Checkered Hearts

“The way they looked at me said it all. Not as a threat. Not as real competition. Just another pretty face in a fire suit, someone they could charm, break, and forget by morning. I caught the smirks, the not-so-subtle once-overs, the way their eyes lingered on my body.

“They weren’t looking at my car. If they had been, maybe they’d recognize the number. 21. A number that used to mean something in this sport. A number that belonged to a man who could make a stock car dance at two hundred miles an hour. My father. Jackson Knox. He was a legend behind the wheel, the kind of driver who made people hold their breath when he passed.

Now, the 21 belonged to me. Same number, same fire-red paint job, but a different name above the driver's side window.

They thought I was here to play dress-up in a man’s world. They were wrong. Because in a few hours, I wouldn’t just be another name on their list—I’d be the one standing between them and the checkered flag.”

“Well, ain’t this cute?”

The deep, cocky drawl sent a chill down my spine, but not the good kind. I turned, already knowing who it was. Grayson Beckett. Reigning champion. NASCAR’s golden boy. And, judging by the smirk stretched across his annoyingly perfect face, a certified asshole.

He leaned against the side of my car like he owned it, arms crossed, eyes dragging over me in a way that made my stomach turn. “Didn’t know they were letting girls play with the big boys this season.”

I clenched my fists. “Didn’t know insecurity was a requirement for past champions.”

Grayson let out a slow, mocking laugh. “Damn, feisty too. You sure you wouldn’t rather be in the stands shaking pom-poms? Might be safer. Less chance of you wrecking that pretty little car.”

I narrowed my eyes, taking a step closer, refusing to back down. “Afraid I’ll beat you, Beckett?”

His smirk deepened. “Nah. Just wondering if I should make a bet on how many laps it’ll take before you’re crying into your steering wheel. No offense, sweetheart, but you’ll be out of here faster than my last one-night stand.”

My jaw locked. I’d dealt with my fair share of cocky pricks in this industry, but Grayson Beckett was a whole different breed.

“Well, when I pass you on turn four, try not to choke on your own damn ego.”

I turned before I could say something that might get me kicked off the track. But as I walked away, I could still hear his laughter, low and infuriating, following me like a storm cloud.

“Alright, kid, you ready to make history?”

I turned to see Bobby, my dad’s longest-serving crew chief, standing with his arms crossed, a knowing glint in his eyes. He’d been with my father for over two decades, through every victory, every heartbreak. Now, he was here for me.

“Damn right I am,” I said, cracking my knuckles.

A few of the guys chuckled, giving me fist bumps as they checked the car one last time. My crew wasn’t just any crew. Most were my dad’s team, the same men who had stood by him in victory lane and in the garage when things didn’t go our way. Now, they had my back.

Bobby exhaled hard, shaking his head. “Your old man is loving this. Hell, if I’m being honest, I never thought I’d get the chance to see another Knox behind the wheel of the 21. But here you are, kid. And damn if I ain’t proud of you.”

His voice wavered slightly, and I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. Bobby wasn’t the sentimental type. But right now, he was looking at me the way a father looks at his own daughter.

I gave him a small smile. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Bobby. I need you focused if I’m gonna kick some ass today.”

The guys laughed, and Bobby let out a gruff chuckle, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Alright, alright. Just don’t make me cry in front of these idiots.”

I was about to respond when my headset crackled to life.

“You got your belts tight, baby girl?”

My breath hitched. “Got ’em, Dad.”

“Good. Now listen to me. This is just another race. Don’t let the moment get too big. Stay focused, trust your car, and don’t let those boys rattle you.”

I closed my eyes for a second, letting his words settle deep in my bones. “Got it.”

“One more thing,” he added. “Go have some fun, kid.”

I grinned. “Planning on it.”

The roar of the crowd grew louder as the announcer’s voice boomed across the speedway. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our National Anthem.”

I turned toward the infield, standing at attention with my team as the local school choir stepped onto the track. The first notes rang out, clear and strong, sending chills down my spine. All around me, helmets were lifted, hats were removed, hands placed over hearts. A moment of stillness in a sport defined by speed.

As the anthem faded, the crew chiefs and drivers gathered together, bowing their heads as a pastor’s voice carried through the speakers. “Lord, we thank you for the opportunity to do what we love. We pray for safety over these drivers, their teams, and the fans in the stands. Let this race be run with honor. Amen.”

“Amen,” I murmured, drawing a deep breath as the pre-race jitters pulsed through me.

I turned to my crew, bouncing lightly on my feet, shaking out my arms, rolling my shoulders—whatever I had to do to shake the nerves.

“Alright, let’s do this!” I pumped a fist in the air, and the guys cheered, slapping the car as I grabbed the roll cage and hoisted myself into the driver’s seat, slipping through the window like I’d done a thousand times before.

The moment I settled in, hands gripping the wheel, the announcer’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd.

“Drivers! Start your engines!”

The sound erupted around me, the deep, throaty rumble of horsepower shaking the ground beneath us. My fingers tingled against the leather-wrapped wheel, my heart pounding with the rhythm of the car’s vibrations.

My father’s voice came through the headset once more.

“Focus, Riley. Eyes on the prize.”

I took one last steadying breath, a slow grin curling my lips.

“Let’s light ’em up.”