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“The qualifying record at the Daytona National Speedway.” I smile endearingly, letting out a breath and giving him an encouraging nod. “I remember, bud.”
Instantly, I feel like a piece of shit again. I have to reign in my anger at times. My shift in attitude changes his ability to function. He doesn’t deserve it. His life is challenging enough already.
“You’re still mad, Pickle,” he confirms in his signature controlled tone.
“Nah.” I smile, grabbing my purse before slinging my arm around him. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Where are you taking me? I’ve got…I’ve got my races on. I have to pause my races or I won’t see the Kyle Busch crash that took out the challenges behind Kevin Harvick in the 2007 Daytona 500, solidifying his place in NASCAR history.”
My smile spreads. No matter how infuriating this life we’ve been dealt can be, I love him so much. I'm his Dyl Pickle, and he's my Collie. It's just us.
“Let’s go get some McDonald’s.”
“But, I thought you said—”
“I’m gonna hound the lady behind the register until she gives us that 1987 Thunderbird, Col.”
He squeezes his fists in front of him, the way he does when he’s excited. When he releases them, his eyes grow wide with worry. “Just don’t hit her in the face like Jimmy Spencer hit Kurt Busch in 2013. He got suspended for that, you know.”
I laugh as he walks out with me in his yellow button-down shirt and grey sweatpants, his brown, rubber-bottom slippers completing the very put-together look.
“Promise I won’t hit her.” I slide my arm through the crook of his, guiding him towards the apartment complex stairs that lead to the street outside. “This time.”
6
Lake
I'vealwaysbeentheguy to get to practice an hour or more before everyone else. Which is why I'm sitting here in this parking lot an hour before the gym opens.
The pain today is the worst it's been since walking my ass out of that hospital bed. I've been icing periodically as Dylan instructed, but it's clear the medication injected into my knee has worn off, and the movements yesterday have caused some additional pain and inflammation.
I'm trying to push through by going over the new playbooks Coach sent me. Candy told me team practice was lame as fuck without hisWheelsthere, and just hearing about the drills they ran makes me itch with a need to get back. I'm flipping through the playbook, imagining myself back on that field running these routes, when I hear a vehicle pull up in the back of the lot, diagonal from my truck.
It's a modest car. A white Ford Fusion that looks fairly new for a girl who projects a reusable lifestyle.
She left her hair down, a look I've never seen. I barely recognize her as the bird's-nest-wearing-wonder in the flesh. But what really catches my eye is the amount of junk I see piled in the car’s back seat. From high up here in my truck, I peer down at what looks like thirty Happy Meal boxes and food wrappers galore. She's a damn packrat. A fast-food eating packrat.And she wants to preach about health and wellness?
Dylan doesn’t know I'm watching her as she gets out of the car in only a sports bra and a pair of tiny matching spandex shorts. Her hair is in loose honey-blonde curls that wisp in the breeze of the cool Illinois fall morning. It's long, draping all the way down to the middle of her back. The back that dips out, showcasing her perfectly toned ass that's just slipping out beneath the edge of her shorts as she bends over.
She grabs something from the passenger seat of her car, and I have to close my mouth that's dropped to the floor of my truck.
She's kinda hot. I'd even go so far as to say she's sexy. There's just no denying it. With the body of an athlete but the curves of a goddess, she's a bit of vision, though you'd never know it.Why does she dress like she's homeless?
I clear my throat, feeling the need to adjust myself in my sweats, getting a tad excited over this strange exhibition I'm partaking in. The fact that she tries not to look attractive but looks like this when no one is watching is doing something strange to me. A hidden sex pot of honey.
She digs through her purse and throws something out of it abruptly, like it disgusts her. Grabbing a hair tie, she stands straight again, facing away from me, and ties her hair in that signature messy bun on top of her head that she always dons. Stepping into a pair of huge sweatpants, she puts her arms through that old college sweater over her bra.
What I'm doing is highly inappropriate and slightly creepy, but I won't stop. I want to see more. My curiosities are going into overdrive.
I lean over in my truck to see what looks like a defined line down her abdomen when her head pops out of her sweatshirt. I about shit myself when her eyes immediately find mine. She clutches her arms across her body, as if it wasn't already covered in an abundance of ridiculously oversized clothing. I turn away from her as quickly as I can, pretending to scratch the back of my head.Busted.
About ten awkward minutes later, I maneuver myself into the building, attempting to hold the door with my shoulder as I limp in with my crutch beneath my arm. She notices my struggle from the office right away and jogs towards me, holding the door while she attempts to take my gym bag from me.
“Let me help,” she says.
I clutch onto the strap on the bag tighter and scowl.
I don’t mean to scowl at her, I'm just not used to letting women do anything for me. She notices my face and backs up a step, lifting her hands in the air.
