Read Online Checkered Flag Cheater by Will Weaver - Free Book Online Page A

twangy voice said through his helmet receiver. Trace rocked his steering wheel to make sure the quick release was secure, then fell into line down low. A silvery local Super Stock, No. 69—the racing world’s least original race-car number—tucked in alongside him. Trace ignored him, and made a point of keeping his nose tight against the car ahead; he was loaded, locked, and ready to pull the trigger.
    At the green flag roar, he let No. 69 surge forward, then cranked across his rear bumper to the outside. He took a high line through turn 1, but held back when No. 69 swung his butt sideways, taking up two lanes. Trace had been there before; drivers liked to tap the front corner of a trailing car just enough to make it squirrelly—or send it bass-ackwards off the track. The resulting yellow flag was usually ruled the fault of the car that spun out. Any driver who caused two yellows was done for the night, so therewas no reason to take a chance on receiving the first yellow.
    After a couple of laps, traffic spread out, and Trace went hotfoot. He pulled No. 69 and another car on the high side, and, in the eight-car heat, dove into fifth place—close enough to see Jason Nelson, who was now leading the pack.
    Heat races were only ten laps (sometimes less), and Trace worked hard to get into third place by the time the white flag waved. He had a shot at second place, but didn’t want to risk a wreck or a spinout; the goal, always, was to get to the feature race with the car in one piece, so he streamed under the checkered flag comfortably in third place.
    After crossing the scales, he rumbled up beside Jason Nelson, who had stopped his No. 77x for a checkered flag photo. Trace braked, nodded his way, and Jason pointed back; it was a courtesy moment among racers. Then Trace spun his tires and headed to the pits—where Harlan beckoned him toward the trailer’s rear ramps.
    Trace killed the engine. Even before Trace got out, Jimmy had hooked up the cable and was ready to winch the car inside.
    â€œWhat?” Trace said.
    â€œSmoky wants to check over the engine.”
    â€œRuns fine!” Trace said, loosening his neck collar.
    â€œSmoky didn’t like something,” Harlan said.
    Trace shrugged and climbed out. He was only the driver.
    Harlan and Jimmy had a few questions about how the car handled, after which Trace walked over to the small pit concessions to get a bottle of water. He was standing in line when Jason Nelson walked up to him. Nelson was munching on a nacho platter swimming in bright orange cheese.
    â€œI expected to see you on my ass there at the end,” he said.
    â€œNo rush,” Trace said. “It’s a long season.”
    â€œMost teams run out of money before the season’s over,” Nelson said, “but I guess that won’t happen to you.”
    In the feature, Trace and Jason Nelson lined up bumper to bumper, with Jason behind. Both were well back in the twenty-two-car feature. Some lineups put faster cars farther back to make them work their way up through the pack. This prevented a follow-the-leader type of race—a single line of cars chasing one another’s tails—which was boring for everybody, especially the fans.
    Jason Nelson clearly didn’t plan to be stuck behind Trace for long. On the slow lap before green, he wedged his nose underneath Trace’s bumper and kept it there like a tow truck trying to push-start a car. Trace swore, and rode his brakes. His rear end lifted partway, and his back tires lost bite.
    â€œNo. 77x—back it off!” said the woman’s voice.
    Trace’s rear end settled groundward, but it was hard bumpety-bump until green.
    At thunder-up, Nelson quickly swung around Trace on the high side. Orange tin lurched tight alongside and stayed there—until the corner. The track was always shorter on the inside line, and Trace pulled most of a car’s length in front of Nelson. Down the