Finally, when he had finished inscribing the “s” in Jenkins, he handed back the autographed shirt. His hand brushed against her fingertips, and to her horror she heard herself blurt out, “I love you.”
Badger froze for an instant, looking up at her with no expression, and then, solemnly, even sadly perhaps, he nodded.
Oddly enough, she thought that he seemed to understand. She had not said it happily or seductively. She had said “I love you” as if it were the symptom of an ailment, which it probably was. Those three words, in that particular tone of voice, had meant: I know you’re a total stranger, but I adore you, anyhow, so much that it hurts… I carry more pictures of you in my wallet than I do of my family members… I start crying even before you wreck… I worry too much about you, and too little about me.…and most of all, I feel really stupid right now, but I can’t help myself.
And he really did seem to understand that her words were not so much a compliment to him as they were a description of her own emotional confusion. She felt the blush begin to spread across her face, and she turned to stumble away before she could compound the embarrassment by bursting into tears. Behind her, she heard a soft drawling voice say, “You take care now.” And he had sounded as if he meant it.
For weeks thereafter she had thought she’d never be able to face him again, but finally the memory of his gentle response overrode her shame, and she found that she cared about him more than ever. She bought more posters, a key chain, and another coffee mug, and she posted glowing accounts of his racing performances on his unauthorized fan site (Badger’s Din). She had told him she loved him, and he hadn’t laughed or rolled his eyes or anything. He was a Nice Guy. And Taran Stiles would have died for him, anytime, anywhere.
That autograph session in Atlanta had been more than a year ago, and her devotion to Badger Jenkins remained undimmed. And now here she was, on the verge of becoming his coworker.
The thought of Badger Jenkins made her so nervous that she felt her throat tighten and her stomach churn. She might really get to know him as a friend-if she could ever get up the courage to speak in his presence, that is. Surely she could do something on this team. The ad said that they would train people. She wasn’t very hefty, but she did work out to try to build up her muscle tone, and to counteract the effect of having a desk job. Okay, maybe carrying a 70-pound tire with Olympic agility was out of the question, but she could probably hold up signs or something.
They were hiring the personnel for seven jobs today: jackman, gasman, catch can, front tire changer, front tire carrier, rear tire changer, and rear tire carrier. Apparently, you didn’t have to tell the judges (or the employers or whatever they were) which job you were applying for. You just jumped in and did what they told you to do, and in the end they chose people for whatever spot they thought they’d work best in. That was fine with Taran. She’d do anything to make this team.
They had been given an hour’s worth of preliminary instruction in the various duties of a pit crew. Each woman had been given the opportunity to use the Impact Wrench to tighten the lug nuts on a practice chassis, to lift the tires into place, and to pump up the jack for the tire changes. The instructors explained that the team needed people with physical strength, agility, and the coordination of a dancer, to stay out of everyone else’s way. They also needed grace under pressure and the ability to work quickly in noise and haste without getting flustered. It seemed like a tall order, but none of the jobs struck her as intellectually difficult, only physically challenging. She supposed that practice would help.
There were seven slots for over-the-wall pit crew-the only people allowed near the car during a pit stop. You could have lots of people behind the wall, she’d learned, but only seven can enter the pit stall itself: two tire changers; two tire carriers; the jackman who hoists the car up for the tire changes; the gasman who refuels the car; and someone called the catch-can man, who simply stood at the rear of the car to the left, holding a container to catch the overflow of gas during the fill-up. That last job seemed to require the least strength and agility. Taran thought she might have a shot at the position.
She didn’t think that any of the applicants were particularly outstanding at any of these tasks, though, of course, some of them were stronger than others. There was a good deal of fumbling. People running into each other. Everything taking much longer than it should have. Taran thought she still might have a good chance to make the team.
She looked around at her fellow applicants, thinking that some of them would be her teammates if she was lucky enough to be chosen, and she might as well start trying to make friends with them. The tanned redhead nearest her looked to be in her late twenties. She wore a Celtic design T-shirt, and her auburn hair was bound in a long braid that hung halfway down her back. Her thin-lipped frown didn’t look especially friendly, but Taran told herself that the woman might just be nervous from the pressure of competition.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Taran whispered. “Getting to work with Badger Jenkins!”
The woman sniffed and rolled her eyes. “I thought this was supposed to be an all-woman team,” she said. “I don’t see what we need him for.”
“Oh, because there aren’t any women yet cleared to drive in Cup. Nobody this team could afford, anyhow. My name’s Taran, by the way.” She held out her hand, still determined to be friendly.
The woman ignored her hand, and said grudgingly, “Reve Galloway. I work in a fitness center in Monterey. Thought this might be fun. Not that I know anything about auto racing, though. Except that there seem to be damn few women involved. I thought I’d like to help change that.”
Taran nodded. She knew that the pit crew people would have many different reasons for applying, and as long as they weren’t going to be tiresome zealots about their causes, that was fine with her.
“Why are you out here?” Reve asked her.
Taran hesitated. Because I love Badger Jenkins and I want to keep him safe. Somehow she didn’t think the truth would sit too well with a political Amazon. She shrugged. “Beats typing,” she said.
Reve shrugged. “What doesn’t? So you’re a racer girl, huh?”
Taran blushed. She ought to be used to being teased about it by now. The past few years had been an endless succession of smart remarks from her coworkers about her addiction, of NASCAR put-down e-mails forwarded to her by mischievous acquaintances. And then there were the gag gifts. Christmas, birthday, somebody’s trip to a flea market or a Dollar Store-all occasions to present Taran with another teasing reference to her hobby. She received Tony Stewart coffee mugs and Matt Kenseth mouse pads. Jeff Gordon posters and Jimmie Johnson notepads. Ryan Newman pencils and Kurt Busch key chains. Apparently, her bemused friends did not understand that NASCAR has teams just as football and basketball do, that the driver is the focal point of the team, and that nearly every racing fan has a favorite driver. Giving a Jeff Burton coffee mug to a devoted Badger Jenkins fan was a waste of money, and if in gift-giving it is the thought that counts, then such a gift would indicate no thought at all. Taran, who never wanted to hurt anybody’s feelings, would always thank the giver for the gift, no matter how much they snickered as they were presenting it to her. Then she would drop the offending item off at Goodwill on her way home.
Oh, yes, by now she was accustomed to obnoxious remarks about her NASCAR hobby, but she did think she might escape such treatment at a NASCAR-related event. Apparently not.