“I take it you’re Haelee?” he asks while offering me his hand, which I glance at before nodding once more. When I finally accept his offer, we shake quickly. His firm grip is strong and commanding. “I’m Colton.”
“Yes, yeah, I know.” My voice comes out as a whisper of shock. “I’m sorry, I just … I … what are you doing here?”
“It seems your father had ensured your love of cars will continue even when he’s no longer here, Haelee,” my mother says. Her blonde hair is nothing like mine. Her green eyes are the complete opposite of my brown ones. When I was adopted at eight, I was lucky to have two people who loved me even though I was different.
It wasn’t easy for them at first, or for me, but we made it work, and even though Mom does drive me insane at times, I’m thankful for her.
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking between Colton and my mother.
It’s Colton who responds. “I received a letter delivered to me by a lawyer about three months ago. I’m in the process of considering new drivers for my team, but when I had a Mr. Jenson, your dad’s lawyer, call me up again this week, I figured I’d come to see you. And your mother.”
“My dad sent you a letter?” The shock in my voice is apparent; every word is filled with confusion.
Colton nods. “He did. A detailed one at that. I had it in my office, and because things have been rather busy, I haven’t had the time to really look into it. He spoke highly of you and your love of racing,” he informs me. “Also, in the letter was a flash drive, which included him filming you doing a few laps at the local track. I like your style.”
Again, my mouth falls open, and I’m sure I look like a fish gulping air, or water, or whatever they do. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me you’ll come by tomorrow, midday, to run a few laps with my guys,” Colton says with a grin. “Let me see what you can do, and if I’m happy and the potential is there, I’ll sign you.” He’s someone I’ve looked up to, someone I used to watch racing while sitting with my dad in the stands. The scent of hot dogs and soda seemingly fills my senses when I think about those weekends at the track. And suddenly, my heart aches. “I’d especially like to see how you take on the track in one of my cars, and if you’re up for it, perhaps race one of my guys to see if you can handle the pressure.”
I find my confidence. Squaring my shoulders, I nod. “I can handle it, Mr. Donavan,” I assure him. “I know I can.”
He laughs, holding out his hand again, which this time, I accept easily. “Then, I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t be late.” He saunters to his car, and I watch as he slips into the driver’s seat before pulling away from the curb with a rumble of the engine.
“Holy shit,” I mumble as the surprise settles in my veins.
“Language, Haelee,” my mother chastises, but she’s grinning almost as wide as I am, and her eyes are filled with unshed emotion. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and for a moment, I expect her to be angry or concerned about the dangers of racing. But she isn’t.
I turn toward her, facing her fully before I ask, “You’re okay with this, Mom?” I may be a rebel at times, but I don’t want her to worry. I know she only wants to make sure I’m safe. If it weren’t for her, I’m not sure where I’d be. Granted, I’m an adult and don’t need her permission, but I want her to know I still consider her opinion.
“Yes, buttercup,” she says with a smile. “He would’ve wanted you to try this out. And who knows? You might just make the team.”
“You’d support me if I make it?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice because I know how difficult it is for her knowing I’m out racing on the streets.
“I’d prefer you to be with a professional team rather than racing on the wrong side of the tracks. Those boys you hang out with are dangerous, and your father would’ve locked you up if he knew.”
Sighing, I nod. “I know, Mom, but it’s who I am. I can’t stop being myself.” When I turned eighteen, my folks gave me the details for my birth mother. I learned she was a Puerto Rican beauty who had overdosed when her dealer got tired of her. She had me when she was sixteen, far too young to have so much responsibility. “I won’t end up like her, I promise.”