Page 109 of Jackrabbit

“A sponsor?” Colt raised his eyebrows and looked at Beau, who shrugged. “What sponsor?”

The video continued, and a young, wild thing with no tattoos but extra curls hopped out of his car and was met by a man his own size. Those same dimples. Same freckles. Same curls, but all ginger instead of Colt’s subtle strawberry blonde. He pulled young Colt into a bone-crushing hug and laughed.

Connor.

“Overthrow,” Walters said, smiling when Colt gasped and grabbed the arms of his chair. “I assume you know the brand.”

Beau reached over and turned off the screen before Colt saw his brother on it.

“Of course I know—” Colt stopped himself and tugged at his hair, looked at Beau, then back to Walters. “TheOverthrow? The tech giant that hosts underground racing tournaments? Who sponsored Tara Wheeler for Indy?”

“That's the one.”

Colt was nearly bouncing in his seat, his fingers going a mile a minute, his leg shaking.

“So, what,” Beau started, drawing his eyes away from Colt and looking at Walters instead. “You want to show-pony him for a sponsor? Put him in another Legend car?”

“Not at all, Mr. Moore.” Walters sat back in Beau’s chair and regarded the two of them with sharp eyes. “We lost a Cup Series driver this season. Took one of our biggest sponsors with him, too. We're bringing one of our current development series drivers up to drive with Vic, and we want Colton to fill his space for the remainder of the season.”

“Pending a test weekend in a Gen 6 car,” Hoyt added from his spot by the wall. “The jump from stock to Gen 6 is nothing to sneer at, and we want to be sure he can handle it before we make a commitment.”

Beau crossed his arms and stared Hoyt down. “He can handle it.”

“I agree.” Navarro adjusted the cuff on her shirt and nodded. “I saw him drive. Sam saw him drive. He's damn good. Raw, natural talent.”

“Exactly.” Walters nodded along. “We've reviewed the data, and we think—”

“What about my coach?”

Every eye in the room turned to Colt, and he wasn't buzzing anymore. He was stone still.

Walters smiled again. She smiled a hell of a lot. “Yes, of course. We brought him in for a reason.” She turned to Beau. “You've done an incredible job, Mr. Moore. I've no doubt that your teachings have been invaluable to this young athlete.”

Beau could taste the ‘but’ coming, and Colt could too, if the way he sat up straighter was anything to go by.

“We want you along for the testing days,” Hoyt said, stepping forward. “For the handoff. You've done great work with him considering your—” He looked around at the shop Beau had owned for over a decade. “Background. I'll be acting crew chief if he makes the cut.”

There it was. Beau’s hand curled against his thigh.Considering your background.They had no fucking clue about Beau’s background, about the fortune he'd been sitting on since his parents had died when he was fourteen, about his rapid rise when he was in the series. None of it. Here they were anyway, looking at his grease-stained hands and his shop and seeing someone not good enough for Colt.

What could he say? That he'd raced professionally? That he had the credentials? He'd spent twelve years making sure no one knew who he was, and he wasn't about to throw that away to win a pissing contest with Marcus Hoyt. Even if he did, Liberty wasn't going to hire a man who owned a garage threestates away to crew chief their development series team. That wasn't how this worked.

“All due respect, Mr. Hoyt,” Colt started, not sounding respectful in the least. “Merc and I have worked together since I started this. He knows me, and he knows how I drive.”

“Mr. Rourke.” Walters leaned forward again, forearms on the desk. “That loyalty is admirable. And we listened to your audio from the race Sameer recorded. He's a good coach. But this isn't about his ability to coach. It's aboutyourability to integrate with our team.”

“But—”

Beau placed his hand on Colt’s shoulder and squeezed until he snapped his mouth shut. Lips pressed into a thin line, Colt's eyes said everything. This was too soon.

If Colt fought them on this—if Beau let him—they'd see a driver who couldn't integrate, who was too attached to his small-time coach. They'd question the offer. Maybe pull it entirely.

He couldn't let that happen.

“They're right, Colt.” Beau shook his head and ignored the way his heart throbbed when Colt’s eyes went glassy, when his mouth parted. “This was always the plan. I'm not—this is my life. They're yours. I know about Marcus Hoyt. His family. His career. He's going to be real good to you.”

The last time Beau had seen a look like that on Colt’s face had been that first day when Colt had waltzed into his garage like a storm incarnate, all stars in his eyes. Puppy-dog eager as he'd begged The Reeve to coach him. Beau still remembered seeing the light drain from his face when he'd crushed that hope, and here he was doing it again.

Colt bit the inside of his cheek. “Alright.”