Race To The Altar

Liz held her breath to see how Rick would react.

“Sorry. No body parts.”

His smile could have melted an icicle. In fact, it kept the girl from having her feelings hurt, because she was practically swooning before it. “Then…then just sign this,” she stammered, overcome by his nearness, and handed him a souvenir race program.

Outside in the parking lot, Liz offered him a ride to the track. “You could come back with one of the guys.”

He shook his head, not about to be cozied up with her in a car. Too intimate. “No, I’ve got some stuff in mine I’ll need, and it’d take too long to switch.”

“Well, okay.” She tried not to sound disappointed. It was for the best, anyway. She knew she didn’t need to be alone with him any more than absolutely necessary. “By the way, you were really nice to those girls back there.”

“Of course, I was. They weren’t bugging me at the track when I’m doing something. Besides, to them I’m just another driver.”

Liz watched him walk to his car, wickedly observing that he looked just as good going as he did coming.

But he was wrong about thinking he was just another driver to those girls.

Like Liz, they knew a hunk when they saw one.

Rick was in the second qualifying race, and he and Mack and the crew used the extra time till then to keep working. Still Liz managed to get the whole crew lined up beside the car for more photos.

It did not take much to get caught up in all the excitement, and she felt so proud to walk with the crew as they rolled the car onto the track to line up for the start of the race.

The grandstands were packed. Bands were playing. All around fans were cheering for their favorite driver.

Liz wondered where she should watch the race. She didn’t want to be in the way in the pits but wanted to keep up with what was going on. Then she noticed some PR guys she’d met at the party last night heading for the press tower in the infield. She fell in step behind them, figuring she couldn’t go wrong following her peers.

The tower was floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides, and Liz thrilled to be able to see the entire track. It was deliciously air-conditioned, and there was plenty to eat and drink.

As writers worked on laptops, other PR reps passed out freebies like caps, T-shirts and other items with their drivers’ logos. Liz hoped her own supplies would come in. As soon as the race was over and she knew where Rick would be in Sunday’s lineup, she was off to work on his press kit.

“There’re off,” somebody shouted.

Liz found a chair and sat down to watch. The cars had taken the pace laps. The pace car had pulled in, and the green flag was waving.

Her eyes stayed on Rick’s car, and, for a while, things went smoothly. Then there was a four-car pileup right in front of him. She clenched her fists and bit down on her lower lip—hard—to keep from screaming. It looked as though he was going to plow right into the middle of the melee. Instead, he went high, and then she feared he’d hit the wall.

“Hey, look at how slick car sixty got around all that,” a writer yelled. “Who’s the driver?”

“Rick Castles,” Liz said loudly and proudly. “Sponsored by Big Boy’s Pizza.”

“He’s a rookie,” somebody else said. “Quite a feat. He’s gonna bear watching this season.”

“Right.” Liz was beside herself. “I’ll have his press kits in a few days. Meanwhile, if anybody needs to line up an interview, I’ll take care of it. The name’s Liz Mallory, and I’m his PR rep.”

She turned back to the race, thrilling to every second as Rick kept up with the pack. When he moved into fifth place, she heard more murmurs from the press as to his driving ability.

When he passed for third, and it looked like he might give a run for victory…actually had a chance to win, Liz could contain herself no longer. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and so were a lot of the writers, eager to pull for an underdog.

But he never made it closer than third. Still, cheers went up for a rookie who had done so well.

Suddenly Liz found herself surrounded by journalists clamoring to set up interviews. Rick Castles’s finish was worthy of a feature story.

“Say, why don’t you call down on your radio and get him up here for an interview?” someone suggested. Others agreed.

Liz felt stupid not to have her own headset and radio. She’d seen how a lot of other PR reps had them to keep in touch with the crew chief, but that was something she just hadn’t thought about. Boy, did she have her homework cut out for her.

“Radio wasn’t working,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ll just go get him.” She passed the food tables, laden with sandwiches and fried chicken. “He’ll probably be hungry, anyway, since his garage space is far away from the food like the rest of the rookies.”

A writer helping himself to cake squares gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about?”

“The rookies. They aren’t near the food. They have to earn it, you know.”

Others, overhearing, turned to stare.

“The rookies,” she repeated lamely, wondering what was wrong. “They aren’t near the food like the top drivers.”

“Would you please explain that?” the one with the heaping plate of cake squares asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I mean, what does being a rookie have to do with being near food?”

Stiffly, defensively, Liz said, “That’s what I was told by the garage guard my first day when I asked where I’d find my driver. He said he’d be in the back, not up front with the hot dogs. I asked somebody what that meant, and they said rookies weren’t near the food stands, and—”

As the room exploded with laughter, Liz slapped her forehead and groaned to remember just who that somebody was.

The mechanic under the car.

Also known as Rick Castles.

And once again he’d made her look like a fool.

Chapter Four

There were two days left before the big race. Liz was sequestered in her hotel room going over her notes to make sure she had not forgotten anything. Gary Staley’s jet would arrive just before lunch, so she had plenty of time.

Jeff was coming in on a commercial flight and had said he would meet them and take them to lunch. Liz had made reservations at an upscale restaurant and planned to join them there.

The press kits had been completed by midweek. She was very proud of them, and several journalists had complimented her on a great job. She had thanked them without explaining they would be even better once she had time to write some feature articles on Rick herself. But she could not do that till she got to know him a little better, and since the humiliating incident in the press box, she had avoided him as much as possible.

A week had passed since his performance in the qualifying races had given him a little more than fifteen minutes of fame. He had been the subject of several stories the following day in newspapers all over the country. He’d also been interviewed for radio and TV.

Liz had planned to play it for all it was worth, but the next day a well-known driver had wrecked his car in practice. The car was nothing but crumpled sheet metal, and she could not believe anyone could have survived such a crash. The driver had to be airlifted from the infield medical center to a local hospital, mercifully with no life-threatening injuries, but, of course, the media focused on him.

The day after that, something else had happened, and so it went. The sportswriters were constantly looking for new subjects to write about, so no one driver stayed in the limelight for long. Still, Liz had stayed busy trying to drum up interest in Rick. She had wanted to have a big story in the Sunday paper to impress not only the sponsor but her boss, as well.

She was sprawled on the bed, wearing shorts and a T-shirt with Rick’s picture on it. The tees had just gone on sale at the track concession stands the day before, and she was anxious to find out how they were selling. But first things first.

After lunch, Jeff was to drive the VIPs to the track, where Liz had arranged for them to have passes to the pit area to watch the last practice session. However, the crew was taking a day off. Their families had arrived, and they planned to relax at the beach the rest of the day.

She picked up Rick’s folder and began leafing through it. She knew it by heart. He was thirty-two. Older than the other rookies in their mid-twenties. But his had been a small, cheap operation. It had taken a lot of work and time on a very small budget to finally catch the eye of a sponsor willing to back him on the NASCAR circuit.