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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

“A DVT? Well, Chris can just go for a walk?”

“Dad, can we talk about this later?” She paused, then spoke in a rush. “Amy’s parents think you’re weird, OK? They say one second you’re grumpy then you’re like, super happy. I, uh, said you aren’t, OK?”

Chris inhaled through his nose and looked straight ahead.

Abby turned on Chris’s radio and started flicking through the stations.

Chris signaled Spencer to lean in. “She’s Marielle’s daughter. Marielle used to run rings around your ass.”

And with that, he drove out of the lot.

Spencer watched the Prius trundle up McLean, the heat haze distorting its outline by the time it reached the light. He kept watching as it disappeared into the flow of traffic, watching but not really seeing.

15

15

Red Mist

If you’re not a race driver, stay the hell home. Don’t come here and grumble about going too fast. Get the hell out of the race car if you’ve got feathers on your butt. Put a kerosene rag around your ankles so the ants won’t climb up and eat that candy ass.

—Dale Earnhardt

Spencer was getting worked pretty hard but there was something about the driving that McGrath and Johnny Boy wanted from him that came naturally. It was different from racing and yet just as demanding. But it was also somewhat enjoyable. Spencer had stopped enjoying racing. He couldn’t remember exactly when. It had probably been a slow burn. The thing about racing was that the pressure was immense. If you raced, you raced to win. Second place was first loser. It had gotten to Spencer after a while. Everyone had race nerves, but Spencer’s pre-race nerves got to be so bad, they fucked his performance sometimes, causing him to make the mistakes he feared making.

But this, this driving for McGrath, there wasn’t the same pressure. There wasn’t winning or losing. There was just moving. Moving like mercury through traffic driven by different, slower beings. And then the checking, the tricking: it was like a game, a game within the Game of which Johnny Boy spoke and along the edges of which Spencer now danced, like a dragonfly skimming over a lake—flying, hovering, occasionally touching to take but not tussling with the birds or fish, yet feeding plentifully all the same.