Page 126 of Final Drive

They’re still open.

Then Bo is behind me. His arms come around my ribs, but he isn’t dragging me back or pinning my arms. He just puts himself there, solid against my back, and holds on.

“I got you,” he says against my shoulder. “I got you.”

My chest is heaving hard enough that I can feel him moving with it. “I know.”

Quinton is still standing there with his fist closed. His coffee is on the gravel now, lid off, spreading between his shoes. Nobody says anything, and when he looks around, he finally sees what I saw before he swung.

Everyone is watching.

Nine crews have stopped working. The volunteers are staring. Bennett is almost to us, Kowalski has her camera braced against the trailer, and there’s a venue camera mounted on the light pole twenty feet away with a sign directly under it.

Quinton looks back at me. “He put his hands on me first.”

He’s not talking to anyone in particular.

“I did,” I say. Bo’s arms are still around me. “I took your hand off her arm. Then you hit me.”

Quinton opens his mouth, but apparently even he can’t find anywhere to go from there.

The next twenty minutes are paperwork. Two officials show up first, then a third with a radio. Venue security follows, and the sheriff’s deputy who’s been on site since dawn comes over last and starts separating everybody.

They take Quinton’s credential. Kowalski asks to give her statement first, then Reese gives hers, then I give mine.

The deputy looks at the bruise coming up on my face. “You want to press charges?”

“Yes.”

He asks me again ten minutes later after he’s spoken to Quinton. I give him the same answer.

“Did you throw a punch?”

“No.”

He asks the volunteers. Both say no. Then he asks Kowalski.

“I have it on video,” she says. “And no, he didn’t. I’d like that noted because I don’t think anybody’s going to believe it later.”

I almost laugh.

Bennett stands off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back through the whole thing. He doesn’t interrupt once. When the deputy finally closes his notebook, Bennett steps forward.

“Are my athletes cleared to race?”

The deputy looks at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Bennett puts his cap back on and walks straight to the trailer.

It’s 8:19. We launch at 9:20.

Nobody talks about what just happened because there’s no time. Zane finishes the rigging at my seat since my hands aren’t steady enough for fine adjustments yet. Tyler comes back from the trainers’ tent with ice wrapped in a plastic bag and hands it to me without comment.

I hold it against my face and look at myself in the trailer window. The bruise is already coming up, and a second later Reese appears beside my reflection.

She’s holding her upper arm where Quinton grabbed her. Not rubbing it. Just holding it.