Justin laughed—the loud, carrying kind that made people in the next pit look over. Dawson shook his head and went back to the repair. This was how it had been since high school. Justin talked. Dawson worked. Somewhere in the middle, they’d built a friendship that didn’t need much tending, just the occasionalafternoon in a barn or a pit area with their hands in the same engine.
The pit area ran the full length behind the grandstand—packed dirt, generators humming, the occasional blue-white flash of a welder under a canopy. The announcer’s voice carried from the track, half-swallowed by engine noise. Every time a rig launched, the vibration climbed through Dawson’s knees and settled in his chest.
He’d been out here since noon. Justin’s rig was slotted for the modified class in the evening pull, and Dawson had promised him a full rundown before he staged. The wastegate was the priority, but he’d already been over the driveline, tightened the roll cage mounts, and swapped a cracked fuel line Justin hadn’t noticed. Justin competed. Dawson made sure the thing didn’t kill him.
He pulled the bad part and turned it over in his hands. The pivot pin was scored—metal that should have been smooth was worn down to a rough edge. He dug into Justin’s toolbox for a replacement, found one that would work, and started fitting it. His shoulders were loose. The grit of the fairgrounds under his knees, diesel and hot metal in the air, his hands moving through a job they knew by feel. This was the version of himself that made sense.
“We’ve got a tourist.”
Dawson looked up. Justin had his arms crossed, chin tipped toward the fence line.
Leo Vargas stood on the other side of the chain-link with his fingers curled through the wire wearing gleaming white sneakers, dark shorts, a linen shirt that fit like it was customtailored. The fairground sun had put color across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and his hair was still perfect despite the heat, which shouldn’t have been the detail Dawson noticed first, but was.
Their eyes met. Leo didn’t look away.
Dawson turned back to the part in his hands. “That’s the new Stags player.”
“No shit? The one from Florida?” Justin leaned sideways to get a better look. “What’s he doing back here?”
“How would I know?”
“He’s staring at you, man.”
“He’s staring at the rig.” Dawson seated the new pin and tested the swing. Smooth. He started threading the part back into the housing.
When he glanced up again, Leo had moved along the fence toward the gap where the chain-link ended at the staging lane. Closer. Not coming in, but not walking away either. Just drifting toward the opening like he couldn’t decide.
Justin looked at Leo. Looked at Dawson. A grin spread across his face that Dawson didn’t like one bit.
“Hey!” Justin called toward the fence, one hand raised. “Florida! You coming in or what?”
Dawson was going to kill him.
Leo came through the gap and picked his way across the pit area, stepping around spare tires and oil-dark puddles in white sneakers that would never recover. He stopped a few feet from the rig. Up close, there was sweat at his temples.
“Hey.” The smile was wide, immediate. Ready before Leo had even planted his feet.
“Hey.” Dawson didn’t get up.
Leo looked at the rig. Looked at Dawson. Looked at the rig again, like he’d never seen one before in his life. And maybe he hadn’t. He was a city guy through and through.
“I’m Justin.” Justin wiped his hand on his jeans and offered it. “This is my rig.”
“Leo.” He shook. His eyes moved over the rig—the roll cage, the exposed engine, the chassis that looked like it had been built in somebody’s garage because it had been. “What does something like this cost to put together?”
Justin blinked. Then grinned. “You want the number with or without the discount Dawson gets on parts through his brother’s shop?”
“It’s not a discount. I just charge you what’s on the invoice, much to my brother’s chagrin.”
“It’s a discount if the rest of the guys are paying retail.” Justin leaned against the roll cage. “Depends on the build. A stock class rig, you can get in for fifteen, twenty grand if you’re smart about it. Modified like this? We’re somewhere north of fifty, and I stopped counting because it was making me nauseous.”
Leo’s eyebrows went up. “Fifty thousand dollars. For this.”
Something shifted in Dawson’s chest.For this.Like the rig was a curiosity. It was obvious he thought spending that much money on a machine with no purpose off the track was a huge waste of money.
“It’s a motorsport,” Dawson said. He kept his voice flat. “People spend money on motorsports.”
“No, I know. I just—” Leo caught himself. His hand came up, rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve never seen anything like this up close. The stuff out on the track was intense, but back here it’s—” He gestured at the engine bay, the tools, the pit area around them. “It’s a whole operation.”
