Braking Points Read Free Page A

stunned to speak, grateful for Stuart’s presence. We got through the scrum and found Tom Albright, my team’s media guy, waiting in a golf cart.
    As we pulled away, I saw my friend Zeke Andrews pop out of the crowd, looking worried. He’d been in the ranks of reporters I spoke to, the lone representative of SPEED Channel now that SportsGroup TV had taken over ALMS broadcasting rights. Zeke caught my eye and made a “call me” gesture, then waved in response to my nod.
    Tom cleared his throat as he navigated paddock traffic. “Kate, we’re all relieved you’re OK. The accident looked nasty.”
    â€œThanks. It wasn’t fun. I’m really sorry to the team and the crew.”
    He slowed the golf cart. Directly in front of us was the flatbed tow truck with Miles’ crumpled car. Every body panel was crumpled, some half torn off, and every tire was askew. I shuddered. I really wanted to see the replay of the accident.
    A new thought struck me. I whirled to face Stuart. “Is Miles still OK?”
    â€œHe’s hurt, but alive.”
    I faced front again as a skinny woman with gray hair grabbed the front roof support on my side of the golf cart. Tom slammed on the brakes in response, dragging her two steps. Decked head-to-toe in bright yellow with orange flames, her tank top and baseball cap were also emblazoned with Miles’ number 92 and the Chevrolet logo. But more shocking than the riot of color were her sobs. She hiccoughed, and I smelled sour beer breath as she spoke. “How could you? Who are you, anyway? You know you’ll never be as good as Miles, so you wrecked him? You should rot in hell!”
    She released the golf cart to wipe her eyes, and Tom drove on.
    Stuart put a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched. “Ignore it, Kate.”
    I tried. No matter what happened, I knew a driver’s staunchest supporters would always blame the other driver in a wreck. If Miles threw someone to the ground, unprovoked, fans would ask what the victim had done to upset him—such was the nature of the fan world. The cause of our wreck seemed obvious to me, but it was clear Miles’ fans and I wouldn’t see eye-to-eye. On anything.
    As we rolled through the paddock, we encountered more crying faces, more anguished questions, more swear words. I even heard a threat, someone promising to “Hunt you down if he ain’t OK!”
    We reached the Sandham Swift garage, where a small knot of spectators gathered to await the arrival of my own wrecked car. Stuart whisked me behind the rope barrier that separated the public from our team’s space before anyone could react to my presence. He stayed outside our motorhome, shutting the door behind me with a thud, and I wobbled up four steps to collapse on the couch, breathing hard. For the first time, I felt uncomfortable in the ALMS paddock, even scared for my safety. I didn’t like it.
    Tina Nichols, Hospitality Director for Sandham Swift Racing, sat down next to me, a bottle of cold water in her hand. She kept the four Sandham Swift drivers organized, fed, and wearing clean, dry racing gear. Everyone in the paddock knew her, loved her, and called her Aunt Tee.
    â€œKate, sweetheart, are you all right?”
    My smile felt rusty. “I’m fine, thank you.” I took the water she offered and looked at Mike Munroe, dressed in street clothes and sitting on the couch opposite me. “For now. We’ll see when Mike gets through with me. Or Jack.”
    Per ALMS rules, Mike and I shared the number 28 Corvette for Sandham Swift Racing—one of two cars the team fielded in the GT or Grand Touring class—each of us driving roughly half of each race. Drivers, teams, and car manufacturers all competed for race wins and season championships, and until I’d taken us out of this race, Mike and I had been neck-and-neck with another duo for second place in the GT drivers’ standings.
    Our points