Fuel
by Velma
The kid was good. Chris had to admit that. He'd been worth hauling ass up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin to see, anyway, although Chris suspected he was already too late. Justin had to have gotten some pretty sweet offers by now. Chris remembered this track. Angell Park Speedway - he'd raced his last sprint car here, before Lou'd called him up to the big leagues, given him his shot.
Chris could hate Lou for lot of things, but the fact remained that Lou'd given him his ride to the big show. Lou'd gotten him out of here. It bothered the hell out of him that he couldn't hate Lou for that.
There was whispering behind him, to his left, and Chris sighed, wincing as he got up. His knees popped as he reached for the cane. He didn't need it most of the time, but the ground here was unsteady and he didn't want to risk falling on his face.
"Excuse me," and Chris froze. 'Shit,' he thought. 'Busted.' He turned, pasted a smile on his face, and was surprised to find himself looking down at a kid young enough to be his son.
"Hey," he said, and the smile was genuine now. "What can I do for you, kid?"
"Are you Chris Kirkpatrick?" the boy asked, eyes widening when Chris nodded yes. "You were my dad's favorite racer! And mine, too! We have your posters all over." He held a program out shyly. "Would you mind signing this for me?"
He signed, of course, because he was a sucker for kids. But this one looked like he was about to get long-winded, he could tell, and he shifted uncomfortably, aware of more and more eyes turning in his direction. He reached out and ruffled the boy's head, took off his own hat and gave it to the kid.
"Gotta go, buddy. But tell your dad thanks - it means a lot." He maneuvered his way out of the aisle and headed down toward the paddock before anyone else got a clue and the nerve to approach.
Racing. The air smelled of racing, he thought, as he crossed over the track to the pits. The sweet smell of gasoline and exhaust and burning rubber. His chest ached from it, pain more harsh than the burning in his knees.
God, he missed this.
Two years. Two years since Bristol and Chris still twitched when he got near a stock car. The crash has been a spectacular one. He and Richardson had been playing their usual games. Fast and loose and way too aggressive, they were both too confident for their good. Kevin had tapped him going into turn four and Chris had lost it, a split second mistake that had sent him crashing into the wall at 160.
It was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in a hospital bed a week later. Shattered pelvis. Broken back. Broken legs. More than once Chris had wished he'd just died in the car, but no. No, he'd never been that lucky.
He'd healed, the injury to his back wasn't permanent, and he walked again, but his knees were jacked something awful. He wasn't going to see the inside of a race car again.
It was funny, reading the clippings when he got out of the hospital. He might as well have been dead, for all the eulogizing of his career. He'd been leading in the points race when he crashed, coming into the season as the defending Winston Cup champion. He'd won all the majors except Daytona. He'd been Rookie of the Year. It was all gone.
He leaned down, rubbed some of the mud kicked off the track between his fingers. This was where he'd gotten his start, in the dirt tracks of the Midwest. It was his past. And, he hoped,looking across the pits at the kid he'd come here for, his future.
Justin Timberlake. In an era when physical appearance was becoming just as important to sponsors as talent, Justin had a face that made girls melt. A cocky smile, swagger, and a confidence that should have been annoying. But the kid wasn't just a pretty face. He was a hell of a good racer, with instincts like Chris had never seen. At twenty-one, he was a little green for Chris's tastes, but he'd been racing his whole life and winning for just as long. He'd put himself through Purdue, and the engineering degree he'd earned there told Chris he probably knew as much about cars as he did driving. He was the total package.
Chris wanted him. Badly. He knew Lou'd been sniffing around, and Kevin had shown some interest, but he already had a young gun to worry about. Some kid named Carter who'd had an impressive couple of years racing in the Busch League. Kevin was distracted, Lou already had a couple drivers. Chris was hoping to use that in his favor, 'cause there was no way in hell he could offer Justin what they could, not financially. If Chris could just make the hard sell, he figured Justin Timberlake would be the first driver signed to Kirkpatrick Racing.
The one and only.
He really, really needed this guy.
The "crew", if you could call it that, was getting the car ready for the feature when Chris approached, content to just watch them work. It was painful, mostly, and he'd forgotten how much slower this was, how ragtag the outfit could be. One of the guys, Chris guessed it was the chief because the other guys seemed to listen to him, looked like he actually knew what he was doing. If he signed Timberlake, it'd be good to bring a familiar face with him. As long as the guy wasn't a liability.
It was this guy who noticed him finally, stiffening a little when he saw Chris leaning against a pole. "Mr. Kirkpatrick," he said, striding over and sticking out a hand. "Josh Chasez. JC. I keep J's car running."
"Chasez?" The name was familiar. Chris couldn't place it, though, and the guy sure as hell didn't look like anyone he'd seen before, odd mix of youth and wisdom in his face and Chris didn't figure him for much older than Justin.
"My dad used to spot for Pearlman," JC said, shrugging. "You weren't racing for him at the time. It was a ways back. Last crew he worked on was for Donnie Wahlberg. I used to hang around a bit. I remember watching you run these sprints."
"Roy," Chris said, grinning. "I remember now. He's a good man. Good eye."
JC smiled. "Yeah. He was pretty excited when he heard you were coming
out to check out Justin. He's always had a lot of respect for you. You're really gonna do it, huh? Go into business for yourself?""Depends on your boy," Chris winked, as Justin appeared around the corner. Chris opened his mouth, but Justin held up a hand.
"Nuh uh. I know who you are, I know why you're here. I've got a race to win, man. So first things first. You can buy me a beer after I win." He grinned. "C? Get me ready?"
Justin won the race, ran away with it like he'd been doing every race the whole sprint season. Chris sat back and watched afterward as Justin was surrounded by fans. He was still out there, posing for pictures and signing autographs long after the car'd been packed up and the stands were cleared.
"They sure do love him," Chris said to JC as they watched him, waiting.
"You know as well as I do they can be fickle," JC said, and Chris thought about how quickly Wahlberg'd lost his ride after he'd stopped winning. "They're not stupid. They know he's going somewhere."
Chris thought JC was nowhere near as young as he looked.
When the last fan had left, the lights at the track shutting off one after the other, Justin finally made his way over to where Chris was sitting.
"Chris Kirkpatrick. A living legend. It's a real honor, sir."
"Cut the crap, kid," Chris laughed. "I'm here to impress you, remember?"
The glint in Justin's eye told Chris he was more than aware of that.
"So here's the deal," Chris said, sensing rather than seeing JC move up behind him, "you've seen the contract, you're no dummy. I can't offer you the sun and moon and pretty girls and piles of money in exchange for your John Hancock. I'm sure you've gotten those offers, but you haven't signed yet, which means you're looking for something else." He took a deep breath.
"Here's what I can offer you. A team of your own. You're going to be CKI's one and only. Everything and everyone in my operation will be behind you. I've got the connections to get you endorsements. I've got firsthand knowledge of what you're up against. I've got the most loyal, best group of people on my crew you could ever hope for, and a damn fine car. I've seen you race, kid, and I don't need to tell you you're good. You've heard that, you know it. I can help you be the best. And you won't have to sell your soul to a greedy owner or Home Depot to do it."
He shifted on his feet, watching Justin. "That's it. That's all I got. Come on. Let me buy you a beer."
*~*
Six hours later, Chris fumbled with the lock on his hotel room door. That last beer was perhaps one too many. He stumbled inside, tugging off his shirt and tossing it across the room before he stepped out of his pants, crawling under the covers and wrapping himself around the warm body waiting there.
"Mmmpfh," the sound rumbled through his chest. "Chris, you stink."
Chris nuzzled at the neck, mumbling incoherently.
"Seriously. Go brush your teeth or something."
"I'm not inclined to move at this point," Chris murmured. "Oh, and Lance?"
The body next to him shifted, turning onto its back. "Yeah?"
Chris dropped a contract on Lance's chest, nipping at his ear. "We got him."