CARTRIP: Honestly, I'd wait to see if Rust-eze can even field a car before we start discussing the 95's next season. Cars these days just don't need bumper ointment like they used to, you know? And the Rust-eze guys have always run a funny little operation.
CUTLASS: Why don't you get our newer listeners up to speed on that, Darrell.
CARTRIP: Well, usually these small shop operations still race under some larger team umbrella. But the Rust-eze boys fly solo - which means they don't have a team of racers supporting each other in the field out there.
CUTLASS: Increasingly important, given those controversial rule changes this past season.
CARTRIP: Oh, don't get me started. You know you bring that up you're gonna get me started. Heck, let's talk about the 95, then. Always been a solid racer - nothing special, maybe, but always my shoe-in pick for the playoffs. He probably could've moved to a more stable sponsor if his rookie season hadn't ended like it had. And that, there, that's why I don't think you can talk about the 95's future if you don't talk about Rust-eze first.
CUTLASS: Agreed. That was one of those moments where it rang loud and clear that in this business - half the race really happens off the track. You miss a tiebreaker like that, and you go radioactive; no sponsor will touch you.
CARTRIP: Except Rust-eze.
CUTLASS: Except Rust-eze. Definitely part of their black sheep label. But you know, I've been in this business a long time, and I'll be honest, it's always surprised me that with his record on the track, the risk assessment wouldn't shift in McQueen's favor after a few years. Sure, we know he's not a team player, but even McQueen's gotta see it's simple strategy at this point - you have to be. It's learn or get let go.
CARTRIP: It's a little late for that, don't you think? After ten years? I'll eat my tires if we see him budge an inch.
"Embittered is a good word for him," says the racer in front of her - one Jimmy Cables. "Wait, is that a word? That's a word, right?"
"Why would you ask me about Lightning McQueen?" says the next, Chip Gearings.
"Look," says the third, Cal Weathers. It's a wonder she can even steal him for a moment. From what she's heard, he might well be on his way to clinching his third Piston Cup in the next few weeks. From the media circus buzzing around him, she believes it. He says, "No offense, but I'm not going to spill dirt on a competitor just because some tabloid asks."
"I'm not with a tabloid," she corrects him. "I'm a lawyer."
Cal's eyes widen. "Whose?"
And she says, "Jackson Storm's."
"Sure, Kor, but I don't think you understand. This is big!" field reporter Carl Wetcork whispers fiercely.
On the other end of the line, Kori sighs. "We're RSN, not the Penthouse Forum. I don't care what Jackson Storm does on his own time."
"But you have to if it affects the race, right? Kori, he's dating Lightning McQueen. The Cup's two most insufferable, suffering each other? Sure, it's a ratings grab, but it's the ratings grab of the century! We're both gonna get fired if we pass on this. That's money in the bank; you can't just turn away from that."
Kori sighs again. "Read it back to me, then. Everything you've got so far."
For many, single-mindedness is the name of the game on the racetrack. Lightning McQueen has never been an exception. But hear tell we might have an on-track romance on our hands. Multiple weeks in a row now we've seen McQueen and rookie Jackson Storm leaving the track together - and if the rumors are true, we're looking at the Piston Cup's first racing couple in Cup history.
"You gotta make history somehow, I guess." Bobby Swift shrugs. "Look, Carl, I love you, man, but I've been aggressively single since like ever, and this race is in an hour. I don't wanna hafta line up with these dudes and think about them smooching. That's not gonna get me in the zone!"
Before Carl can respond, Cal rolls the garage door up and motions surreptitiously for Bobby. Don't ask. Drive with me.
"There's a lawyer out there," Cal informs Bobby once Carl takes his leave, and they're out of earshot of anyone else. Cal keeps his voice down anyway.
Bobby doesn't. "What! Whose?"
"Shhh! She told me not to say. But keep an eye out, okay? I think she's trying to talk to everyone. I'm not sure why."
"Okay," says Bobby. "What does she look like?"
Cal frowns. "I, uh. Let's see."
"Cal!"
"She was, uh. Okay, I wasn't really paying attention to that part. She was blue? Like, light blue."
"CAL."
"You asked me what she looks like, and I told you. What's the problem?"
"Dude, but you also just described yourself! What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Total brinkmanship thing. One of these days, they're gonna eat each other alive," says Buck Bearingly.
"What makes you say that?" she asks.
"Look, lady. My sponsor may be ViewZeen, but I'm not blind. Have you ever seen the two of them together? There's practically literal shockwaves."
"Would you call it rivalry or romance?"
"For that kind of racer? They wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Most of the guys, you know, it's chill. But every so often you get some of 'em where - " Buck cuts himself off.
"I'm listening," she says.
Buck sighs. "This's a dangerous gig. Anyone who rolls onto that track - we're all a little crazy, and we all wanna win. But you can be all that and still think, man, I wanna get home in one piece. You don't wanna break hearts. You don't wanna give your life for some empty cup, you know? But then you see some guys, and you just know: They're the ones who don't have anything to go home to."
"So it's a matter of salvation, then. If two guys like that were to find something in each other."
Buck regards her with muted pity. "You're a true romantic. And you said you're a lawyer? Like, for real?"
"Just finding pieces to the puzzle," she says coolly.
"Well, I said brinkmanship. We're talking M-A-D. And there ain't no salvation in that."
It's true, what they say. She stays for the race, doesn't have time to locate McQueen before the loudspeaker starts roaring about flags. She's never represented anyone in the race scene before - but then, they generally don't hire her kind of lawyer. She ran into Finley a few hours ago, here with this family with comp'd tickets, but he's corporate.
She's been learning the language by osmosis, finding the cadence of the way people talk out here, the way they see this sport. She knows McQueen's starting P13 and that this is his best track. Her client's right behind him, P15, and even before the green flag drops, it's clear there's something at work there. Some kind of vortex. If you fly too close, you get sucked in. You get devoured. There's only so much room in a full field like that, but the rest of the racers take as wide a berth as they can.
They're in their own world. Even when McQueen and Weathers go nose-and-nose, Storm still trailing - it's like Weathers doesn't matter. Even when Weathers wins, he doesn't matter.
Storm tags McQueen's right bumper just after they all cross the finish line, launches McQueen into a spin. Weathers shoots out of the way with so much force he laps the trailing car, still headed into that final sprint, before he slows back down again. McQueen recovers quick enough, but not before there's thirteen cars stacked like bad Tetris all around him - running flat out toward that checkered flag then slamming on the brakes so as not to plow right into him.
No one's hurt - dents and cosmetic damage only - and she's too distant to see their faces, but for a split second McQueen and Storm face each other down like they're on either side of a public execution. It's not immediately clear which one of them would have the gun.
"I mean, it's hot," says one of the twins. Black lipstick and shimmering blue-tinged ombre paint.
"Totally agree," says the other. "Also, I'm Mia. She's Tia. If you're gonna quote us in your article can you get it right? Everyone always mixes us up."
"I'm a lawyer," she reminds them. Again. They don't seem to believe her.
"Oh, is it illegal?"
"Is what illegal?"
The twins burst into a secretive titter. "Being that hot!"
"Of course he's talented. Anyone who's even gonna try for a run on Cal like that has to be of a certain ken."
"But in ten years, he's never won the Cup."
Strip Weathers regards her kindly. "Most cars won't," he says. "We're professionals; there's a lot of real good racing out there. But when you're at the top of the game, it takes more than talent."
"Like what?"
The King doesn't chastise her, but she can tell he's not a fan of her leading questions. "Lightning's never been able to figure that out," he says eventually.
"First name basis, huh? You must know each other pretty well."
"I don't think anyone knows him well," says The King. "But I've been watching him a long time now."
"And Storm?"
The King sucks in air between his teeth. "He's smart," he allows. "Smarter than Lightning, probably."
"But do you think they know each other well?"
"That's not my business."
The way he says it, she knows the interview is over. But as she turns to leave, The King adds, "One thing I'm certain of, though: The 20's not gonna get tangled up in anything that ain't serving him."
"What do you mean by that?" she asks.
The King gives her another once-over. "Cal says you're a lawyer, right? Well. If something happens, and you need to prove a motive, I can tell you it ain't gonna be love."
"Why McQueen? I mean, why is any trainwreck together?" says Rex Revler, who then immediately says, "Oh no. I've done it again, haven't I. My crew chief keeps telling me, don't say anything the PR guy hasn't cleared. That wasn't on record was it? I'm not gonna have to testify or anything?"
She assures him he will not. At present, no one is going to court.
"Cool. Well, I mean like, it's not like McQueen's a bad racer, and I'm sure Storm digs that."
"But Storm's looking to be a real contender for the Cup. Why would he waste his time on someone middle-of-the-pack?"
"He's not, though," Rex objects. "McQueen's - "
"I've seen his records. They literally define - "
"I don't think you understand," says Rex. "Maybe you can't, I dunno. Maybe you have to be a racer to see it. But here's the thing. I'm middle of the pack. When I train, I watch videos of McQueen, not me - and not anyone else. That guy? Should be batting a thousand."
"But he's not."
"Honestly, McQueen doesn't know how to use what he has. But I'll bet Storm does."
Rex is right. Before the month is out, Storm beats McQueen at his own game - pushes way ahead of him in the standings. Whatever the combination is - Storm's engineering, his precision, and McQueen's experience, McQueen's full decade of learning each course and tuning his motion to it, the smooth, even keel of well-practiced, hyperfixated racing - it earns him the win. And another. And another. Storm cribs whatever magic McQueen had and weds it to his own.
In one month, Jackson Storm cuts Cal Weathers' championship sights in half, and he leaves Lightning McQueen in the dust.
"How have your professional differences affected life at home?" she hears Kori Turbowitz ask McQueen after this latest race. Kori sounds professional as always, but looks like she's being made to eat glass. This kind of reporting isn't what she went to school for.
It's a familiar feeling.
"What professional differences?" McQueen responds.
Someone in the crowd shouts, "Uh, speed!"
Someone else shouts, "Actually winning!"
"Have you watched any of the recent playback?" Kori asks. "It's a classic case of vampiric - "
"Oh, you mean like you guys?" says McQueen.
"Vultures," spits McQueen, once she's cornered him in a backlot. She's been trying to get ahold of him - without Storm - for months.
"But you're not dead."
"What?"
"You said vultures. If they're vultures, then you'd have to be - "
"Who even are you?" McQueen asks, deeply suspicious. It's a strong reaction, and not one she usually instills in people. She cuts a fairly unassuming figure. But McQueen should have been suspicious a long time ago, and now his paranoia's set to overdrive.
"You can call me Ms. Carrera. I'm a lawyer for Jackson Storm."
"Oh my g - " McQueen stops, sulks. "What could he possibly need you for?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Right back atcha, then."
"I already have all the information I need. I'm just giving you the opportunity to confirm, as a courtesy. Outside of your race winnings, do you have any assets?"
"What, like a yacht? No."
"Additional sponsorship deals, media contracts, Podcasts, fan clubs - "
"No."
"Do you own property? Private or commercial lots. Stock in any businesses or other ventures? Patents or other intellectual property documentation? Family inheritances - "
McQueen snorts. "No. What is this about?"
"How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Storm?"
McQueen's eyes narrow. "Did he ask you to draw up a pre-nup or something? 'Cause I'm not gonna freaking marry him, if that's where this is going."
"I'm not that kind of lawyer," she says.
"He used me," McQueen says bluntly. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"In what way?"
"Why don't you ask Kori? The King was right - he used me."
"You had a discussion with Strip Weathers?"
"No. He just came up to me one day and started talking about a bunch of stuff. It was really random."
"What exactly did he say?"
McQueen tenses. Over the last few months, she's heard plenty about this guy, and god knows she's had an earful from Storm, but she never thought she'd see him look ashamed.
To feel shame, you'd have to be the type to own your mistakes.
"I don't know," McQueen admits. "I wasn't paying enough attention. Again."
Her eyebrow quirks with curiosity, but she lets the 'again' slide. "You're welcome to tell your side of the story. About you and Storm, I mean."
"Are you gonna use it against me?" McQueen asks.
"Anything you say or do can and will, as they say," she says. But he doesn't get the joke. "Yes," she clarifies. "If that's the kind of story you have to tell."
"The way he talks to you makes you wanna prove you're better than him," says McQueen.
"And you find this… attractive?"
"Well," says McQueen. "It makes me wanna prove I'm better than him."
And competition is the only thing he knows he loves.
It goes like this. McQueen's still looking for that thing - that elusive thing that'll slide everything into place, give him the set-up for the win. He's been searching for the last ten years, but probably the closest he's ever got was that rookie year, when he was still young and stupid enough to not realize he was missing anything at all. Ignorance can be a powerful tool.
And so, it seems, is negative space. Because if McQueen can't find someone who will believe in him, find something to win for, then at least in Storm he's found someone to prove dead wrong.
It's an obsession, really. And they can't keep apart because they've both got something to prove and no one else to prove it to.
"And that's love," she summarizes, when McQueen is finished.
"It's better," he says. "This has a point. There's a finish line."
"These last few races make it seem like Storm's already crossed it, though," she points out. "Is that a source of resentment for you?"
"That sounds like a question I shouldn't be answering."
"I'd understand if it was, is all I'm saying. Racing's not the only cutthroat business, believe me. Lawyers? The worst." She doesn't know why she's telling him this. She probably should have stopped talking to him twenty minutes ago.
But she wants to show him something. What, she's not sure. But when she looks at him there's an emptiness there, there's so many blanks that some obsessive-compulsive part of her needs to fill.
"If lawyering's that horrible, why haven't you left it all behind?" McQueen asks her. "If you're representing Storm it's not like you're slogging through 'cause you're trying to make the world a better place or whatever."
"I - " she stops. No one's ever asked her that before. "I guess I still have something to prove here."
McQueen chuffs. "That's what I thought. Don't pretend you're any different from us."
Half an hour later, when the mushroom cloud of press has died down and all that's left of race day is an army of forklifts disposing of errant trash and hosing down the stands, she watches McQueen plant a kiss on Storm's left fender. It's quick, perfunctory, but it's the split second immediately afterward that matters.
McQueen, darting away, face adorned with a self-satisfied leer that Storm can't see. Storm, genuinely ruffled. He'd been taken by complete surprise.
And she thinks maybe, just maybe, it's too early to call this race.
Storm wins the next six. At Los Angeles, the points are such that even if Weathers takes first, Storm needs to place eighth or worse for Weathers to take the championship. It's almost pointless to talk about anyone else.
"Stuff happens, though," Ponchy Wipeout hedges. "I mean, no one expected Hicks to win that one tiebreaker, especially without McQueen there. A one-on-one with The King? I lost big money on that. Wait, I mean. I would have. If I were the type to illegally gamble. Which I'm not. That was hypothetical. You know, like an idiom. I'd never - "
"I heard Hicks crashed him. And that's how Hicks won."
Ponchy frowns. "I heard it was an unencumbered win; in the end, that's what matters. Crashes are a part of racing. I mean, c'mon. My last name's Wipeout; racing and crashing go deep. But you're probably right; no one's gonna crash out Storm. He's got like a force-field or something."
"But not against McQueen."
Ponchy laughs. "Sure, but McQueen would never - "
Ponchy pauses. "Uh... right? McQueen - "
"Right, what?"
"Now you've got me all confused."
McQueen leads early. It's a stupid move; she didn't follow racing before Storm's agent slapped a retainer on her desk, but even she knows McQueen doesn't have the stamina to hold that lead for half a thousand laps. Not even close.
The crowd goes wild for it, though - the adrenaline screech of the final race pushes tactical thought from their minds, and the promise of spectacle intoxicates. Racing has that kind of magic to it.
It drives Storm crazy, too.
She catches half the conversation being drunkenly carried out behind her. doesn't wanna see his boyfriend's ass! someone guffaws.
you think it's distracting him?
oh my god, look -
She doesn't look. She pushes her way through the crowd and checks her zero messages on her phone and she tries to think back to the day she met Lightning McQueen.
What's his play here?
Though perhaps what she should really be concerned about is Storm's. She's a defense attorney. To the best of her knowledge, Storm hasn't yet done anything she'd need to defend - a racing set-up isn't intellectual property, nor are friends with benefits. Marriages of convenience. Whatever it is he and McQueen have going on. But if he thinks he's going to need her to prove that the terms of their relationship are pure, she's gonna have a hell of a time.
Unless there's more coming. But who hires their defense attorney months in advance?
But then, who dates someone ten months just for a shot at the Piston Cup.
She sits in the shade of the bleacher stanchions, wishes she'd ever taken up smoking, and lets the drone of the screaming crowd bleach her mind.
M-A-D, she thinks. Mutually assured destruction.
When she closes her eyes, she sees McQueen kissing Storm. She sees Storm's shock. He'd never expected McQueen to bite back - which is a dangerous thing, because it's clear McQueen knows exactly how. And he's definitely up to something.
Above her, the crowd's still screaming. Even outside the fray, the roar of 43 racing engines is deafening.
But it's not until the crowd sucks in a collective, gale-force gasp that the world quiets enough for her to hear the anguished wheeze of rending metal. Steel, clawing its way through asphalt. The harsh thunk of a body against pavement, again and again and again. The squeal of too many sets of brakes generating enough heat to dwarf a small sun. The core of her goes frigid cold.
Over the loudspeakers - red flag. Red flag.
They don't say for whom.
Was it Storm? McQueen? An innocent bystander, caught in the fray?
It shouldn't matter to her. Any scenario should be equally awful.
(Is it, though?)
The stadium stays dead silent. Even the sirens don't feel real. It's so quiet it's like sound forgot to exist.
She gets a call. It's the head of her firm. He must be watching a live feed.
So he knows, then. He saw.
He saw who.
She lets her phone go to voicemail.
Girl, she thinks, as she deletes the voicemail. You don't have to prove a thing. Not to this place.
She follows the signs for I-40.