One For The Road - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

I woke up in Griffin's guest bedroom with a splitting headache and no recollection of the night before.
Excellent job, Katie, you goddamn mess.
I ran my hand through my shoulder-length dark brown waves, and a few strands of hair got caught in between my fingers. I didn't even bother to remove them before throwing my head back onto the pillow.
Bad move, dumbass. That's not going to help your headache.
I wasn't sure what time it was (or even what day it was), but I knew that I had disappointed a few people the night before. Roger's opinion mattered to me on a professional level, but Griffin's meant the world to me on a personal level.
The door opened, and I looked up to see Disappointed Person Number Two.
"How are you feeling?" Griffin asked.
"I've felt worse, but this sucks, not gonna lie," I replied. "How bad did it get last night?"
"You threw up all over your shirt and passed out on the couch," Griffin said.
"Did I get any on your new pine flooring?"
Griffin shook his head.
I couldn't stand to look at him anymore, since the sunlight coming in from the windows was just so bright, so I shut my eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I really didn't."
"I know. It's not that big of a deal, but—"
"It is that big of a deal. I told you I wouldn't, and yet, here we are. I have no idea what happened last night, I have no idea if I was alone, and I don't know where my shirt is, and—"
"You were alone, and I took your shirt. It's in the wash now," Griffin said.
I lowered my head back onto the pillow. "I'm sorry."
"You had a rough day yesterday. It's over now."
Neither one of us spoke for a moment.
I felt like shit, and I wanted to throw up again. But at least I had a good time.
My phone began to ring on the other side of the mattress, and I didn't even bother to pick up my head. The pristine white sheets were therapeutic, and the trip to Alabama (although it wasn't particularly far) would be miserable if I couldn't get myself to feel a little better.
"Who's calling?" I asked.
"Uh, Douchebag Boss," Griffin replied.
"Oh, that's Roger Truscott. Could you get that for me?" I asked.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? Maybe you should answer it, so he doesn't come to any wrong conclusions," Griffin replied.
He had a point, so I leaned over and pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"What the hell, Moore? Do you seriously think that we're singling you out on the drug tests because you're a goddamn woman?" Mr. Truscott shouted on the other end.
"I never said that," I mumbled.
"But you implied it to the entire world. Are you—are you crazy?"
"A case could probably be made for that."
"I want to see you in my office as soon as possible. We need to have a serious discussion before you leave for Talladega. I am livid, Moore. Livid."
"I'll be there. Just give me an hour," I said.
"You're in trouble, aren't you?" Griffin asked.
I nodded.
I headed into Mr. Truscott's office with plenty of makeup that let me look normal enough to claim I was just having a bad allergy day. I didn't typically like wearing makeup, since it felt like I spent half my life inside a helmet, but there were times that it could really save my ass.
Female privilege, as Roger would call it.
"Sit. This is going to take a while, I'm certain," Roger said, and I sat down on the opposite side of the desk.
His office was decorated with plenty of photographs of faraway beaches and cities, but there were no pictures of people. Perhaps he spent too much money on his fancy watches and not enough to buy a friend or a wife.
"You have seriously gone overboard this time, Moore. Instead of talking out your incorrect feelings, you went straight for the media, who's taking your word for it. Did you even stop to think for a second how much damage you'd cause not only to my team, but to the sport in general?"
"First, I tried to talk to you about it, but you said that I just had to shut up and drive the AA car. Second, you say that like it's a bad thing. If the system's broken, why not blow it up and start something better?" I asked.
"It's not broken, and your whining can't cost me anymore. It's about time it starts costing you instead."
"Hold on." I held up my hand. "This goddamn sport lets everyone else get away with whatever they want, and as soon as I say that I'm not being treated the same, I'm the problem?"
"This goddamn sport lets winners get away with more than you do," Mr. Truscott said.
I rolled my eyes. "What kind of bullshit is that? So you're saying if I won a race, then I'd finally be allowed to voice my thoughts?"
"Well, it sure as hell would undo some of the damage you've done to us financially. We're not one of those big teams who can afford all sorts of shit. Everything we have we owe to Griffin, who can actually win."
"So can I. I'll fucking win at Talladega if you give me anything with four wheels to drive and the chance to call all my own shots," I said.
That meant having my crew chief, Paul York, and my spotter, Christopher Lancaster, making decisions for me, but Roger knew what I meant.
"You better, or you can consider your career over. I don't have to deal with you, and there are plenty of other racers out there who deserve this shot more than you ever did."
"What?" I asked.
"If you don't win on Sunday and apologize to me during the interview in victory lane, your contract will be terminated," Mr. Truscott said, and each word stabbed me right in the stomach.
"You don't have grounds to do that. I haven't broken any laws or team rules," I said.
"It's for your own good. Maybe you'll take your free time to seek the psychiatric help you need."
He couldn't do that. There was no fucking way that was legal.
I shook my head as a few burning tears snuck into my eyes. "You know damn well that racing is the only thing that keeps me going. What else do I even have?"
"You'll find something, or you won't. You'll self-destruct, or you won't. It's not my problem either way."
"Oh, I'll be your problem. I'll win. You can't get rid of me that easily."
"Good, because I'd prefer if I didn't have to find someone new on a moment's notice. And you also will not be informing anyone about this conversation, correct?" Roger asked.
"Of course not. It's no one's business besides yours and mine."
"So what are you going to do?" Griffin asked after I explained my situation to him.
He and I were in the hotel gym in Talladega, Alabama, just a few miles from the race track, and as he ran on the treadmill, I ate a pudding cup.
"I'm gonna win, and then I'll decide what to do about the apology after," I said.
"But it's Talladega, Katie. It's impossible to know if you'll make it to the end of the race without wrecking, and that's where you pretty much almost died."
"That'll make it sweeter then, huh?" I smiled and licked off the lid.
Griffin stared at me for a moment as his legs and arms kept him going on the treadmill. God, I hated running. It was tiring me out just watching.
There were plenty of people who claimed all we did was drive around in circles, but the car fought every left turn like its life depended on it. We were athletes too, and I did just enough training to do my job. Griffin, on the other hand, actually enjoyed exercise and thought that it would give him an added advantage on the track. I always told him that there was something wrong with him, but he seemed to think that there was something wrong with me instead.
We were probably both right.
Griffin completed his fifth mile, and he climbed down from the treadmill with sweat dripping from his forehead and lining the collar of his shirt.
"You better win, Katie. I don't know what I'd do without you," Griffin said. He chugged some water from a Hydro Flask water bottle, and the muscles on his tattooed arms flexed. While I wore my emotions on my sleeve, he wore his money there.
"I don't know what I'd do without this job. I don't have any other plan really. And Truscott can't know that I told you about this. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone," I said.
"Then why would you tell me?"
"Because I wanted you to know," I said. Wasn't that obvious?
"But there's nothing I can do about it, so now I just feel weird."
"I'm not asking you to fix it. I'll do that. I just needed to tell someone, and I thought that you'd be a better option than a stranger on the street."
I rolled my eyes. Men.
There were a few other people I had to tell, like my crew chief Paul and my spotter Chris, and probably my pit crew (although there was the possibility that some of them didn't want me around anymore), but even though we all played for the same team, my best friend needed to know first.
"Well, if you need anything during the race like a caution, I'll run into the wall for you. You've done it for me too many times to count," Griffin said.
I smiled. It was definitely not allowed, but when Griffin was in second place and needed a quick way to catch up to the leader, there were times that something just randomly broke in my car and forced me up into the wall. But if the NASCAR officials could claim that five drug tests in a row was a coincidence, I could claim that my accidents were too.
Where the hell would I go if I couldn't race for RTR anymore? There had to be someone else out there, someone willing to actually work with me so we could all succeed.
But I couldn't take that chance. I needed a win at Talladega, and I'd get it, even if I had to kill myself for it.
"I won't need it. I'm just gonna lead the entire race as a fuck you to Roger," I said.
Griffin laughed and wiped off his face on a towel.
I couldn't lose. I lived life with that mentality, but this was the first time that it was completely true.