"I want that lobster, dad."
"You're allergic to shellfish, Adam. I don't know if the clinic is prepared for an allergic reaction."
"Think about it though, it would be hilarious. No one would see it coming. 'Oh no! Racer down! Come help!' Meanwhile the lobster clicks his claws in sweet victory. Racecars: 0, Lobster: 1"
Cal sighs and casts an exasperated look toward the lobster tank in Victory Lane. Every track has its own unique thing, and sure, the seafood was great on the east coast, but really? Winning at New Hampshire and getting a lobster thrown on your hood are synonymous.
"You just keep in mind, you're still on my insurance plan," Cal warns.
"Only for another month," Adam smirks. "My manufacture date is coming up, yeah? Then I can be my own man!"
Before Cal gets a chance to pitch his "you are still under my roof young man" argument, they're called to the pits. It's the day before the race, practice and qualifying only. Every car is trying to perfect their setup with their eye on the prize – that darned golden sippy cup in the shape of a piston. It's the obvious thing for a grown car to yearn after. With half the season behind them, the championship doesn't seem so far away.
"Alright, ready to punch your ticket straight to the emergency room?" Cal asks, situating himself atop the pit box.
"Like you wouldn't believe," Adam confirmed, settling evenly onto all four tires.
"Right, Hampshire. Land of bisque and chowder. It's a short track – "
"Is it though..."
"It races like a short track," Cal reinforces. "And it's flat. Sound like dirt?"
"Sounds like a piece of cake." Adam shakes himself out before settling again. "I'm feeling good about this one. We're gonna win. Today's the day."
"That's my boy," Cal smirks. "Let's put down some good laps, yeah? Let's shoot for a pole."
Two practice laps in the books and one of the other rookies slips and skids into the wall coming out of turn four. It's a caution, no surprise. The racers on the track cruise back to their teams while the cleanup crews do their thing.
"How's it feelin' so far?" Cal asks. "You ain't said much."
Adam wiggles around and feels himself out once more.
"It feels great. Like, real good. Maybe a hair tight going into turn one? But it went away by the second lap. So weird. We've never got anything this right before, not from the start."
"Yeah, well, we'll see if it lasts." Cal sits down lower on his tires, relaxing. "Track will probably change at dark, but if we start out good, I think we can make the changes needed when the time comes."
"Agreed."
Ten minutes pass and the oil spill is cleaned up. Team Dinoco decides it's best to wait until a couple teams make some laps first before getting back out there. Precedence states that being the first one to run through the speedy dry compound left on the track is never beneficial. Soon it is dispersed enough to try another run. There's only ten minutes of practice remaining.
"Quick time!" Cal exclaims as Adam crosses the finish line for the third or fourth time.
"Really?" Adam asks, slowing and aiming for pit row the next time around.
"Yeah, three one-thousandths quicker than the 28."
"He's been stomping us all year. You heard it here first, guys, today's our day."
Cal chuckles and looks down as Adam comes to a halt in front of him. That bright orange paint exudes nothing but confidence as the sun glints off it, creating its own sort of sunset.
It's hard, being a crew chief and a father at the same time, Cal thinks. He can feel himself swell with pride at the same time he needs to give some constructive criticism. He can feel angry at an undesired outcome and also be thankful no real harm has been done. Maybe, after this year, he'd let someone else do the crew chiefing for Adam. It's good for a team to be close, but this close? You could argue both the pros and cons.
Not long after the practice sessions end, the sun dips below the horizon for the first time since the race teams arrived on premise. The coolness in the air is a refreshing shower of energy that returns to the track at a completely new level. The racers are ready to give it all they have. There's a pole position to be won for tomorrow's race.
"Turn that quick time into a pole award, kiddo," Cal advises. "You've got it in the bag."
Adam casts a wink in his crew's direction and slides out onto the track after the number 28 racer finishes his qualifying run. That's the time to beat. It's slower than the quick time earlier. Piece of cake.
The track is definitely cooler. The stickiness is gone that held him to the pavement earlier. Adam uses his getting-up-to-speed lap to test the limits of what his worn practice tires can handle. Hmm. Maybe that slower qualifying time the 28 put out was more reasonable than he'd figured.
"Alright, here we go! Give it all you got."
Cal's words come crisply through the radio. This is it!
"For the lobster!" comes the battle cry from the track.
Cal chuckles as Adam pushes himself into turns one and two. Everything is looking great! At this rate, they'll match the 28's time on the first lap. And second laps have been trending on the faster end.
The orange racer pegs it down the back straightaway. Cal listens to the sound of his son's engine pulling, searching for every last bit of horsepower it can find. It's rejuvenating, he recalls the feeling…
That's the braking point. That's the mark on the wall that signals to racers to slow for the turn and –
"Stuck – stuck!"
Cal whips his full attention to turn three. Adam isn't slowing down. His engine is still straining at its limits as the track begins to bend and come to an end. There's a wall.
Throttle. Stuck?
"Brake!" Cal screams.
His scream is lost in the screeching of metal on concrete. It's fast and loud. Sheet metal bends and crumples and explodes outward. Something heavy falls to the ground and groans against the pavement. A silent trickle of fluid begins to run down the track. A spark.
An explosion.
Cal doesn't remember how he got there. There are scrapes down his sides and cars are trying to pull him backwards.
"You can't do that!" he yells at them.
Do what? What are they doing? What is he doing?
All he sees is a smoldering skeleton of a car as the smoke from the fire extinguishers fades. Brown, burnt, peeling vinyl is coming off the body. There's shattered glass everywhere. Cal can feel it under his tires. You shouldn't be able to see straight through a car.
But that's exactly what he's doing. He's staring through the smoking body of the only car he loved as a son. There's broken window glass under his tires and a pool of deadly, flammable liquid spilling out of the bottom of a hunk of molten, tormented steel. Lights are flashing, cars are yelling, and Cal's vision is blurry from some sort of wet stuff streaming from his windshield down his fenders. He can't feel anything. There's pain, numbing pain. That's all.
An ambulance and a tow truck begin to move the body. The shrieking cry of raw metal digging into old pavement pierces the air. Cal lunges and begs them to stop. A security team holds him down as the cleanup crew begins to relocate the torn, soulless figure.
Adam is gone.
Cal feels his own body give out.