Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: Another missing scene from "Hotshoes"—this one picks up where the story "Lucky Break" left off.

Driving Permit

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle strode across the side lawn, still mulling over Sarah's notion that he was somehow more "indulgent" to his latest ex-con rehab project than he had been to the others. He stopped in mid-stride with sudden awareness of an even more important fact that had been niggling at him, off to the side of the morning's other issues.

It was a habit, really, thinking of McCormick as the latest of many. He was, no question, the last in a series, but there was also no question that he was the last, period. It wasn't just that, thank God, so far this one seemed to be working out. It was that there wouldn't be any more where he came from. It was one thing for a sitting judge to rig up a little alternative community service, another entirely for a retired ex-judge to finagle someone out of the system.

And despite what he'd said to McCormick on that first night driving home, there were limits to the discretionary sentencing powers of the judiciary. He knew that even among his colleagues there had been a lot of tsking and head-shaking about his little projects. Not that any of that bothered him, but it was enough to tell him that now that he wasn't in charge of his own courtroom anymore, the likelihood of him being granted any ex-con replacements was zero.

If McCormick won this weekend, the logical next step would be for him to accept a longer contract with the team—at least the six weeks that it would take his buddy to heal up, probably longer by the time the man was fit to get back behind the wheel of a race car. By then the championship would be decided, and if Mark was the guy whose name went on the trophy, how hard would it be to tell him he couldn't continue on?

He saw his latest and last rehab project starting to turn, tackling the new side of the small tree with ongoing enthusiasm. Hardcastle turned away, taking a sudden interest in a planting at the edge of the patio wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the younger man shooting him a curious glance, but Mark was clearly still on his best behavior so he didn't just shout over and ask him what the hell he was doing.

What he was doing was vacillating. It was an unaccustomed activity and he found it annoying. He'd already made up his mind fifteen minutes ago that he'd give McCormick permission to enter this weekend's race at Riverside. That should have been that. He'd sorted things out with Sarah—that had only been prudent, in the interests of ongoing domestic tranquility—but now the only thing that remained was the relatively pleasant task of telling McCormick himself.

He could still see him there, his curious glance having turned into a puzzled stare, the clippers slowly being lowering. Well, yeah, it dawned on the judge; a guy doesn't rush over to make a disappointing announcement. What he was doing right now would definitely look to the younger man like staving off bad news.

But he still needed a moment. It was one of those rare times when he realized, in advance of the fact, that a lot hinged on the decision he thought he'd already made—the announcement he was about to make. He knew it wasn't too late to change his mind. The dangers of racing were very real.

The main one being that once he wins that first race, he won't look back.

Hardcastle grimaced. The whole point of bringing these guys home was to get them pointed in the right direction. What if McCormick's straight and narrow ran in an oval at two hundred miles an hour—could he object?

He realized he was shaking his head very slowly, as though he disapproved of the begonias when, in fact, right now he only disapproved of himself. The objection was there, and pretty unworthy, consisting mainly of an awfully whiny 'But what about us?'

He was never saying that one out loud. He sighed and straightened his shoulders, determined to give the kid his chance to make good. He had an odd flash of a notion that that's what parents do—push 'em out of the nest and hope they don't land on their heads. He was shaking his head again at the absurdity of that. McCormick was a grown man and in no need of anyone in loco parentis . . . but it was a hell of a long way down sometimes.

. . . And right now the younger man's expression had dropped at least half that distance—grim and resigned, like someone who'd had a fair amount of practice with disappointment. Hardcastle intercepted his own head-shaking and closed the distance between them with a brisker step.

"What, you giving up on that one already?" he said jovially, gesturing to the half-pruned tree.

Mark was having none of it. He sighed, leaned the clippers against the trunk, and turned to the older man. "Okay, just tell me, but don't expect me to joke around with you. That's cruel and unusual punishment."

"It is, huh?" Hardcastle eyed him. "Well, it won't hurt half as much as when you smash up one of those fancy cars and break a leg. Then you'll wish you'd stayed here and stuck with the tree-trimming."

It was hard to tell how many words into this admonition McCormick had caught on to the variance between tone and message, but the smile, blossoming slowly, was now a full-bore grin and he grabbed Hardcastle by both shoulders—as if he intended to shake the truth out of him.

"I can? Really, I can?"

"Smash up a car? That's your department, kiddo, not mine." Hardcastle said confidently.

But Mark was past hearing him now, his astonishment having turned into a little victory dance, complete with the mantra, "I can, oh yesss, I can."

It didn't look like any more pruning was going to get done today, but it had been worth it, Hardcastle thought, as he stepped back a little to stay out of harm's way and any sudden impulses for hugging.