much,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. He throws me a wink, reaches down and takes Oliver’s little fist, gives it a tiny little bump, and darts off to get into position.
I look over at Mack, his face a weird combination of anger, surprise, and humor, all rolled into one. When our eyes meet, he just shakes his head and goes back to his conversation. Moments later the entire place is buzzing as the countdown to the green flag is on. We gather by the car, his team lining up in a single-file line across pit row. Mack waves me closer as the announcer asks everyone to rise and remove their hats for the playing of our national anthem.
Stepping beside him, I feel the heat of his body wrap around me like a warm caress. A sudden energy sweeps through the pit area; it’s alive and vibrating. Hell, that might be coming from Mack, too. Standing this close, I can sense the eagerness, the anticipation. He’s in a zone, as if he’s preparing for battle. Even though he looks calm and loose on the outside, I can feel what he’s going through on the inside.
He reaches down and pulls the headphones from his side and slips them over Oliver’s ears. The baby barely stirs. I barely stir, even as he brushes his hand over my breasts, just like earlier. This time, he doesn’t make eye contact. He just finishes the job, positions himself shoulder to shoulder beside me, and stands at attention.
That’s when he reaches over and slips his finger inside of Oliver little fist, as if holding his hand, as a young fourteen-year-old girl starts to belt out the words to the one song that gives me goosebumps every time I hear it. Having a baby strapped to my chest makes this part difficult, so I just hold my hand over my heart as best I can. Mack’s eyes are on the flag flying high in the infield, but he keeps his hand nestled with his son’s. And I’ll be honest, it’s brushing against me too. I try not to pay it any attention, but it’s difficult when it’s his hand, and it’s resting against my chest.
I continue to stare at the flag, ignoring the camera that moves directly in front of us. I don’t react, as if it’s completely natural to have a television camera shoved in my face. I mean, sure it was natural way back when, but it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere near one.
Until now.
As she hits the final high notes and belts out the closing lines, the crowd erupts as the fighter jets fly over our heads. I know what comes next. I see the other drivers turn and kiss their significant others before getting ready to be strapped in. My heart starts to skip a beat as Mack turns beside me, our arms brushing against each other. Longing and desire sweep in, and all I can think about is him wrapping his arms around my back and kissing me before he climbs in. It’s like the media is waiting too. They stand right beside us, ready to capture it for the entire world to see.
He doesn’t fulfill their ratings-gold dreams, or mine.
Mack bends down and kisses his son’s head, whispering something only he can hear. I feel his fingers dance on my