Patricia Hagan - Race To The Altar

No doubt about it, he thought on a sigh. He had to make her want to quit…and fast.

Liz heard Rick sigh and mistook it for annoyance at the trio of girls standing in the lobby.

“Rick Castles, it’s really you,” one of them squealed. She was poured into her jeans, which cut below her navel. Her braless bosom was about to tumble out of her halter top as she bounced up and down on the toes of her platform slides.

“Can we have your autograph?” asked another girl, dressed almost identically, as she rushed up to Rick.

“Yeah, sure,” Rick said pleasantly. He suspected Liz thought it was for her benefit that he was being so nice about it, but the truth was he didn’t mind when the girls weren’t at the track. “Got a pen?” he asked Liz.

“Who’s she?” one of the girls asked, scowling jealously at Liz.

“My PR rep.” He took the pen Liz handed him and signed the piece of paper the girl thrust at him.

He did the same for another, but the third girl, who had been hanging back, moved in and said, “I want something else autographed.” She indicated her arm.

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.

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