Avoidable Contact Read Online Free

start/finish line and Turn 1. The bank of screens allowed us to track the progress of Sandham Swift’s cars around the track almost continuously.
    Sandham Swift’s three-car pit space was packed tent-wall to tent-wall with crew, drivers, support staff, and guests. We were four-deep in front of the monitors. I wiggled forward to stand next to two of my three co-drivers in the 28 car, Miles Hanson and Colby Lascuola. The fourth member of our driving team—Mike Munroe, my regular co-driver for the full racing season—was behind the wheel, preparing to take the green. Each of Sandham Swift’s three cars would be piloted by four drivers taking turns behind the wheel. The car and crew went the full twenty-four hour duration, but individual drivers got to rest between shifts.
    Miles patted my shoulder, and Colby smiled as the field paraded by on the front straight. I saw Mike’s hands on the in-car camera feed as he swung the wheel back and forth, making the car swerve and hopefully keeping debris off the tires. The ambient car noise died down again as the field processed into the infield portion of the track. One of the other Sandham Swift drivers turned to me.
    â€œKate, we’ll get this out of the way, shall we?” Leon Browning, a twenty-one-year-old Scot who matched me in height and outshined me in sartorial flair, had raced with Mike and me the previous year. He was part of the foursome in the 29 car for this race. While Leon could usually be counted on for a ready joke, he was subdued now. He glanced at the other Sandham Swift drivers, then back at me. “I’m speaking for all of us when I say we’re praying for Stuart, and we’re ready to support you any way you need.”
    I looked from Leon to the others, most of whom were watching me and nodding. “I—thanks, but—”
    Leon stopped me. “We agreed the best thing is not to natter on about updates and such. We’ll expect to hear from someone if there’s news and expect you to tell us if you need anything at all. Otherwise, we’ll speak to you only about racing. Right?”
    They understood. Relief and gratitude welled up inside me, and I blinked the corresponding tears back. “Thank you. Sincerely.”
    A few of the other drivers reached out and patted my shoulder or gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled my thanks.
    â€œRight, then.” Leon gave a sharp nod. “Let’s one of us go and win this thing.”
    â€œI’d settle for survival.” On more than one front.
    The field of cars stretched across four monitors as they made the transition from the infield to the banked turns of the speedway on their second of four laps behind the pace car.
    With the cars on the other side of the track, I could hear Tom behind me, obviously answering questions for visitors. “The United SportsCar Championship has two classes of prototypes—those are cars built for racing, not for the street—competing at the same time as two classes of GT sportscars—those are versions of recognizable street vehicles.”
    I heard a murmur in response, and Tom spoke again. “This race is our ‘Big Game,’ so everyone wants to drive. That’s why you see pros from other types of racing and amateurs who never do anything else all year. Everyone wants to be part of it—and lots of teams add extra cars for it, like we’ve done.”
    Jack and the co-owner of the team, Ed Swift, had branched out for this race, fielding a third car for a talented group of three amateur drivers and the pro they’d hired to partner and coach them. That pro was Ian Davenport, a twenty-five-year-old from the IndyCar series and the son of Greg Davenport, Holly’s former boss at Western Racing.
    As the cars passed the pits again, starting their third lap, Ian nudged Leon out of the way and stood next to me. “We’re both in for the third shift.”
    â€œWhat did you have in