Jake smiled. It was a tired, worn-out smile, but it was real. He pulled the rookie into a rough, helmet-banging hug.

“Copy,” Jake grunted.

The crowd was a blur of noise. Jake let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since Daytona. He raised one finger out the window—not a taunt, but a salute.

Benny came back. “NASCAR says one to go to green. A shootout. Twelve laps. All or nothing.”

The concrete of Martinsville Speedway vibrated through the steering wheel of the #42 Chevy. Jake Reilly could feel it in his teeth. Thirty years of this, and the old man could still taste the metal of the track, the burnt cocktail of rubber, high-octane fuel, and fear.

“He’s loose, Jake!” Benny yelled. “The 99 is skating on exit!”