Braking Points Read Free

two weeks away.
    I replayed the accident in my mind. Did I screw up? No, not my fault. I could have done things differently, but my job is to pass cars and drivers, particularly when they’re begging for it. And he was.
    I rubbed my sore left wrist, sure I’d replay the event and the conversation with myself for days to come.
    My juice was finished and my knees had stopped shaking. Time to face the music. I squared my shoulders, thanked the medical personnel, and headed for the exit door as Stuart Telarday walked in. He was as perfectly pressed as always, but his wavy, sandy-brown hair flopped onto his forehead and he was frowning—signs of high distress to someone who knew him. Which I did.
    Over the past year, I’d gone from thinking Stuart over-starched, stuffy, and lacking in humor to finding him appealing. To dating him. Our five-month history totaled scores of telephone conversations, six dinners, and a few dozen kisses that made me tingle in memory. But I was still in the cautious stage of our relationship, unsure about how we interacted at the track.
    He saw me and visibly relaxed. “You’re all right, Kate?”
    â€œI’m fine. What’s the status on Miles?” My voice was abrupt to keep myself focused on business. To keep my emotions dammed up.
    â€œNothing yet. Let’s get you back to your team.”
    I let him take my arm and guide me outside, wondering why he’d appeared at the medical center. He was the VP of Marketing and Operations for the American Le Mans Series or ALMS. Plus we’d been dating. Neither role explained why he’d escort me back to my paddock.
    The crowd of more than fifty racegoers in the parking area outside did.
    I expected the media, and I’d been mentally preparing politically correct sound bites in which I pointed no fingers, as much as that galled me. The outlets covering the race—Radio Le Mans, print publications, SPEED Channel, SportsGroup TV, and even the on-track announcer—typically converged on drivers after accidents to ask what happened. Those reporters were up front, and I answered multiple versions of the same question with one statement.
    â€œIt got wet really fast and we were still on slicks. The other car missed a shift or something, and I got close enough to him that I either needed to pass or risk being stuck. I thought we were clear and clean. I haven’t seen a replay yet, but I’m guessing it was a racing incident. One of those things that can happen when we’re all pushing hard all the time. I’d like to thank my team, Sandham Swift, and our sponsors, BW Goods, Racegear.com, and Leninger’s Auto Shine, who prepped and gave me a fantastic Corvette today. My thoughts are with everyone else’s, hoping Miles Hanson’s injuries are light and quickly healed.”
    As I spoke into microphones and mini-recorders, Stuart hovered behind me, a six-foot wall of protection. Though grateful, I didn’t understand why until we cleared the media and encountered the fans.
    Fans? Do I have fans like this?
    No, I didn’t. Miles Hanson did.
    Men and women of all ages surrounded me, shouting questions, some openly weeping. Wait, weeping?
    â€œWhat happened?”
    A tall man, all round edges and beer belly, thundered, “Was he OK?”
    â€œDidn’t you see Miles?”
    â€œHow could you?” This from a bleach-blonde wearing a Miles Hanson half-shirt over cantaloupe-sized fake boobs.
    â€œWhy did you hurt him?”
    They all blamed me ? But it was his fault! I faltered on my way through the crowd.
    Stuart urged me forward, repeating over and over, “We don’t have any information yet, but a statement will be made when we know something.”
    People continued to press toward me, many wearing the yellow and orange flames of Miles’ NASCAR livery, some pleading with me to give them positive news of Miles, a few glaring, even snarling, at me. I was too