SATURDAY FEBRUARY 21, 2015
5:18 PM EASTERN STANDARD TIME
DAYTONA INTERNATIONAL SPEEDWAY- GARAGE AREA
DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
The Arcanix racing garage was a bustle of activity, with crew workers bustling throughout the stall. About half of the score of men were hunched around the car, even though they knew the situation was hopeless. The front of the car had been torn up as it rammed into a flipping David Ragan, the damage far too much to hope to repair, the car retiring in 37th position. The rest of the team was dealing with the bleak prognosis of the matter, packing up equipment and preparing for departure- to load the car back up onto the hauler and take it back to its home base in North Carolina for repairs to get it ready for next week’s race in Atlanta.
Not to far away, leaning against the wall of the garage was Wendy Briese, silently watching the crew as they continued to work, all the while looking around, as if expecting someone.
And indeed she was- her husband.
She had gone back to the infield medical center after the wreck, where all drivers involved were required to go after an accident. Terrence was fine, she already knew, thanks to hearing his report on the car’s radio after the crash and watching him walk to the ambulance, but she still wanted to be there as he was summarily checked out. But with ten cars involved in the crash, it was already a busy location, and she had just managed to corner someone to ask where Terrence was when word that a second accident- this one involving eight cars and a driver suffering a compound fracture in his leg, and the staff had ordered all non-patients out of the building just to cut down on the chaos. With nowhere else to go, she had returned to the garage, figuring it’d be the best place for Terrence to find her.
She glanced down, finding the hood of the car leaned against the wall nearby, having been ripped off the car in the accident and returned separately by a wrecker. Wendy’s eyes narrowed as she looked down into Stephanie Sullivan’s grinning visage, annoyed as the memories of the previous days encounter with the team’s marketing director came back to her. In fact, all the frustrations of the past few weeks, from Val backing her way into the FFW Championship, to Cody’s attack, to the stress of a new, busier, longer racing season beginning, boiled to the surface.
A wicked, mischievous smile came over Wendy’s face as she stepped back. Raising her foot, she looked down, and stamped as hard as she could right on Stephanie’s face, hearing a rewarding THUNK as her foot slammed into the fiberglass.
Oh, that felt good.
Figuring it wouldn’t hurt (after all, it was already destroyed, right?) Wendy kicked the face of Stephanie again, and again, giggling as she let her frustrations out on the image on the hood.
An overwhelming sense that she was being watched washed over her. She turned around, her blood freezing in its veins as she realized two women were staring at her.
“Um… hi, Andrea…”
Andrea Hamilton was the wife of Terrence’s old teammate from ARCA. The two had never been friends, and the rivalry had spread to the wives. Wendy, for her part, couldn’t stand her and her haughty verbal abuse, and even now hardly regretted the incident when she had thrown the woman into a mud puddle… or flat out threatened to break her legs if the woman ever disrespected Theresa again.
Andrea evidently remembered those incidents too, for her eyes had gone wide in abject terror. She took a step back, tugging at her friend’s- likely another racer’s wife- sleeve, and together the two women scurried away, although Wendy could hear Andrea’s voice as she leaned in to the other woman.
“Told you that bitch was nuts.”
“That’s not-!” Wendy started to protest, but cut off with a sigh. It was no use, they were gone, and a voice in her mind was warning her that running them down and vehemently protesting the idea that she was crazy would be counterproductive. Frustration returning, she spun around, and kicked the hood- landing a bullseye with her toe on Stephanie’s nose.
“OY! WENDY!”
Wendy turned around again, feeling somewhat better as she saw her manager coming out of the crowd. “Hey,” she said simply as he approached, hoping that her face was less crimson than she suspected.
“What happened between you and Andrea?”
“What makes you think anything happened?” Wendy deflected airily. Nope, she was definitely still ruddy. She could tell simply by the heat on her face.
“Because she was walking away from you, and looked positively terrified,” Pollaski said matter-of-factly. “Oh God, you didn’t like ram her head into a-“
“No, I didn’t ram her head into anything,” Wendy responded, annoyed. “Probably would have killed her if I had… hey, have you seen Terrence yet?”
“Yeah, actually, he sent me here to get you. He’s back at the team hauler. He checked out okay but is a little sore,” He added the last, predicting Wendy’s next question.
“Thanks,” Wendy said. “How’s everyone else?”
“Lotta people you’re asking about,” chuckled Pollaski, darkly. “I haven’t heard anything bad other than Rowdy’s broken legs…” he grabbed Wendy to steer her towards heading back towards the hauler, but paused when he noticed the wrecked hood. With a furtive glance to the side, he leapt forward, lifting his leg and slamming it right into Stephanie Sullivan’s face. “HA! Suck on my New Balance, Sluttivan!”
“HY!!!!!!!!!! WHT TH FCK D Y THNK YR DNG??!!?!” Roared Gumbo from inside the garage, glaring at Pollaski as he shook his fist.
“Sorry!” the obese manager backed away, flapping his hands apologetically. “My bad!!!! What?” That last was demanded of Wendy, who was staring at him, shaking her head.
“Nothing,” Wendy said, in as innocent a voice as she could muster. “We should go before Gumbo tries to feed me to his gator.”
“Oh God,” Pollaski groaned, making a face as he remembered all too well their recent experiences with Cajuns and gators. “You think he one?”
“Not taking any chances,” Wendy replied flatly.
It was a fairly pleasant walk back to the row of Haulers for the Xfinity series, with manager and wrestler having a brief discussion on the coming Chaos Theory PPV just seven days away, and Wendy’s strategy in her match. They had just gotten to the topic of whether or not Wendy should even THINK of going for a submission (with Pollaski more or less against the idea, while Wendy thought there was a possible opening for one in a special circumstance), when Theresa came running towards them, nearly tackling her mom as she leapt into her arms.
“OOF! Hey Terr Bear? You better be careful, you’re getting big!” Wendy admonished as she swung the eight year old around and set her down. “Where’s your dad?”
“Inside,” Theresa said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. “Changing.”
“I’ll stay out here,” Pollaski quickly volunteered, reaching down and snatching the Nintendo DS Theresa had just pulled out of her pocket, and holding it up. “You go on in.”
“HEY!” Theresa protested, leaping at Pollaski as he held the DS over his head, dangling it just out of the apex of her jump. Shaking her head, Wendy turned away and headed into the hauler, ignoring her daughters protests that “it isn’t fair!”… and her manager’s dismay that Pokemon, not Mario Kart, was in the system.
The Hauler was just like every other NASCAR Hauler- that is to say an utter masterpiece of moveable technology. The ramp doubled as an elevator, which lifted the cars (Terrence’s team, like most teams, carried a backup) to the upper level for transport. The bottom level was the team’s headquarters, consisting of a workshop, and, at the very front of the trailer, a small cabin that was a changing room, break room, meeting room, and team office all in one.
The ceiling was a little low, but luckily no one else was in the long corridor that led back, as Wendy walked towards the front of the trailer, past rows and rows of cabinets where the equipment would be stored by the end of the day. A small staircase awaited ahead, leading up to the room, located above the hitch onto the actual truck.
Terrence was there alright, but he wasn’t alone.
Her husband had changed out his firesuit- mostly, and was now wearing jeans and a sleeveless tanktop, his button up shirt hanging nearby. But he was sitting at a small table, a small pile of merchandise in front of him. Behind him, rubbing his shoulders was none other than… Fifi?
“Hey, Wendy!” Terrence said, seemingly unconcerned on what his wife just walked into. “Pollaski find you alright?”
“Yeah, just… just fine.” Wendy said, entering the room. “What’s up?”
“Oh, was just changing back into my streets, and Fifi here dropped by with some stuff for me to sign that they’re giving away at a charity auction tonight. And I mentioned that I was sore from the crash, and well-“ he shrugged, which only seemed to play into the massage a bit more.
“Settle down, dear. You’re still very tense,” Fifi chided.
“If you’re hurt from the crash, maybe you should go back to the care center.” Wendy said, far more sharply than she had meant to.
“Oh, I’m not hurt,” Terrence dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Just sore. Crashing at 180 mph will do that to you… although it’s weird, it wasn’t so bad til I hit the grass. Then it was just so damn bumpy. But… damn. Fifi here’s got the MAGIC fingers. Do Wendy now while I sign these.”
“No, no,” Wendy started to protest, but Fifi simply stepped behind her chair, and dug her fingers into her shoulder. “Seriously, I don’t need- wow, she IS good!”
“I told you!” Terrence said as he quickly finished signing the merchandise. “Seriously, how the hell did you know how to do that?”
“I took some masseuse classes at Dartmouth,” Fifi said simply, before stepping away from Wendy. “All done there, dear? Thank you. The American Cancer Society will be SUPER appreciative!”
“No worres.” Terrence responded. “Just you make sure you get them bid on for a high amount!”
“Oh I will,” Fifi giggled as she gathered up the merchandise. “Maybe I might go and buy a few of these myself!” She surveyed the inside of the office, grinning. “You know, I’m glad you signed up, Terrenc. I think you are going to make this year VERY interesting! Welcome to Arcanix Racing.” She ducked and gave Terrence a peck on the cheek, and then, as if suddenly remembering Wendy, turned and gave her a cheek-kiss as well, then climbed down the stairs out of the office, towards the exit at the back of the hauler.
Terrence watched her go, rubbing his cheek as he did. After she had left, he turned around, looking over at his wife. “So, feel up to a charity auction tonight?”
“No, I’m pretty tired, and you should rest if you’re that SORE.” Wendy said, her voice a mask of false sweetness. “Maybe we should just order pizza and watch a movie with Theresa.”
“Works for me,” Terrence said, climbing up out of his chair with a small groan, and grabbing his shirt to put on. As he did, Wendy’s eyes narrowed, and she looked towards the stairs where the marketing director had just exited, her own hand practically clawing at her cheek.
No, she didn’t like Fifi Calipari.
She didn’t like Fifi Calipari at all.
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