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against it and put my phone in my pocket.
    Sunlight fills the car as we enter the raceway infield area. I try to take a deep breath, but anxiety takes over. “I need to go to the drivers’ meeting. Do you know where that is?” I ask the driver, who is a little friendlier now.
    “Sure, I will drop you off at the end of the lane that takes you right to the building.”
    “Great!” I say as the driver puts the car in park. I grab my bag and exit the car, but not before I apologize for my tardiness again.
    OK
, I say to myself.
Get it together!
    I start down the lane toward the main facility of the racetrack. I make it to the door, and there is absolutely no one even milling around outside. I steal a glance at my phone for the time. I have completely missed the sponsor breakfast, and I am now thirty minutes late for the drivers’ meeting.
Damn it!
    I open the door slowly to peer into the building, to make sure that I am, in fact, in the right place. As I look into the meeting hall, I meet the eyes of about a hundred people who turn cautiously to see who has dared enter the mandatory drivers’ meeting
late! Oh my God!
Sheer mortification sets in, and I jump through the door like a scared cat.
    The moderator of the meeting continues to discuss safety precautions, weather, and pit road regulations. Luckily, there is standing room only, and I am able to disappear behind a group of guys who are standing at the door. My face is flushed with hot embarrassment. I feel like I am going to throw up.
    I look around the room to spot Ryan. It is easy to spot him because he is in the second row scowling back at me. My stomach drops through my knees. I mouth to him, “So sorry!” He gives me a cold stare and then turns his attention back to the gentleman who is giving details about pit road speeds and extra safety measures that have been put into place since the new track configuration. It is like Greek to me. I have no idea what this man is talking about or if it applies to me.
    As soon as the moderator answers a few questions from drivers, the meeting is adjourned. Everyone quickly disperses and lines up to head out the door. I stand by the door to wait for Ryan. I don’t make eye contact with anyone because I am just so embarrassed by this point.
Jeezus!
    Ryan strides past me with only a look of sheer disgust. I don’t even get a “Hey,” “Bye,” “Kiss my ass,” or anything from him.
Bastard!
I throw my overnight bag over my shoulder and fall in line behind him and the other drivers.
    As we walk, I hear Ryan say, “That will be my new fucking babysitter!”
    Ugh! I don’t miss a beat and say just loud enough for him to hear me, “When you stop acting like a child, you won’t need a babysitter, will you?”
    Ryan angles his head back in acknowledgment of my statement, but doesn’t say anything.
    “Yes, I do hope you heard me,” I mutter under my breath. I keep up the pace as we walk swiftly and quietly through the infield area. It is a zoo.
    As we enter the driver introduction platform, I notice a few members of security who fall into line with us—and thankfully, just at the right time. A throng of fans descend on Ryan.
Sweet Jesus!
They are all clamoring for his attention, autograph, and photographs. I get pushed around in the crowd, but I stand my ground and follow Ryan’s lead.
    This is madness, but I can tell Ryan loves it. As the fans push and shove us to get his attention, Ryan takes his time and care with each one. I notice as we continue to push through the crowd that he turns back and steals a quick glance at me, but I am not sure why. The look on his face is very out of character for him. It’s almost as though he is concerned for me. As our eyes lock, I feel my pulse quicken. It puts me at ease, though, it is fleeting.
    Ryan sails through driver introductions effortlessly. The crowd goes wild when he is presented to the audience and saunters across thestage. I fall back into line with him as we walk to