Free Blind Spot by Chris Fabry

bedrooms were like. And the bathroom. Butch Devalon wore his fire suit, dark sunglasses, cowboy boots, and a black hat. He looked like a gunslinger in one of those old Westerns, except he didn’t have a gun. “Chad told me you were coming. Burgers are cooking in the back. Welcome to our home away from home.”
    “Sure is a nice place,” Jamie said.
    Kellen picked up a shrimp as big as his hand. “Nice doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
    The man chuckled and sat on a couch that creaked as he took off his boots and laced up his racing shoes. “Bet you’re glad you won’t be going up against Chad anymore.”
    “Oh, she’s—”
    Jamie cut her brother off. “I enjoy competition a lot, Mr. Devalon. Your son always . . . pushed me to do my best.”
    “Did he now? That’s putting a positive spin on it. You looked a little ticked at the last race.”
    “I was upset at first, but that’s racing.” If she’d heard that line once on SPEED TV, she’d heard it a thousand times.
    Mr. Devalon shook his head. “You’re just like your old man.”
    “Nothing wrong with that,” Kellen said.
    Mr. Devalon smiled. “’Course not. If you want to stay in the back of the pack.”
    Jamie’s blood pressure began to rise. Most drivers couldn’t say enough good things about her dad. He knew when to be aggressive, but he was fair. In fact, he had one of the best reputations of anyone in NASCAR. You never had to guess about Dale Maxwell’s character or where he’d stand on an issue. And you never had to wonder if he was going to do something dirty to you.
    But Butch Devalon was another matter. Always locked in controversy. Arguing with other drivers. Even his own teammates didn’t like dealing with him. He’d alienated just about every driver at one point or another.
    “No, I think your dad’s more concerned about being nice than he is about winning,” Mr. Devaloncontinued. “The whole God thing doesn’t mix with racing. It takes away all your competitive juices.”
    Jamie wanted out of the motor coach. She couldn’t stand the sound of the man’s grating, gravelly voice.
    “I wonder if that’s genetic,” he said.
    “What do you mean?” Jamie said.
    “If the way a man drives is passed down to the next generation.” He took a handful of macadamia nuts from a bowl on the table.
    Jamie turned to the front door. She could say her stomach hurt or she wasn’t really hungry. Kellen would probably protest and say he was starving.
    But what Mr. Devalon said next snapped her to attention. “Some guys on my team have been talking about you.”
    Jamie squinted. “Me? Why’ve they been talking about me?”
    “Probably heard how bad you did on your last math test.” Kellen laughed.
    Jamie flicked his ear but kept her gaze fixed on Mr. Devalon.
    “One of the Devalon owners was at the track that night in Alabama. He’s got a good nose for new drivers, and he said he thought you might have what it takes.”
    Jamie’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know what to say.
    Mr. Devalon went on. “Now I won’t blow smokeat you. I don’t think females can go very far in this sport. Don’t think they have what it takes physically or mentally. But he seems to think it’s good for attendance to get ’em suited up. Makes the female fans happy, you know. Diversity and all that. I can pretty much guarantee you a woman’ll never make it to the top 10, let alone win a cup. But then, there’re a lot of people who’ll never do that. Like your dad.”
    Jamie tried to ignore the digs against her father, but they kept coming.
    Before she could say anything, Kellen said, “Why do you hate our dad so much? Are you jealous?”
    Mr. Devalon pushed his hat up and spread both arms like a hawk on the back of the leather couch. “What’s there to be jealous about? You guys have a ride like this? Has your dad won a race in the last two years? Or has it been three?”
    “No, but life’s more than the stuff you buy or always coming out