#Bill Elliott Racing

[nascarwallpapers]

2000 NASCAR Winston Cup Series: Bill Elliott, #94 McDonald's Drive-Thru Ford, Bill Elliott Racing. Download full resolution & extras on Patreon.

#NASCAR Wallpapers #Bill Elliott #2000 #Winston Cup #Sprint Cup #Ford #Bill Elliott Racing #94 #McDonalds #Red #Orange #Yellow

[retrocgads]

USA 1990

#USA1990 #KONAMI #HARDWARE #HANDHELD #ACTION #RACING #DOUBLE DRIBLE #NFL FOOTBALL #BLADES OF STEEL #BOTTOM OF THE NINTH #BILL ELLIOTT'S NASCAR RACING

[flmboyz]

#mercury #flm boyz #lincoln #ford #ford motor co #nascar #bill elliott #ford thunderbird #race car #classic cars

[optimabatteries]

NASCAR legend Bill Elliott racing his Boss 302 1970 Ford Mustang at the HSR races at Sebring International Raceway 2023. www.powerpacknation.com

#Bill Elliott #Ford Mustang #NASCAR #vintage racing #vintage racecar

[reasonsforhope]

LGBTQ+ organizations and allies are celebrating Michigan for becoming the first state in three years to pass comprehensive anti-discrimination protections for sexual orientation and gender identity. The legislation, which now heads to Gov. Gretchen Whitmer (D) to be signed into law, finally passed after decades of court battles and hold-ups from Republican legislators.

The bill passed in a 64-45 vote in the Democrat-led House on Wednesday. It amends the state’s 1976 Elliott-Larsen Civil Rights Act (ELCRA) to include LGBTQ+ people among its protected groups. The law forbids discrimination in housing, employment, and public accommodation within businesses, government buildings, and educational facilities on the basis of religion, race, color, national origin, age, sex, height, weight, familial status, marital status — and now, LGBTQ+ identity.

Democrats had tried introducing various LGBTQ+ non-discrimination measures over the last 40 years, according to the bill’s gay sponsor Sen. Jeremy Moss (D). However, the attempts were repeatedly voted down by Republican-led legislatures. Last January, Democrats took control of the full legislature for the first time in nearly 40 years, finally giving them the chance to pass the protections.

In July 2022, Michigan’s Supreme Court issued a landmark 5–2 ruling that ELCRA already forbade discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity as forms of discrimination based on sex and gender. This followed a 2020 Michigan Court of Claims ruling that said ELCRA didn’t ban anti-gay discrimination as well as a 2018 vote by Michigan’s Civil Rights Commission interpreting ELCRA as protecting LGBTQ+ people from religious-based discrimination...

When the House voted to pass the historic bill on Wednesday, a crowd in the House gallery broke into applause, Bridge Michigan reported. Republican House members had tried adding amendments that would’ve carved out exceptions for religious people to continue discriminating against LGBTQ+ people. None of these amendments passed into the final bill.

Gov. [Whitmer] has signaled that she will soon sign the bill into law. In a Wednesday tweet, she noted the observation of International Women’s Day and wrote, “I’m celebrating trans women who have continuously led the way, despite constant threats to their lives and liberty. I’m proud that we’re finally in a position to expand the Elliott-Larsen Civil Rights Act to protect LGBTQ+ Michiganders. Let’s get it done!”

-via LGBTQ Nation, 3/9/23

Note: If it's not clear from the language, this is basically a done deal--the bill signing IS ABSOLUTELY GOING TO HAPPEN.

As scary as things are right now, there are so many of us fighting to protect ourselves, our communities, and the queer and trans people around us.

This comes only a day after Minnesota's governor signed a landmark executive order that guarantees the right to gender-affirming care and prevents the state from complying with any other states' attempts to interfere. via them.us, 3/9/23

There is hope, and there are so many people fighting for us.

#transgender #trans #trans rights #trans healthcare #top surgery #gender affirming care #trans rights are human rights #michigan #united states #us politics #gretchen whitmer #democrats #voting matters #lgbtq #lgbtq rights #transphobia cw #good news #hope

[formulaforza]

miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—01. all american girl —word count: 6.4k —warnings: none :) —a/n: this is queued so I'm sound asleep right now but trust when I wake... I will be throwing up about having posted this

It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and the kindergarteners at Robinson Elementary are getting picked up from the gymnasium and taken to their classroom to start their day. It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and their teacher, Chris Elliott, is running four minutes late to the first day of the U.S Grand Prix. Her fingers flatten down stray flyaways, working in tandem with the extra strength hairspray she found in the back of the Walgreens beauty aisle last night. Her makeup is strewn about in chaos atop the stark white marble countertops, a single folded piece of toilet paper in the trash can, remnants of her lipstick kissed onto the fibers. 

She played it safe on the outfit today, still hasn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what the dress code for this race is supposed to be. Her Dad has been no help–he can get away with wearing jeans and a short-sleeve button-up just about anywhere he goes. More is expected from her, though. Three days, three outfits, always walking the line between casual streetwear and Kentucky Derby without a fascinator. She settled for something painfully classic and American, figured a European sport would be eating up the concept of everything being bigger in Texas. Levi’s, a white tank top, and a beat up pair of cowboy boots should do a good enough job at letting anyone curious know she’s authentically American, without screaming out for attention. That’s the goal for the weekend; blend in and keep Dad company. 

Dad, who is not-so patiently tapping his foot against the floor, watching pre-race coverage of the Dixie Vodka 400 on his iPhone 7,  is a guest of honor for Ferrari this weekend. It was a classic Bill Elliott commitment, one he makes and then forgets about until he’s getting sent an email a month ago to remind him. One he makes when he forgets his son is racing the same weekend. That’s how Chris ended up here with him, instead of her Mom or instead of Chase or Chandler. They’re all in Florida for the Cup Series. Well–Chandler isn’t. Chandler’s at her hot-shot job in the big city living her life blissfully away from racing. 

She can count on a single hand the amount of times her dad has missed a Cup Series race in the years since his retirement. Even if he’s moved on from driving the track, racing is in Elliott blood. It comes easier to them than breathing does. Chris won’t be the first to admit it, but she's the NASCAR nepotism equivalent of a Baldwin baby. She’s no Kennedy, the first-families of NASCAR are closer to the Petty’s and the Earnhardt’s, but, you ask a NASCAR fan about the Elliott Clan and you’re sure to get an earful. Champion, Hall-of-Fame inductee father, supergenius transmission and engine mechanic uncles, and a superstar fan-favorite older brother, the Elliott family racing history spans generations of fans.

Never the Danica Patrick-type, Chris has always preferred to watch the races rather than compete in them, but she still grew up at the track and was always up for a trip to visit her dad at the auto-shop. 

“Mums,” her dad says, peeking his head around the corner into the hotel bathroom. It’s a stupid nickname, Mums, Chrysanthemum. She’d roll her eyes if it was anyone but Bill still calling her by it. “We gotta go, darlin’.” Chris nods at him in the mirror, flattens her hands along her thigh and tucks one final strand of her bang behind her ear, and then they’re finally leaving the hotel for the track. 

It’s a strange kind of first for Chris, in that it’s not really a first at all. She’s been to COTA before, multiple times. Hell, she watched in the garage when Chase won the inaugural Cup Series race here in May last season. She’s even been to the U.S Grand Prix before, back when it was still in Indianapolis, when Chris was too young to remember if it was big or if she was just little. She’s used to the crowds, spends almost every weekend with upwards of fifty-thousand people, but this? This is the kind of crowd she can’t fathom being among, and it’s only Friday. If it takes them an hour and a half to get through traffic on a practice day, she can only imagine what the next two mornings have in store for her. 

“No antics today,” Bill tells her in the car. “They’re not like us. Trust me, I know.”

Last time you went to one of these races, you were still a driver, she wants to tell him, but doesn’t. He doesn’t take well to the implication he’s an old man. Walking into the paddock with a yellow pass hung around her neck, FERRARI-GUEST-17 and a picture of the team logo popping up on the screens at the turnstiles, she’s beyond taken back by the pomp and circumstance of it all. She’s barely through the entrance and she’s already spotted half a dozen people who could buy her without it making a dent in their pockets. It’s nothing like walking around a NASCAR track. There isn’t a single Bud Light knight or backs sunburnt into American flags or t-shirts turned muscle tanks. It’s just… rich people. Lots and lots of rich people. 

In the Paddock Club tent, Bill manages to find a couple of his old buddies. Guys he raced with back in the day who’ve turned up for whatever with whoever this weekend. It’s unsurprising, stock car racing is nowhere near as exclusive a club as Formula One. They aren’t any of the guys Chris remembers being a part of her childhood, none of them pseudo-uncles in the way some other drivers were. You’re all grown up, they tell her, note her height and her features and one of them even asks if she’s in college yet. She plays along, pretends she remembers them fondly and that they haven’t been on the recipient list for the annual Elliott family Christmas newsletter for the past thirty or so years. His buddies are much more comfortable talking about Chase, anyways, about his racing and his fiancee and his little boy than they’ve ever been talking about Chris or Chandler. The concept of a quote-en-quote girl dad wasn’t such a thing in the nineties.

Chris makes small talk with one of the wives. They can’t be that far apart in age, she’s definitely of a different generation than her husband. Gross. Chris lets the woman lead the conversation; she talks about the polka dots on her skirt and Chris’ cowboy boots that are, apparently, perfectly authentic. 

They separate from the group of former NASCAR drivers and their child brides within the hour. Bill has to be in Ferrari hospitality by one o’clock for a special meeting. He’s still not sure what he did to get selected for this specific group of people who get to do a hot lap with one of the Ferrari drivers, but he isn’t about to ask any questions that might get him out of it. He sets off to hospitality and Chris sneaks out of the paddock and into the rest of the track. 

There’s only so much to see inside the paddock. Hospitality after hospitality after hospitality, just in different colors with different modern structures with pictures of different cars. She wants to experience the event, not just the rich people who can pay their way into the upper echelon of the pinnacle of motorsport. If she’s going to be on her own for an hour and a half, she might as well be fully and truly on her own. 

She ends up in the beer garden. More specifically, the bar tent. You can’t separate a NASCAR fan from the Natty Light. The pass around her neck gets her into the VIP area of the tent, which… feels like an antithesis of itself.  Her phone buzzes in her back pocket when she’s waiting on her bottle from the bartender. It’s her dad. 

Brad Pitt is here. Crazy. 

She makes quick acquaintances with a couple who looks about her age. She compliments the girl’s denim jacket and then she’s in. The DJ is playing country music with a techno backtrack at the other side of the tent and they all three spend a good fifteen minutes trying to decide if they love or hate the set. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” the guy says. 

“It’s definitely not the best, though,” Chris winces, spots a Ferrari pass hanging with the VIP one around the girlfriend’s neck. “Are you guys here with Ferrari?” She asks. 

“Oh, “ she says, looks down at the pass and fiddles with it for a moment. “Yeah, Will’s a golfer and they invited him for a tour and to do this golf event with ESPN.”

“Oh, that’s sick!” Chris nods. “Have you guys ever been here, or is this your first time?”

“We’ve come every year for…” Will starts, looks to his girlfriend for the rest of his sentence. 

“Four years,” she nods. “What about you?”

“This is my first time,” Chris explains, leaves out the technicalities because she barely cares about them, doesn’t expect a stranger to even half-care. “My dad’s here with Ferrari, and I’m here to babysit my dad.” She laughs. 

The woman nods, makes a quiet ah sound. Will asks for clarification. “You guys lose each other, or something?”

Chris nods. “Or something.”

Charles sees her before he hears her. She appears in his peripheral on the top floor of Ferrari Hospitality, moving swiftly through the groups of strangers with a confidence that makes you think she owns the place. He half-prepares to excuse himself from his current conversation–not that he’s understanding more than forty-percent of the words coming out of this guy’s mouth–to take a photo with the short brunette bee-lining it over to him. 

“Excu–”

“I think I saw Brad Pitt on my way here,” she says, and the man he’s been talking to for fifteen minutes laughs. Oh, he thinks, that’s mortifying. She’s not here to intrude on his conversation and ask for a picture. She’s here with this guy. 

“This is my Chris,” Bill says. 

“Hi,” Chris says. Chris. Chris. Chris is a woman. A woman extending her hand, thin and well manicured with a single ruby ring, for him to shake. “Chris.”

“Charles,” he says, hesitates. “You are not what I was expecting.” 

There wasn’t much he understood from Bill Elliott during their hot lap, not that Bill didn’t talk. Charles just didn’t have the focusing capabilities to drive the car in an entertaining way while also deciphering the thick southern drawl of the man sat in the passenger seat. It was thick, heavy, and sounded like maybe he’d smoked a pack a day for a few years. That, or he was straight-up making up words in a bit that only he was in on. One thing he did understand, though, was the kids’ names. I have three, he’d said, Chandler, Chase, and Chris. He’d assumed all boys. Chandler, Chase, and Christopher. Christian. Cristiano. The last thing he was expecting was a beautiful girl with a firm handshake. 

“You were expecting me?” She asks, and her voice is a million times easier to understand than her father’s. 

“No, no. He just,” He gestures absently to Bill. Chris doesn’t break eye contact. She has wonderful eyes. “I thought Chandler, Chase, and Chris are three brothers.”

“Oh,” She laughs like it’s not even close to the first time she’s had to follow behind her dad and correct the miscommunication, and a piece of her bangs falls loose from its tucked position behind her ear. She fixes it without thought. “Well, you’re one for three.” 

She asks Bill about the hot lap, asks if he had fun and he laughs. They’re very laugh-oriented people, he’s noticed. Laughy and almost intimidatingly good at holding eye contact. He’d always heard Americans had an issue with eye contact, and if that really is the case, these two practice their active-listening skills enough for the rest of the country. Their kindness is in their expressions, soft eyes and small smiles that keep you from feeling like an intrusion on the conversation. He notes all of his findings internally, categorizes them together as if he’s spent the last ten minutes looking at anyone but her. 

She’s horrendously his type. It’s painfully apparent with every passing moment. The hair and the face and the build and the smile. Just, God.

“Why didn’t you do one?” He asks, “A lap?”

“The need-for-speed bug skipped the women in my family, unfortunately.” She tucks her hair again. He wonders if she’s growing it out or if she always keeps it at such a length that it’s just too short to stay where she wants it to. 

“We could go slow,” he offers and she chuckles, closing her eyes long enough to roll them without him actually seeing them roll. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” He’s never been good at flirting, always found it off-putting in the beginning, trying to walk the line between what one person finds fun and another person finds horribly uncomfortable. Once the dust settles, he can manage, but making those first few moves? He might as well be a deer in headlights. Semi-truck headlights. 

“I don’t know,” she says, drags out the vowel sounds and he’s oblivious to whether or not she can tell he’s only making this offer as a chance to spend more time with her. He’ll get an earful for it, no doubt, but if she agrees it’ll be worth it. Bill chimes in, eggs her on with a guilt trip. You should do it, don’t be a party-pooper. Charles wonders if Bill can tell he’s flirting with his daughter. Probably not, he’d bet. “Okay,” she says, and his stomach does a celebratory flip. Before he can say anything more, Mia is pulling him off somewhere. He hadn’t even seen her coming, but he fills her in on the walk.

“Domani c'è un'aggiunta al programma dei giri veloci.” There’s an addition to the hot laps schedule tomorrow, he says. Mia glares at him and he pretends not to notice, flashes her a toothy-grin as an unapologetic apology. 

When she’d agreed to do a hot lap with the gorgeous racing driver standing a foot away from her, she assumed it would be forgotten the moment he stepped away from the conversation. She never would have agreed to it if she actually thought it was going to happen. Chris was sorely mistaken though, when later that afternoon, a man dressed head-to-toe in Ferrari red finds her to gather her information. 1:10, he tells her through a thick Italian accent, be in hospitality at 1:10. 

It was wonderful, really. Perfect, fantastic, great, legendary. This is an amazing opportunity. She isn’t going to regret agreeing to this, no chance. Even for the queen of optimism, this one is hard to put a positive spin on. 

There is no underestimating just how much Chris hates going fast. She’s never liked it, spent the majority of her childhood getting carsick in a vehicle maxing out at forty miles an hour. Her sister and brother used to think she was faking it just so she could always ride shotgun. She’s not even allowed to drive the car if she’s with her dad or her brother because they can’t bear it. To her, a speed limit is just that, a limit. To everyone else, it’s a minimum. 

Her only hope is that she doesn’t vomit all over an expensive supercar at 1:10 tomorrow afternoon, or worse–the cute guy driving the car. 

In the meantime, she can distract herself with the Green Day performance and remind herself that only so much can happen in five minutes. Anyone can survive five minutes. 

– – –

They eat the continental breakfast at the hotel the next morning. Bill has pancakes and Chris has cereal because, as she’ll tell anyone, there’s just something about cereal from a plastic container. She’s also three coffees ahead of where she was this time the day before, all of her nerves personifying themselves as desperation for caffeine. She’s responding to a work email on her phone while Bill has a call with Chase. 

Somewhere on a race track in Florida, Chase is calling between practice and qualifying sessions. They talk every day during a race weekend–Bill and Chase–and it’s almost never about racing. Her dad might drop an occasional that’s not what I would’ve done or a well, that looked like fun, but that’s usually the end of race-talk. They used to fight like cats and dogs about driving when Chase was younger, so much so that Chris’ mom banned them from talking about racing inside the house for three straight years. The who of them are better now, now that Bill’s been able to let Chase find his own way and go through his own racing journey. 

“Your sister is doing a Hot Lap today,” Bill says, and Chris can hear Chase’s laughter from the muffled speaker. 

Bill and Chris are driven to the track on Saturday because traffic is so bad. It’s hot and windy and Chris has her window rolled down the entire drive, her fingers dancing through the dry air. She’s always loved the heat, the sun shining down on her skin, kissing her in a million different places all at the same time. She loves the heat, and the heat loves her. 

The morning flies by. They start the day with a tour of the Ferrari garage, where they’re introduced, or re-introduced, to their drivers. They end up with a couple other very important people hunched over Charles’ car while he explains how much pressure needs to be applied to the brake pedal for the car to actually brake. Bill eats the semantics up, cars and their mechanics run thick in his blood, braided deeply into his DNA. Chris, however, has always enjoyed the more delicate things in life; the pink hair bows and the dollar store makeup kits and spinning herself dizzy in a flowy summer dress. She never spent exorbitant amounts of time at Dad’s engine shop or Grandpa’s Ford Dealership, it just wasn’t in her lane of interests. She sips another coffee–her fifth of the day–and listens attentively to Charles talk, bites her smile at his wild gesticulations. He’d make a good kindergarten teacher, she thinks, with his huge personality. 

When the whole tour group is being shuffled out of the garage to be replaced by a new set of prying eyes, Charles makes a passing comment. See you later for the world’s slowest hot lap, he remarked, put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze as he moved past her. 

She doesn’t know why, but she’d convinced herself that it wouldn’t actually be him she would be doing the lap with. It was qualifying day, after all. Surely, he had about a million and one better things to be doing than driving a random girl around a track a few times. She figured it would be a driver, but not one of the drivers. 

After lunch, she makes her way back to Ferrari hospitality, to where she was told to be waiting at 1:10. She’s the only person who looks like they’re here on instruction. Nobody else is nervously picking at their cuticles or vibrating in place as a reaction to their seven coffees that morning.

She spent the night before grilling her dad about his experience, forcing him to give her a moment-by-moment breakdown of everything he remembered happening, from the safety briefing to the conversation afterwards. But, when it came time for Chris to actually do hers, there was no safety briefing warning her about the million different ways she could die. Instead, the same man who’d tracked her down the day before escorted her from the top floor of hospitality to the bottom, out the back into what she can best compare to an alleyway, and then to a red supercharged Ferrari. 

Charles is there, talking to what appears to be a personal photographer and another man dressed in Ferrari garb. She re-introduces herself for a third time in twenty four hours. “I know your name, Chris,” Charles says, smiles and shakes her hand anyway. She doesn’t like the way her brain reacts to him saying her name like it belongs on his lips. 

“Duh,” she laughs, “sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Right,” she nods. “Yeah, sorry.” Charles laughs out a sigh, cocks his head and smiles. Chris bites her tongue not to apologize again. It’s a reflex. She puffs out her laugh and shrugs. 

If she manages to make it out of these couple laps with her life and the contents of her stomach still intact, she’s sure to still look like a clown–a fact she realizes as she pulls the tight helmet over her head. She’s worn racing helmets a handful of times, but it’s not muscle memory to her in the way it is to him. It takes her a minute to tighten the chin strap just right and despite his genuine offer to help her, Chris turns him down and blindly works her fingers under her neck until it’s just right. 

“Why don’t you get a fun Hot Laps helmet?” She asks while she fights with the strap. 

Charles knocks on the side of his helmet with his knuckle. “Custom fit. Safety reasons.”

Chris knows, she was just messing with him. She nods like she never could’ve guessed that was the reason. “My safety doesn’t matter?” She comments, pulls the strap tight for the final time. 

“You think I’m going to crash?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I would never crash with Chris Elliott in the car.” There he goes again, saying her name all annoyingly French and nice and easy. 

“Whatever,” she says, turns away so he can’t see her squished cheeks flush pink against the polyester. He opens the passenger side door for her, knocks his knuckle on her helmet this time, and horribly mocks both her words and accent before shutting the door behind her. 

Chris has her seatbelt buckled before he can get around the front of the car and into his seat. Her leg bounces anxiously against the floor mat. Charles starts the car and moves to shift into drive, but stops short. “Are you scared?” he asks, and in a moment of vulnerable honesty, she nods. She’s more than scared. She’s terrified, and despite his brief attempt to reassure her that it’s going to be fun, her leg is still bouncing when they peel off from the group already awaiting his return. 

A hot lap, she’d come to learn in the last day or so, would be more accurately referred to as hot laps–plural, multiple, several. Three, to be exact. One out lap, one push lap, and one cool down lap. Three laps. Hot laps. They should really start referring to it as a plural. 

The best thing she can compare it to is a roller coaster. The turns share the feeling you get at the tipping point, right before your body thinks you’re free falling. Her stomach is left behind three turns back and it never really catches up to the car once they start. The straights are like that first hill, fast and crazy in a way that pulls from her lips screams she hears before she consciously chooses to release. It’s like a roller coaster, if the person sitting next to you is completely unaffected by the ride and spends the entire time trying to carry out a conversation with you between your screams and their giggles. It’s like a roller coaster, if the cart never leaves the ground. 

On the cool down lap, when they’re going at a speed that allows Chris to pick up her soul when they drive through turn four, he asks her if she’s single. It comes at her from left field. 

“Are you flirting with me?”

He laughs, takes a hand off the wheel and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes!”

“Oh,” she says softly. If he notices the surprise in her tone, he doesn’t mention it. “I am.” 

“Can I get your number?” She swears that his fingers are shakier than before as they hover over the paddle shift. They were sure-footed just minutes earlier, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of it, but there’s no way it’s a genuine observation. There’s no way she’s making him nervous. 

She laughs, because what on God’s green Earth is a European Formula One driver going to do with a small town American girl’s phone number? 

“I’m not abandoning my dad for a hookup,” she says, and he rolls his eyes, repeats the question. “Why do you want it?”

“Because, Chris Elliott,” she wants to scrape the way he says her name out of his voice box and pin it in a scrapbook. It’s like a tick, the way it burrows into her skin. Nobody should be allowed to make her name sound like that. “You are a very beautiful girl, and when a guy sees a beautiful girl, they act like an idiot and ask for her number.” 

“Oh, my God,” she giggles, shakes her head and looks out the window like it might ground her, or like it might reveal that she really is in some fever dream state and none of this is real. She’s not even in Texas, maybe. That’s how insane this whole conversation is to her. 

“Too cheesy?” He asks, grimaces. She shakes her head, holds her hand out for his phone. 

“Just cheesy enough.”

When they get back to where they started, someone asks Chris if she’d had a good time. She nods, flattens down the static-electricity charged flyaways on her head and tells them yes, even if she’ll be just a little bit nauseous for the rest of the day. It’s not a lie, either, she did have fun. She was scared out of her mind, but in a way that makes her happy she did it. 

They pose for a photo together in front of the car, the picture snapped by the only guy with a camera around his neck, the only one besides Chris not covered head to toe in Ferrari branding. When they pose, Charles’ arm wraps around her lower back and, almost like he remembers himself in the middle of the action, his hand doesn’t close around her side. Instead, it hovers just beyond her body, open and stiff and flat. How gentlemanly. “Good luck tomorrow,” she says.

He nods his thanks, “I hope I see you around this weekend,” he adds, and then they go their separate ways. Good thing, too, because she’s still blushing over it when she gets back to her dad in the Champion’s club. Bill is too distracted by the live feed on Chase’s qualifying laps on his tiny phone screen to notice Chris’ presence, much less the coloring of her cheeks. He qualifies third and they celebrate quietly with drinks from the bar and FP3 on the big screens. 

They stumble into more NASCAR old-timers while in the Champion’s Club and Chris spends the time fifth-wheeling their conversations about Chase and watching the second half of qualifying on one of the TVs. 

She doesn’t really understand the format of the weekend. In theory, she understands the basics, didn’t have to read Formula One for Dummies on the plane ride over, but the intricacies of it are beyond her. In NASCAR, drivers are split into two groups and then are only given, at max, two laps to set their qualifying times. It varies depending on the track that weekend, but it always hits some of the same points. From what she can gather from the low-volume televisions mounted on every surface around her, F1 is definitely different. 

They head back to the hotel directly after qualifying to ‘beat the traffic’ which is code for Chris is still nauseous and they’re both feeling a little too heat exhausted. They stop for dinner on the way back, at a barbeque place right by their hotel. Bill orders the chopped brisket with potato salad and Chris gets the pulled pork sandwich with a tomato zucchini salad. 

Chris has been really busy with work, with settling into the new routine with her new group of students, and Bill wants to hear all about it. She always struggles in September and October, feels inadequate every time the other teachers find their footing with their new class weeks before she does. It’s the first time alotta ‘em have been in a school, Bill reminds her and she shrugs it off, tries to find something more upbeat to talk about. 

Chris and Bill have really gotten close over the past couple years. Growing up, she and her sister Chandler were massive daddy’s girls, had him wrapped around their little fingers from the moment they came into the world. But, when Chase started to really take racing seriously, the girls lost a lot of their dad to their brother and spent the majority, if not all, of their time with their Mom. As a teenager, Chris did what all sixteen year old girls do and rebelled against any and every rule in the book. While Chandler was touring colleges and getting 1550s on her SAT and singing in the church choir, Chris had other plans. Whether it was stubbornly refusing to clean her half of the shared room with her big sister, ratting Chase out for coming home at 2am drunk, or sneaking out of the second-story window to go out with her all-too-old boyfriend, she tested all of the waters. It wasn’t until college, until she moved away to Athens and was out of the house for the first time in her life that she realized just how important family was to her. She’s been attempting to make up for lost time since. 

That night when she plugs her phone into the charger and shuts it off for the night, she realizes she’d been half expecting a late night text from Charles. It didn’t come, and disappointed isn’t the right word for the tiny little pit in her stomach because she wasn’t really expecting anything to come from typing her number into his contacts.  It’s not disappointment, it’s something closer to acceptance or rejection, maybe. It’s not like he would’ve been searching out anything but a hookup, anyways, and Chris made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t into that idea. 

She would never hear from him again, and that’s how it should be. The whole interaction turning into anything but a story she can tell in a couple months when she’s drunk would be entirely too complicated of an outcome. 

She doesn’t let herself think about it any longer, leaves her phone face down on the side table and tucks herself into bed. 

– – –

Traffic on race day is true-crime inducing. They’re driven, again, escorted and still spend an hour and a half in the backseat of an SUV. Bill and Chris watch from the VIP stands and Chris has never seen anything like this, especially not at COTA. Even Talladega and Daytona barely hold a candle to this spectacle. 

If she has one critique, it’s that F1 should really hire some B-List at best celebrity to scream drivers, start your engines! At the start of the race like they do in NASCAR. It would really add some flare, she thinks. 

She and Bill share Chris’ airpods, one in each of their ears listening to the NASCAR broadcast. Charles starts twelfth, for whatever reason. She can’t be bothered to look into it, knows it’ll probably be a penalty she doesn’t understand and she’ll be tumbling down a rabbit hole before she knows what’s happened to her. 

While it’s not Chase’s best race–he finishes fourteenth with a single sigh from Bill–Charles puts on a show, fights his tires all the way up into third. 

They watch the podium celebrations on the TV screens and nobody looks happy to be up there. They look miserable, almost, and she understands it to an extent. It’s hard to have energy after a race, she’s witnessed it first hand more times than she can count. It’s hard, especially at the end of the season. Burn-out is real, but still. They look bored. She didn’t know spraying champagne could look so tired. 

Bill grumpily flies them home to Georgia late Sunday night. He’d wanted to wait until Monday morning, after all the billionaires and their super-jets take off right after the race, but Chris refused to miss another day of work this early in the school year, not when she was already going to be missing time in December for her brother’s wedding. 

Bill’s been flying planes since before any of his kids were born. His most recent purchase is a Cessna Conquest II that he uses to fly the family around for short distances. In another gene that skipped the females in the family, Chandler, Chris, and their mom all prefer to be passengers. Chase, however, followed in Dad’s footsteps once more in becoming an avid aviation fan. 

By the time they take off, any thought Chris had of getting a text from Charles has faded far into obscurity. He’d probably gotten dozens of numbers from girls this weekend. He was probably at a club somewhere right now still pulling women. Women more his type, probably. He seems like he’d be more into the refined type, the girls without the ‘cheap’ accents who were all worldly and spoke seventeen languages fluently and had long legs that carried them down runways across Europe every other weekend. 

Little southern girls get texts from little southern boys, that’s how it goes. That's how it’s always gone, and Chris is beyond naive to think anything different for even a moment. 

She grades papers on the flight home. Purple pen, because she thinks that color is fun and red is too cruel to grade with. Puffy stickers for everyone, even the kids who aren’t anywhere near the right track because she doesn’t want anyone to feel less than just because they struggle a bit more. Chris has always been a firm believer that the student is never the problem. If someone isn’t learning what she’s teaching, she needs to adjust the way she teaches it to cater to their learning style. 

It’s her job to teach them, not their job to learn. 

Joris has been laughing at Charles from the hotel room armchair for fifteen minutes now, beyond entertained by his best friend’s restless pacing, providing absolutely zero aid to his current predicament. This act has been going on for some time now. Charles, pacing for five minutes before pulling out his phone and typing up an opening message to Chris. Each time, he starts to read it out to Joris and then stops himself short, deletes it, and paces for five more minutes. 

Hey, Chris. This is Ch–no, that’s stupid. 

Sorry it took me a minute to text–absolutely not. 

What’s up? It’s Charles, how–someone should just stop him from speaking to women all together. 

There’s half a dozen renditions before Joris breaks. “Mate? What is your problem?” He finally asks. “It’s just a girl.”

“I know,” Charles sighs, “I know.”

“Then why can’t you send her a text?”

“Because.” He doesn’t really know why he can’t land on a message, why everything he types sounds entirely too casual or formal or nothing at all like what he would say to another human being. This isn’t a problem that he’s used to having. It’s the in-person flirting that fucks him up, not the texts and DMs and comments. She was just… he doesn’t know what she was. She was just. End of sentence. 

It’s no help that he doesn’t know American texting culture, unfamiliar with how long he’s supposed to wait to send a message or what he’s supposed to say in the opening text. 

“Here,” Joris says, holds his hand out for the phone. “I’ve got the perfect text.”

“Don’t send it,” Charles warns, but passes the phone to his friend. 

“I… won’t,” Joris says slowly, struggling to multi-task. He doesn’t type for more than a few seconds and then hands the phone back to Charles, with the message already sent. Charles’ look of sheer panic is met with a smile and a chef’s kiss from Joris. 

She turns her phone off while Bill is shutting the plane engine down in the hangar. Because of his love of aviation, Bill had bought some land out in the woods a couple decades ago and turned it into the family’s private airstrip for their planes.  Elliott Field, they coined it, stored all their extra vehicles out on the property. She slips it into her back pocket as her and Bill disembark and lock up the place, and the entire time she can feel it vibrating, the notifications from the hour and a half flight catching up now that she’s on the ground again. 

It’s not until she’s in her car that she checks them, pulls her phone out to plug it into the aux and play some music for the drive back to her house. Right at the top of the dozens of notifications is a message from an unknown number with an unfamiliar area code. 

[one unread message] the notification reads. She unlocks her phone to check the message. 

She closes the messages app on her phone and opens up Spotify, shuffles her favorite playlist. She doesn’t reply to his text, doesn’t know if she wants to or even what she might say back. She’s sleepy, more than ready for bed after a long weekend in the sun, excited to be back with her students bright and early tomorrow morning. 

The text from the cute race car driver can wait for another day. An issue for tomorrow, maybe. 

masterlist next chapter>

#ma&thbp #AHH FUCKKK #BOO #im scared #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x reader #formula one #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc fic #f1 fanfic #f1 blurb #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 #f1 fandom #f1 2023 #jumpscare #I hope I forget this is in the queue #so when it flops I dont have to bare the suffering of it

[ashs-cardboard-box]

Poetic translation

~ Elliott/GN!Reader

~ Romantic

~ 881 words

ib: @the-spookington

..................................................................................................

..................................................................................................

Caring for your own farm was a drastic shift from your boring desk job, but it was honest work. Get up at six each morning, and hope you’re in bed before two. Getting billed from the frantic doctor Harvey wasn't something you looked forward to.

Unfortunately, it felt like it was happening more than normal lately. You had made friends with Elliott, often spending your time with him down on the beach when you weren’t working. His shack was quite a ways walk from your farm. Often losing track of time and ending up collapsing from exhaustion on your way back home. It always worried Elliott terribly.

 He knew that look. When you sheepishly walk up onto the beach, clutching the letter in hand. Elliott chuckles softly with a slow shake of his head extending a hand forth expectantly, prompting you to put the folded paper into his palm with a dry chuckle.

Elliott delicately unfolds the paper and reads over the doctor’s handwriting. “My love..” he sighs, but not out of frustration, out of worry for your well-being. Your black-outs can’t be good for you– that he knows. You nod slowly in response, already expecting a lecture of sorts.

Instead, he gently folds the paper back into three flaps and offers it back to you with one hand. The other reaching forward and resting his palm on your cheek, his thumb caressing over your cheekbone as he looks into your eyes with concern.

The two of you had grown close over time, blurring the lines of what you really are. Friends, lovers, best friends..just affectionate? You weren’t entirely sure. However, that wouldn’t stop you from leaning into the warmth of his hand. Accepting the letter back from him and stuffing it sloppily into your pocket, your other hand cupping the back of Elliott’s.

The silence between you two is not one of awkwardness nor of tension, but of pure bliss and adoration. Feeling his breath graze your face due to the close proximity, blending perfectly with the subtle breeze of salty sea water rushing the sandy shores in small waves. 

“I’ll be more careful tonight.” you promise, your fingers curling around Elliott’s hand, causing his own to move from your cheek to interlace your fingers with one another. A warm smile crosses over his lips at your words.

“I know you will, darling.” he murmurs. To anyone passing by, no doubt you would’ve seemed like more than friends. That one passing thought makes your cheeks burn, rushing up to the tips of your ears as you take a step back, awkwardly clearing your throat; you don’t dare let go of his hand. 

Elliott’s eyes dart up and down your body closely, studying each and every detail. His head cocking to the head subtly, as if a curious puppy. He brings his free hand up and runs his fingers through his long auburn hair, brushing it away from his face. 

“I- I should..get back to work–” you mumble nervously, feeling your heart race in your chest. Only to have Elliott gently pull you back to him without a word. Letting go of your hand to wrap his arms around you into a firm hug, keeping you close. Despite your confusion, you wrap your arms around his waist. A heavy sigh of contentment leaving your lips.

After an unusual silence on Elliott’s behalf, he finally speaks. His tone much softer than usual, making sure that you, and only you, are able to hear it– despite being alone along the beach. 

“You are like the warmth of the sun’s rays on my skin in the early morning hours; a fawn learning its way through a new life. You are the roots to the tree that support me in each waking minute. The shine of the dewy grass after a lovely rain couldn’t compare to your eyes, my love.”

You lift your head slowly and look up at Elliott, your confused expression a stark contrast from his passionate one. You blink a few times as you try and wrack your brain about what exactly all of that means.

“...What?” you mumble with a small chuckle, causing Elliott to scoff a laugh in mock offense before leaning down closer to you. One of his hands moving from around your back to your chin. His index finger underneath your chin, the pad of his thumb resting just under your bottom lip.

“I’m saying I love you, dear. How clumsy you are concerns me, and I love the way you support me and your farm, despite the strenuous work each day. Your eyes captivate me like no other.” Elliott explains calmly with a deep chuckle.

You gasp quietly at the simple explanation of Elliott’s poetic rambling. Your eyes lighting up with recognition, only serving to cause your heart to race further. “I love you too..” you whisper. Taking in each and every detail of Elliott’s features, only to get caught short as he leans even closer. Allowing his eyes to close as he lovingly presses his lips against yours. Your own eyes slowly closing as you kiss him back.

While you didn’t always understand the meaning behind his heartwarming poetry, he was patient and loved your excitement when you finally understood just how much he loves you.

..................................................................................................

i am a shit poet don't tear me to shreds </3

(thank you to Spooki for the idea !!!)

#stardew valley #stardew valley x reader #elliott x reader #elliott stardew valley #elliott x farmer

[todaysdocument]

Memorial of the African-American People of Georgia in Favor of the Sumner Civil Rights Bill

Record Group 233: Records of the U.S. House of RepresentativesSeries: Petitions and Memorials Referred to the Committee on the JudiciaryFile Unit: Petitions and Memorials, Resolutions of State Legislatures, and Related Documents Which Were Referred to the Committee on the Judiciary during the 43rd Congress

Atlanta, Ga., Jan. 26th, 1874. Whereas, Hon. A. H. Stephens in his speech before Congress, January 5th, 1874, said that colored people of the State of Georgia did not desire the passage of the Civil Rights Bill; and whereas, the Georgia Legislature has also adopted resolutions, informing the Congress of the United States that the colored people of Georgia do not desire the passage of said Civil Rights Bill; and whereas, the allegations of Mr. Stephens and the Georgia Legislature are without foundation in fact: therefore, Resolved, That we, a portion of the colored citizens of Georgia, do most solemnly deny, both the speech of A. H. Stephens, and said Resolutions of the Georgia Legislature, so far as they relate to the colored citizens of this State being adverse to the passage of said Civil Rights Bill. Therefore, Resolved, That some arrangement be made by this meeting to deny the fact of the said assertions of Mr. Stephens, and the Georgia Legislature. 2. Resolved, That we, the citizens of the city of Atlanta, Ga., immediately inform the Congress of the United States, that we desire a speedy passage of the said Civil Rights Bill; and that we claim it as a right they owe us, as members of the Republican Party, and more particularly as citizens of the United States. 3. Resolved, That we most heartedly congratulate and thank Mr. Elliott, for his able and pointed speech, January 6th, 1874, in the House of Representatives of the United States, in behalf of the passage of the Civil Rights Bill, and in vindicating the ability and patriotism of the colored citizens of this country. Respectfully, J. O. WIMBISH W. D. MOORE, SECRETARY, J. B. FULLER, CHAIRMAN. Therefore, We, a committee appointed at a mass meeting of the colored citizens of the city of Atlanta, Ga., held on the 26th day of January, 1874, with power to forward on the above expression of eleven thousand of colored citizens of this City, do make this PETITION: To the Honorable Senate and House of Representatives: We, the undersigned committee, do hereby respectfully petition your honorable bodies to speedily pass the Civil Rights Bill, now under consideration in Congress, as the earnest request of the above stated citizens; wit hthe further request that your honorable bodies will, in view of the unjust manner in which we are now treated by the Legislature and the judicial tribunals in this State, enact such laws as, in your wisdom, are necessary to secure each citizen in the United States, without regard to race, color, or previous condition of servitude, equal civil and political rights, privileges and immunities before the law. And we your petitioners will ever pray. Dr. H. E. BAULDIN REV. ROMULUS MOORE C. WIMBISH C. H. MORGAN JAS. A. TATE. [Added by type beside list of names] Committee. We, the undersigned, members of the Georgia Legislature, fully endorse the above Resolutions and Petitions: T. G. CAMPBELL, SR. Ex. Senator 2d District. T. G. CAMPBELL, JR., Representative of McIntosh Co. I. H. ANDERSON, Senator 23d District. JASPER BATTLE, Representative of Thomas Co. A. J. NICHOLSON, Representative of Decatur Co. J. HEARD, Representative of Greene Co. JAMES B DEVEAUX, Senator 21st District. JAMES BLUE, Representative of Glynn Co. A. J. ATKINSON, Representative of Thomas Co. W. A. GOLDEN, Representative of Liberty Co.

#archivesgov #January 26 #1874 #georgia #civil rights #19th century

[roe-and-memory]

in the case of strip and cal, i think a little bit about bill and chase elliott — specifically the pictures and silly interviews from when chase was a baby. except, in this case, cal is the itty bitty nephew that strip wants to show off to everyone because “this kid is gonna continue my legacy one day, i just know it”. and i just think its adorable. but i also just think about strip and cal a lot in general.

cal grows up on the track, his parents are super close to his aunt and uncle and they basically do everything together, and cal gets so many cool opportunities to see how racing works from the pit crews pov. he gets to wear headphones, sit beside strips crew chief in the pit box, and he gets to watch the races up close and personally. i dont think anyone ever pushed racing onto cal, but he did know he wanted to be a driver and everyone made sure he didnt feel pressured to be one.

strip taught cal how to drive in the fields behind the farmhouse, and although these lessons were rare because cal lived in a city three hours away, he picked up a lot of information fast and started karting.

after the accident however, when his parents passed, he lost his hearing, and he was placed in the care of his aunt and uncle, a little bit of that spark died and became fear. he’d put so much effort, so much of his life, into racing already, that it felt near impossible to choose something else. he wanted to do it, but he was so terrified of the crashing aspect, and so heartbroken because everything happened so damn quick, that he almost didnt tell strip. almost.

it was nerves more than anything, the first practice in the fields since everything happened, and he’d already been strapped into the car and was about to be on his merry way when he abruptly blurted out that he was terrified and he didn’t know if he could do it anymore.

strip kind of paused, but understood where he was coming from and decided he would vow to protect cal from any crashes, no matter what it takes. he taught the kid defensive driving, how to drive in a pack and avoid the big ones, and any skills he would need to stay safe, alert, and unharmed.

obviously, racing careers are lame without crashes, but by the time cal is 19 and having his debut race in the piston cup, the 2007 fireball 500, that fear of crashing is almost gone. hes a grown up now, the accident was 6 years ago, and he feels much safer in that car than he wouldve in a regular car driving down a highway. he will continue strips legacy.

#cars 2006 #cars fandom #lightning mcqueen #pixar cars #cars headcanons #memory’s headcanons #cars 3 (2017) #cal weathers #strip weathers #i adore cal so much #his backstory makes me wanna chew on bricks (i literally came up with it) #deaf cal weathers #traumatized cal weathers #tagging this like an ao3 fic #i think the trio needs more recognition #bobby my darling son next

[marcmarcmomarc]

Kingdom Hearts IV predictions

Radiator Springs/Dinoco Rust-eze Racing Center/Fireball Beach/Thunder Hollow/Thomasville/Florida International Speedway (Cars)

Takes place after Cars 3.

Is visited by Sora.

It isn’t combat based. Missions include keeping up with McQueen’s top speed by racing down Radiator Springs’ main street, learning how to turn right to go left at Willy’s Butte, driving backwards with Mater, keeping up with Cruz’s top speed on Fireball Beach, avoiding pushy competitors with the Thunder Hollow challengers, and practicing with Cruz at Thomasville, culminating in the Piston Cup race at Florida International Speedway, where the objective is to win against Jackson Storm.

Sora enters the world as a custom-made car mixing a few real-life sports car models before visits to Luigi’s Casa Della Tires and Ramone’s House of Body Art end with him modified into a next-gen race car sponsored by Dinoco (with Tex’s blessing) and with Cruz’s number.

It’s set during Cruz’s first Piston Cup racing season, so McQueen still has Doc’s colors and spends the Florida race as Sora’s crew chief. Also, Ramone wears his “Saludos Amigos” body paint from the epilogue of Cars 3.

As Sora finishes his story, Mater is certainly unhappy with Xehanort’s actions forcing Sora’s hand. “That dad-gum Xehanort”, he says angrily. Extra points if Sora doesn’t get to the part where Xehanort is dead, then Sarge gets in his face and demands him to teach Xehanort a lesson when he gets back in a militaristic manner. “Is that understood,” Sarge yells. Then Sora tries to correct him, but gets cut off and asked again, “Is that understood,” and has to respond, “Sir, yes, sir!”

Of course, during the top speed races, Luigi is the one to signal the race to begin.

In the Radiator Springs race, Sora’s top speed is tracked by Sheriff’s speed radar, and on Fireball Beach, it’s via Cruz’s personal assistant, Hamilton.

If you fail the “Turn Right to go Left” mission, Sora goes flying into the bed of cacti, and Mater fishes him out.

“I don’t like to toot my own horn, but…” (HONKS TWICE) “Toot my own horn. That’s funny right there.” - Sir Tow Mater, beginning his backwards driving lesson, 2017

I know I’ll get hate for this, but Cars 2 elements are here. Heck, maybe Mater can’t be present most for the training because he’s busy with Finn and Holley. After all, does he still owe Holley a first date?

I wanted the player character in this world to be Kairi just so Storm can feel the embarrassment of losing to not one, but two “costume girls”.

The Piston Cup race is announced as a 500-lap race, but no game developer is that malicious to force the player to race 500 laps around an oval, so they’d take after the first Cars game and make it twelve laps with the sun slowly lowering throughout the race.

Starring the voices of:

Lori Alan as Millie

Carlos Alazraqui as Ronald

Cristela Alonzo as Cruz Ramirez

Eric Baudour as Noah Gocek

Brendan Blaber as Pileup

Ryan Blaney as Ryan “Inside” Laney

Jen Brown as Jambalaya Chimichanga

Burnie Burns as Herb Curbler

Corey Burton as Doc Hudson

Tiana Camacho as Airborne

Clifford Chapin as Dan Carcia

Tyler Coe as Bill

Will Collyer as Brick Yardley & Roscoe

Chris Cooper as Smokey

Bob Costas as Bob Cutlass

Django Craig as Superfly & Kurt

Andra Day as Sweet Tea

Robbie Daymond as Ernesto

Lea DeLaria as Miss Fritter

Aaron Dismuke as Will Rusch & Sudeep

Paul Dooley as Sarge

Jason Douglas as Junior “Midnight” Moon

Barbara Dunkelman as Cigalert

Kara Eberle as Laura Spinwell

Chase Elliott as Chase Racelott

Adam Ellis as Ed Truncan

Ray Evernham as Ray Reverham

Keith Ferguson as Lightning McQueen

Nathan Fillion as Sterling

Flynt Flossy as Paul Conrev

Gavin Free as Sheldon Shifter

Scott Frerichs as Jonas Carvers

Teresa Gallagher as Mater’s Computer

Grant George as Krzysztof

Blaine Gibson as Steve LaPage

Jessie James Grelle as APB

Christopher Guerrero as Run

Harvey Guillén as Gabriel

Todd Haberkorn as Junyi

A.J. Hamilton as Jackson Storm

Lewis Hamilton as Hamilton

Anna Hullum as Melissa Bernabrake

Bonnie Hunt as Sally Carrera

Garrett Hunter as Harvey Rodcap

Samantha Ireland as Liability

Jason Isaacs as Siddeley

Martin Jarvis as Finn McMissile

Lindsay Jones as High Impact

Michael Jones as J.D. McPillar

Corey Krueger as Rich Mixon

Nick Landis as Eric Braker

Larry the Cable Guy as Sir Tow Mater

Mick Lauer as Nick Shift

Jenifer Lewis as Flo

Yuri Lowenthal as Flip Dover

Miles Luna as Aaron Clocker

Joe MacDonald as Stephenson

Alex Mai as Todd

Michael Malconian as Jae

Wendie Malick as Louise “Barnstormer” Nash

Cheech Marin as Ramone

Aaron Marquis as Conrad Camber

Dustin Matthews as Fishtail & George New-Win

Jeremy Maxwell as Arvy Motorhome

Madeleine McGraw as Maddy McGear

Michel Michelis as Tomber

Emily Mortimer as Holley Shiftwell

Laraine Newman as Lizzie

Paul Newman as Doc Hudson

Jessica Nigri as Blind Spot

Richard Norman as J.P. Drive

Angel Oquendo as Bobby Swift & Aiden

Neath Oum as Spikey Fillups

Jason Pace as Faregame

Bryce Papenbrook as Shriram

Bob Peterson as Chick Hicks & Dr. Damage

Kyle Petty as Cal Weathers

Richard Petty as Strip “The King” Weathers

Kyle Phillips as Broadside

Connor Pickens as Chris Roamin’

Steve Purcell as Tractors

Guido Quaroni as Guido

Anairis Quiñones as Gale Beaufort

Jerome Ranft as Red

John Ratzenberger as Mack

Vanessa Redgrave as The Queen

Kevin Michael Richardson as River Scott

A.J. Riebli III as McQueen’s Biggest Fan

Zeno Robinson as Cam Spinner

Patrick Rodriguez as Taco

Jason Rose as Pat Traxson

Alejandro Saab as H.J. Hollis

Christopher Sabat as Prince Wheeliam

Anthony Sardinha as Jimbo

Ben Schwartz as Richie Gunzit

Tony Shalhoub as Luigi

Kerry Shawcross as Tim Treadless

Lloyd Sherr as Fillmore

Peter Sohn as Mr. Drippy

Gus Sorola as Hit

Shannon Spake as Shannon Spokes

Andrew Stanton as T-Bone

Daniel Suárez as Danny Swervez

Kaiji Tang as Pushover

Jen Taylor as Tailgate

Kyle Taylor as Barry DePedal

Maggie Tominey as Patty

Bubba Wallace as Bubba Wheelhouse

Michael Wallis as Sheriff

Darrell Waltrip as Darrell Cartrip

Howard Wang as Jim Reverick

Kerry Washington as Natalie Certain

Christopher Wehkamp as Tom W.

Humpy Wheeler as Tex Dinoco

Travis Willingham as Michael Rotor

Todd Womack as M Fast Fong

Back to index

#kingdom hearts iv #cars #radiator springs #rust-eze racing center #fireball beach #thunder hollow #thomasville #florida international speedway #keith ferguson #cristela alonzo #larry the cable guy #chris cooper #tony shalhoub #guido quaroni #john ratzenberger #lloyd sherr #paul dooley #cheech marin #jenifer lewis #michael wallis #laraine newman #jerome ranft #aj hamilton #kerry washington #martin jarvis #emily mortimer #salqueen #mater x holley

[praxcrown5]

WOC Fanfic Drabbles...

AKA: Praxy started down a new rabbit hole...this time centering on language... OTL

My WOC OC, Ghost, speaks what folks call Appalachian English, on account of him being from the mountains north of Middlesboro, KY.

In my fic, I'd just been writing his dialogue with a heavy East Texas variant of the southern accent in mind...because that's what I'm used to. The more research I do, the more I realize I'm gonna have to re-write all of his dialogue to make it more in keeping with his roots...specifically that he'd likely be speaking in a sub-dialect of Appalachian (Southern Inland).

I know most people aren't gonna be able to tell the difference...and it's gonna be a lot of work on my end...but I think I'mma do it anyhow because that's the Praxy way.

Also, random aside, Doc--despite being from Georgia--doesn't actually speak with a southern accent (his VA, Paul Newman, grew up/went to school all over Ohio...then he lived/raised his family in NY and Connecticut).

In my HC, Doc, when he lived in Georgia, would have had an accent similar to race car driver Bill Elliott, as they're both from Dawsonville. After his accident, he left Georgia to try and start over somewhere else, presumably Detroit if the World of Cars book is to be believed. I feel he would have tried to hide his accent, especially after he got rid of his racing livery. This, combined with him eventually winding up in rural Arizona led to his present, muddled, accent...though when he gets angry his Georgia twang tries to reassert itself.

#cars fandom #pixar cars #cars pixar #cars #doc hudson #disney pixar cars #cars 2006 #cars headcanons #disney cars #cars fanfiction

[whipplefilter]

NASCAR in unexpected places???? I see your Bill Elliott shirt, sir!

This is from Seoul Vibe (2022), a Korean cars/gangs/street racing movie that's like Fast and Furious except with more cars and all of the cars are 80s Hyundais and 80s BMW/Mercedes/Porsches. It's on Netflix, and it is an absolutely wild time. Would recommend!

#seoul vibe #nascar #bill elliott

[autisticempathydaemon]

Hi Lexi! It's so much fun that you're doing match-ups! 💜 If I may, I'd like to ask for one, please?

To answer a few of your questions,

I have no idea what an Enneagram type is. All I know is I'm an INTJ, a Scorpio, and a Slytherin. All of which makes me sound like a villain but I promise I'm actually ridiculously polite and friendly. Mama raised me right

My go-to way to fall asleep has been listening to ASMR for 7 years now. Back in college, my apartment was literally right next to the freeway and it was always so loud that I needed to listen to something else. Which is when I discovered and delved into it for the first time and have stuck around ever since.

I have so many different names I'd consider changing mine to but I really like Aurora "Rory"

My brand-new favorite Redacted audio is Avior's S1 finale. I've been waiting for so long. Hopefully that doesn't give away who I am lol. Other favorites include all of Elliott's happy ones, the Elemental boys non-canon confessions (Huxley's is my favorite of the three), and almost all of Caelum's playlist. My son

I don't really get the hype for Yanderes in general but Blake in particular, like, I got nothin'.

I could literally stand in front of you and quote The Incredibles front to back, doing Very Bad Impressions of all the character voices, and bad vocal renditions of the soundtrack. I watched it every day when I was like 8-9. I love that movie.

I would also like Cam and Caelum to be my best friends.

Fun fact: my go-to ramble is also space! I watched one (1) Bill Nye video on the sun when I was like 8 or 9 and I was hooked. Fast forward to college and I got a 97% overall in Honors Astronomy my freshman year and my honors program advisor looked at my transcript and went, "How did you get that high of an A in Honors Astronomy?" and I was like, "It wasn't hard???" And my advisor goes, "Yes it is! No one gets that high of an A in Honors Astronomy." And I'm sitting there like, "Well, uh... I did." Also, in said Honors Astronomy class, the professor put up two nearly-identical graphics (emission spectrum of hydrogen) and asked what the difference between the top and bottom ones were and I raised my hand and said, "The bottom one is red-shifted" (not knowing he was about to introduce the Doppler Effect but already knowing what that was) and my professor stares at me for a solid 10 seconds in stunned silence and said, "I've been teaching this course for 20 years and you're the first one to get that question right on the first try." So... yeah. Big space nerd. 🌟

One other thing that says a lot about me is that I adore that the Redacted d(a)emon aesthetic is music and stars. Music was the first thing I was taught to love by my musician family, and the stars were the first thing I loved for myself.

Also if I were an Empowered race, I'd definitely be a Freelancer, but one with a heavy emphasis in Dreamwalking, Psychokinesis, Fire Elemental Command, and Electro Command. I'm not cool enough to be a specialized race. Oh man I'm a rambler. I'll stop now.

Don’t stop the rambling; I think it’s wonderful, and you know what? So would Lasko.

I think it’d be so cute to have a thoughtful and rambly partner for Lasko. Conversations are a push and pull, and I think Lasko is too often one or the other, trying so hard. Because of that, I imagine it would be so peaceful and quieting for him to not feel like he has to talk or contribute and to be able to just listen and be there for you.

Overall, Lasko is uniquely situated to uplift and care for you. INTJs (and Slytherins to an extent) are characterized as intelligent, ambitious, and virulently independent. Lasko, who strikes me somewhere on the brink of an ISFJ, would be a lovely partner for you in that his hardworking nature and ambition would not combat or stifle yours but would support it.

Song:

What's the hurry/ When you know that you've got me/ Don't you worry, I've nowhere to be/ Other than right next to you

I went looking specifically through my Lasko/OC playlist for this one, and I was not disappointed. Lasko is such a ride or die dude, you feel me? He’s so dedicated to the people he loves and the family he’s chosen, so once he chooses you, there’s nothing stopping him.

Runner-Ups:

Anton also strikes me as a wonderful listener; I can easily picture him tinkering with some machinery while nodding and humming and listening to you wax poetic about the music playing in his workshop. Vincent would also be a good listener, not by his own virtue but just by being a fuckin simp. He’s the type who’d have his chin perched on his hands, starry eyed and mooning as you infodump and trying his honest to god best to understand what you’re saying even if he has no clue.

Note: I don’t think you sound like a villain! I’m an INTJ, and my boyfriend is a Slytherin, so you’re in fantastic company in my opinion 💜

Want a match-up of your own? Read this post, and tell me about yourself!

#redactedasmr #redactedverse #redacted asmr #redactedaudio #redacted audio #redacted #busybee matches

[optimabatteries]

#NASCAR legend Bill Elliott races his incredible 1970 #Boss302 #FordMustang at the 2023 HSR races at Sebring International Raceway

#NASCAR #Boss302 #Bill Elliott #Ford Mustang

[racecargraveyard]

2003 Bill Elliott #9 Dodge Dealers/UAW Rockingham Win Raced Version custom. Elliott's 44th and final Cup series victory.

[formulaforza]

miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—06. Quarter of the Way —word count: 5.2k —warnings: none :) love, mackie... hiii guys!!! thank you for bearing with me while I sorted all of this out. my life is so crazy busy right now, and I have a weird outlining-rule that really restricted me from getting to bust this chapter out. it's a short one, and a lot of set up for the next chapter which WILL be coming soon.

The heads of the Elliott family tree—Bill, and his brothers Ernie and Dan—will tell you that what the Elliott’s do best is racing. If you ask the necks of the Elliott family tree—the ones who turn the heads; Cindy, Tammy, and Susan—they would argue that there is nothing quite like an Elliott family holiday. 

Chris is late, pulls onto the property an hour and a half after the start time posted in the massive family group-chat. She makes her own parking spot, like half of the family, since the driveway is well-filled. If her tally is correct, there are at least thirty people inside her family’s house right now. Or, at least thirty people somewhere on the property. 

She hauls her way inside with a hot crock-pot of mashed potatoes, which is the reason she was late in the first place. Her internal clock is so royally screwed up that it’s not even funny. She maneuvers her way through the herds of aunts, uncles, and cousins until she finally makes it into the kitchen. 

“Chrissy, you’re late, baby girl,” Cindy greets her daughter with a kiss on her temple, takes the crockpot from her arms and heaves it up onto the countertop.

“I know, I know,” Chris sighs, already starting to take off her coat. November in Georgia is not coat-worthy weather, but Chris is always cold, always. Sixty-five with a breeze does nothing for her. 

Hannah appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and drops a full wine glass into Chris’ hand. “Did you go tanning?” Hannah asks, picking up her best-friend’s arm to examine her skin tone in the light. “You’re glowing.”

Chris shakes her head and takes a big sip of her wine. “No, but, uh,” she chuckles. “I have a lot to tell you.”

Hannah scowls. “Good, bad, or in between?”

Chris smiles, gets that silly little warm and fuzzy feeling in her chest. The one she always seems to get when she thinks about him. Oh, when she thinks about him. It’s disgusting. “Good. Really, really good,” she says, takes another sip of wine and leans over to whisper into Hannah’s ear. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Do they work at a tanning salon?”

Chris laughs, whispers a “Shut up,” through gritted teeth. 

“Let’s go outside. Debrief on the swings?”

They sneak out the back door without being noticed by Cindy, who would undoubtedly have a long list of dinner-prep tasks for them if they stuck around for a moment longer. Wine glasses in tow, they make the journey across the porch, down the stairs, and to the back trail on the property, Chris greeting each family member as she walks past them. They’re all gathered around in the open yard, some playing cornhole, others positioned around the firepit, beers in hand, football game on the radio. Chase, who is playing catch with Reid and some cousins, warns of other family members out on the trails on the ATVs, tells the girls to be careful. 

As soon as they reach the cover of the trees, Chris is telling Hannah everything. Everything. She tells her about Austin, about how she met a guy who was just too charming to not get her number. About every nervous text and hours long FaceTime call and every picture and every conversation. She tells her about how crazy she feels, how insane she felt agreeing to fly across the world— “Wait,” Hannah questions. “You flew across the world?”

“Well, yeah. He’s not from here.”

“Where is he from?” Hannah takes a sip of wine. 

“Uhm,” she hesitates because she hasn’t dropped the big-bomb yet. “The south of France.”

“Mmm,” Hannah hums against the lip of her glass. “Tan mystery is solved.”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Anyways,”—She tells her about how she met his family, how they were nothing but sweet and inclusive and kind to her, even though she was surprised by half of them and looked like she’d just rolled out of a dumpster. She tells her about how they slept together, a few times, and how he pretended not to have every minute of their time planned. 

“So, he was good?” Hannah smiles. Chris blushes into her wine glass, ears hot, cheeks hotter. “Oh,” Hannah laughs. “He was good-good.”

“I hate to give a man the satisfaction, but,” Chris giggles, “but,” she shrugs, doesn’t elaborate more on the topic. Her teenaged giggles and pink cheeks are more than enough for the dots to be connected, she’s sure. 

Chris keeps going, telling Hannah about how she’s pretty sure he put off work to spend more time with her, and how she totally cried while they watched a movie and how he was totally freaked out by it, but in a good way? In a he-asked-me-to-be-his-girlfriend way. And then, after all that, Chris asks the burning question: “I know the RSVP date for me to have a plus-one was last month, but… is there any chance I can bring one?”

“For you? There’s room for a plus-million. I’d let you get engaged at my wedding if you wanted to—”

“I would never do that to you,” Chris assures. 

Hannah nods. “Honestly, he sounds really sweet, I don’t know why you hid this from me?”

“Because,” and here comes the big one, the answer to the question she’d been dreading, the one thing about Charles she’d been dodging like the plague, “he’s not just a guy I met at COTA.”

Hannah stops dead in her tracks. Chris turns fully to face her best-friend’s apprehensive face. “Don’t tell me what I think you’re about to—”

“He’s a driver.”

“Chris!” Hannah groans. “Why do you tell me these things? Now I have to choose between protecting you and telling my fiance everything.”

Chris’ stomach drops. The thought of Chase finding out from Hannah, but especially finding out tonight, is the worst-case scenario. She has to plan out how she’s going to do it, to break the news. “You can’t tell Chase.”

Hannah shakes her head, downs what’s left of her wine. “He’s gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

“I know, just.” Chris sighs. “Please. Don’t tell him. Let me tell everyone.”

Hannah scowls, gestures dramatically. “You make my life so hard, y’know?”

Chris nods, winces when she asks:  “But he can come to the wedding?”

“He can come to the wedding,” Hannah agrees, “as long as you tell Chase about him before his birthday.” 

Chase’s birthday is four days from now. Four days. She can handle that, right? Four days is a lifetime, she can totally do that. It’s not like their little rule was ever all that real, anyways. She didn’t grow up under a roof where it was forbidden for her to be with a racing driver. It was always more… Bill knew the type. Bill was the type, and he didn’t want that life for his little girl. And Chase, well. Chase didn’t want his kid sister around any more than she needed to be, and that included her fraternizing with his friends, or worse, with the enemy. She can one-hundred-percent well up the courage to take his grilling. 

“Just,” Hannah hesitates. “Are you sure about him?”

“What do you mean?” Chris questions, confused. 

“You love hard, is all,” She elaborates. “You put up with a lot of shit, I think. Stuff that you shouldn’t have to because you think you’ve found your soulmate. I just, I want you to be careful that you aren’t blowing your savings flying to Europe all the time for a guy who doesn’t love you like you love him.”

“I don’t love him,” Chris is quick to quip back. 

“Yeah, but you will.” 

Chris rolls her eyes. “Also, I didn’t pay for my flights.”

“Oh?” Hannah laughs. “So you’re a sugar baby?”

Chris slaps her shoulder, bursts out laughing. “You know that’s what I thought the entire flight to see him?”

– – –

Bill leads grace around the head table, and the entire meal, Chris is acutely aware of every single family member. Of all their undesirable habits and questionable conversation topics. All of these people are going to be at Chase and Hannah’s wedding, and in a few weeks, Charles is going to be interacting with them all on his own. She’ll be too busy to be a buffer the entire time, and suddenly she feels like she’s throwing him to the sharks. 

She’s never seen her family in such an unsavory light, and suddenly there are a million little flaws about everyone. Cindy is a gossip, and Bill’s accent is so thick that sometimes even Chris just smiles and nods. Chandler is half-absent, and when she is present, she’s a skunk with expensive perfume, always acts like she’s better than everyone else, more important. She has a 24/7 stick up her rear, especially if her girlfriend is with her. Chase is oblivious to his surroundings, has the attention span of a third-grader and eats like a wild animal. Reid, he’s a wildcard—just last spring he was sent home from school because he wouldn’t stop biting kids on the playground. He’s sitting at the kids table right now with nothing but rolls and corn and has his sticky little iPad in his lap. He’s feral, practically. Hannah is truly the only normal one in the bunch, but clearly something is wrong with her, too, if she’s deciding to marry into this mess. 

After dinner, Hannah, Chris, Chandler, and Cindy are all on clean up duty, and as an act of sick, sick revenge, Hannah spills the beans on Chris’ relationship status. They’re all able to move past it after Cindy has collected herself—she’s very, very upset that Chris didn’t tell anyone she was leaving the country. Very upset. She almost cries over the sink of dirty china. 

“You two will get along, Mama,” Chris tries to comfort her mother. “He’s also mad that I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Well,” Cindy starts, shoveling leftover mashed potatoes into takeaway boxes. “At least one of you has some sense. He could have murdered you.”

“He could’ve,” Chris nods. “He didn’t, though.”

“No,” Cindy chuckles to herself. “He just sucked your blood,” she says, taps her finger gently on Chris’ neck, on the caked-on foundation and concealer and color correctors. Chris looks at her with wide eyes. “Your foundation is the wrong shade, hun.”

Hannah and Chandler burst out laughing, but Chris is still shocked. “You knew!?” She squeals.

“I knew you were… having fun with someone—”

“Mom!” Chris blushes with embarrassment. 

“I didn’t know he was a…” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “racing driver. Or that he lived halfway around the world.”

Chris nods. “It’s more like a quarter, really,” she quips. 

“Christyn Claire,” Cindy warns, and Chris instinctively straightens, quickly finds a task to busy herself with. 

“Yup.”

After dinner clean-up, the girls finally join the rest of the family outside. It’s a cool night, chilly almost, but the bonfire takes the nip out of the cold. Reid and his cousins are running around the yard like little maniacs playing flashlight tag, filling the background with giggles and hollers and the occasional scream that elicits the attention of all the parents when it’s not followed by belly laughs. 

Chase is hunched over the fire, carefully roasting a marshmallow at the request of Hannah, who “could really go for a s’more right now.” For a moment, calmed by the ambiance of the fire and the lull of busy conversations, Chris considers telling him right now, around the extended family where he can’t cause a scene. He’d probably still manage to make one, she thinks, and instead kicks in the back of his knee when he stands up.

“You’re so whipped,” she teases. 

Across the fire, Cindy snaps: “Chris, be nice to your brother.”

“Yeah, Chris,” Chase mocks. “Be nice to your brother.”

“Alors qu’est-ce qui se passe avec cette fille, mec” So, what’s up with this girl, Mate? Joris asks, and everyone at the table’s ears perk up. 

Charles is having lunch with his friends, the whole group—Joris, Hugo, Thomas, Nico, Ricky, and Guizou. Charles rolls his eyes, glares at Joris from across the table. “C'était censé être privé,” That was meant to be private, he says, but it’s too late. 

“Attends, quelle fille?” Wait, what girl? Ricky asks, and Joris giggles like a little girl. 

“Ce n’est rien,” It’s nothing, Charles mumbles, takes a drink of his water and tries to glare so hard into the waitress’s head that she magically spawns at the table to take their order, that she shuts his friends up before they get to talking about Chris. 

It’s not that he’s embarrassed. God, no. Not even sort of. But, people are always listening, always watching. He knows this, and he knows that when they’re all together like this, he and his friends are anything but quiet and subtle. 

“‘Ce n'est rien’, dit-il, puis se promène dans la ville avec sa petite amie,” It's nothing,’ he says, and then walks around town with his girlfriend, Joris says, because the fact that Charles has suddenly gotten shy only eggs him on to keep talking. 

“Oh! Oui! Est-ce la fille avec qui je t'ai vu sur Twitter?” Oh! Yes! Is this the girl I saw you with on Twitter? Guizou asks, and Charles nods, scanning the room carefully. 

“Mec, tu as une nouvelle petite amie? Depuis quand?” Dude, you have a new girlfriend? Since when? Hugo chimes in, shoves Charles’ shoulder playfully. 

“Depuis qu'il la présente à Pascale,” Since he’s introducing her to Pascale, Joris adds. Charles wonders, momentarily, if it’s too late for him to pick a new childhood best friend, to dethrone Joris from this role forever. 

“A ta maman ?? Charlie espèce de mec ! Pourquoi n'avons-nous pas entendu parler d'elle?” To your Mom?? Charlie you dawg! Guizou giggles like a child on the playground. Why haven’t we heard about her?

“Je ne veux pas que ce soit un gros problème.” I don’t want it to be a big deal, Charles mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat. He looks around the room quick and inconspicuously, eyes scanning for anyone looking, anyone listening. He doesn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone. He hates this kind of paranoia. 

“Tu n'aurais pas dû l'amener ici, alors. La course était assez risquée.” You shouldn’t have brought her here, then. The race was risky enough, Joris argues.

“Elle n'était pas à la course!” She was NOT at the race! Thomas laughs, hunched over the table so far he almost knocks over his glass of water. Charles thinks his friends are having far too much fun with this new revelation regarding his relationship status. 

He nods, though, “Elle était.” She was.

“Est-elle apprécié?” Is she cool? Riccardo asks. 

Charles nods and all he can imagine is the horrified look on Chris’ face when he tells her about this the next time they talk. She’s going to freak out, he knows it, and ask him to go over every detail a million and one times. He’ll do it, too, without a complaint. “Elle est très apprécié.” She’s very cool.

“Elle vit en Amérique. Géorgie.” She lives in America. Georgia, Joris adds again, because he really can’t stop himself, no matter how obvious Charles makes it that he doesn’t want to fucking talk about it. 

Hugo scowls. “Comment est-ce?” What’s that like?

Charles shrugs. “Je ne sais pas. Je vais au mariage de son frère dans quelques semaines.” I don’t know. I’m going to her brother’s wedding in a couple weeks. He hasn’t really had the time to fully understand the implications of the four thousand, seven hundred miles between him and his girlfriend just yet. It felt too sweet, too pure, too good to be true until she was standing in front of him again, and it’s only been a few days since he kissed her goodbye. 

“Oh? Rencontrer la famille?” Oh? Nico questions, sly smile on his face. Meeting the family?

“Elle a rencontré le sien!” She met his! Riccardo chimes. 

Nico nods. “Ils vont te détester.” They’re gonna hate you.

“Copain!?” Mate!? Charles exclaims, a laugh forcing its way out of his lips. He knows his friends are just fucking with him, but. Still. Damn, give the guy a break. 

“Je veux dire, tu vis de l'autre côté du globe. Les mamans n'aiment pas ça.” I mean, you live on the other side of the globe, Hugo argues, Moms don’t like that. 

“C'est plutôt un quart du globe.” It’s more like a quarter of the globe, Charles is quick to correct. 

“Est-ce une distinction que vous pensez que ses parents font?” Is that a distinction you think her parents are making? Guizou forces Charles to wonder. He supposes that it doesn’t really matter what distinction her parents are making, it really only matters what she thinks. 

“Ne vous mettez pas dans sa tête, les gars. Il ira bien, c'est de Charles dont nous parlons.” Don’t get in his head, guys, Joris says, finally bringing some sense to the conversation. Cleaning up the mess he’d made.  He’s gonna be fine, this is Charles we’re talking about.

Four days really flies by when you’re avoiding having a conversation with your older brother. Chase’s birthday dinner has come and nearly gone. Reid is already in bed, and Bill and Cindy have long headed home, so only the trio of terror remains. It is quite literally Chris’ last chance to tell Chase about Charles, and she has to. She can’t chicken out, because she’d already told Charles to buy his plane tickets. 

The moment creates itself when Hannah is ushering Reid back to bed for the fourth time in the last hour, because if there is one thing Reid got from his mother, it’s his FOMO. Her departure leaves Chris alone in the kitchen with her brother, who is begrudgingly washing dishes from his own birthday dinner. 

Chris hoists herself up onto the counter of the kitchen island, laying down so her back is spread over the cool marble and her eyes are fixed on the crown molding, half-blinded by the pendant lights that hang over the island. 

“I have to talk to you,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…” she trails off. It’s her last opportunity to chicken out of telling him, and she knows it. “I’m uh, I’m bringing someone to your wedding. A boy.”

“A boyyyy?” Chase teases, but Chris doesn’t laugh. She’s too busy freaking out. 

“A boy.”

“Who is this boy?” He asks. “Do I know him?”

“You might,” Hannah chimes in, rounding the corner from putting Reid in his straight jacket and locking him in the closet, or something not at all similar. 

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Chris says. “You don’t know him. And uh,” there really isn’t any way to do it but to just rip off the bandaid. “He… drivescarsforaliving.”

“Hmm?” Chase hums. 

“Hedrivescarsforaliving,” Chris repeats, somehow quicker this time than the first. Chase turns around from the sink, soaped-up scrub-daddy still in his hand, and scowls before turning to Hannah.

“Do you hear her?” Hannah shrugs. “What the fuck is she saying?”

Chris takes a deep breath and sits up. Chase rolls his eyes like he doesn’t have time for all these dramatics. “He races.”

“Oh. Stock car?” Chris shakes her head. “Indy?”

“Formula One.”

The gears start spinning in her brother’s brain, his eyes darting between Chris and Hannah like he’s waiting for them to say it’s all a big joke, to burst out laughing. Neither of them do. “F1?” He goads. Chris and Hannah both nod. “What the fuck?” he laughs. “Who?”

“Charles Leclerc.”

“You’re shitting me.” She shakes her head again, awkwardly maneuvers to grab her phone from her back pocket and pulls up a picture of her and Charles on the plane back on the way from Abu Dhabi to Monaco. Charles’ second-place trophy is sat on the floor between his legs, and he’s got his arm around her, the biggest, dumbest smiles on both of their faces. You’d think they had known each other forever, how comfortable they look. “This is fucking crazy.”

“Why aren’t you mad?” She asks, tucking her phone back into her pocket. 

“Why would I give a fuck who you sleep with?” He laughs. “Just let me know if I need to kill him, or something.”

It’s not until he’s well into post-season testing at Maranello, nearly half-way through December that it really sinks in for him just how hard the long-distance thing is going to be. He’s sitting at dinner with Andrea and Joris when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s come to memorize the different notifications, and he’s certain this one is a text. He hopes it’s from her. 

It’s not. It’s a Whatsapp notification from the PR groupchat Mia and Slyvia have him in. Charles, hai una ragazza? Do you have a girlfriend, it reads. He blinks at the screen a few times like the message might disappear. It’s not the first time he’s gotten it, the ominous relationship from two people who, as much as he respects Mia and Sylvia, don’t need to know every detail of his dating life. Or any detail, really. 

He knows she wouldn’t be asking him if people weren’t asking her, though, which means there’s a rumor stirring somewhere. 

He opens Twitter first, searches his name and Chris’ name into the search bar. Full names, nicknames, first names only, last names only. Every search comes up with a load of nothing. There’s a sigh of relief, and then he searches just his name, plus girlfriend. Bingo. 

The original tweet, a screenshot of a TikTok, a picture of the two of them walking down the street. It knots his stomach, drops it straight to his feet. Suddenly, he’s not at all hungry for the meal in front of him. Instead, he thinks he’s going to have to fight to keep it down. 

There are probably two hundred, three hundred tweets about him and his quote–en-quote girlfriend. From trying to figure out who she is by searching through his following on Instagram to arguing about if it’s an invasion of privacy or not, with every comment about his ex-girlfriend’s and comparing them to the back of Chris’ head in the middle. It’s a disaster, he thinks, but at least nobody can come up with a name. 

Charles texts Chris before he replies to the team. Don’t freak. There’s a picture of you and I on… everything. No faces. You can call me if you want. And then to Mia and Sylvia, sure do.

Can I call you? Mia replies. 

No.

He’s mad. Fuming, almost. At the invasion of privacy, at the fact that he gives so much of his time to strangers, over and over again he maintains the mindset that it costs him nothing to give them some of his time. At the realization that no matter how much he gives them, they will always, always feel entitled to taking what he tries to keep. It will never be enough for them. 

He’s mad at himself, too. The how-could-I-let-this-happen kind of mad that feels a lot more like a never-ending pang of guilt in your chest. He didn’t know they were around fans, but didn’t he? He’s always around a fan in Monaco, it seems like, and here he is putting his arm around her while they walk down the street? Sending out the siren for anyone who might want to pry into his private life? It’s a mistake he never should have made. He’s smarter than this. 

He fumes silently at the table while everyone around him talks about their meals and the atmosphere and all he can think about, the only track his mind can follow, is what Chris is doing at that very moment.

He knows the time difference like it’s nothing, automatically converts it in his head when he looks at his watch. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon in Georgia, so she's at work. Today is Tuesday, which means special is at… 2? It’s art day, and he knows art is at 2. Or it is Gym today? Gym is at… what time is gym at? He can’t remember. 

He’s watching Mia type, stop typing, and start again, his leg bouncing under the table, shaking the booth underneath him. Undoubtedly, she’s typing up some essay for him to read. 

Chris calls, and he answers before the first ring can finish vibrating. “Hi,” he says, soft. “Hi,” he repeats, this time harder, calmer. Everything is fine.

Silently, he shoos Joris out of the booth so he can step away. 

“Hi,” she says, like she doesn’t have a care in the world, like social media isn’t digging through every interaction he’s had for the last month with pitchforks trying to find her. 

“Are you okay?” He’s asking before he can even process the emotions—or lack thereof—in her voice. It’s like he’s blind. The type of angry where you’re clouded by it, where all he can think about is her. 

He navigates through the restaurant, trying to find a corner of quiet solace. He can’t go outside, there were fans out there when he’d shown up. Maybe the bathroom will be empty, he hopes. 

“Yeah,” Chris says, and he lets out a heavy breath, the one he’d been unable to release since he got that first text. He thinks he believes her, that she’s okay, and that he’s freaking out over nothing. “I mean, you said there weren’t any faces, so…”

“I’m sorry that this happened like this,” he offers, ducking his head into the bathroom, peeking under the stalls. He finds one pair of shoes and settles for the hallway outside the bathrooms—there’s more room to pace there, anyways. 

“Like what?” She laughs. She fucking laughs, and it stops him dead in his tracks. His head falls back to the sky, a sharp exhale—practically a laugh of his own—leaves his nose. Of course, she’s laughing. “This is exactly how we knew it would happen.”

“It’s my fault, I should have acted different.”

If he closes his eyes, he swears he can see the frown on her face, the familiar little disappointed sigh filling his ear. “Don’t do that,” she says. “You were just being… just existing. You’re allowed to exist. I’m sorry that anyone feels entitled to your existence.”

God, she can be so annoying sometimes; has to go and make all this sense all the time, makes all his nondescript, word-scramble of thought feel simple and linear. She does it so easily, understands him with infuriating ease. Avec toi, je suis moi, he’d say, if he could properly convey it. 

He bites the nail on his pointer finger. “Are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes, babe,” she laughs again. It feels like she’s always laughing. He could listen to it, to the million variations of her laugh, for a long time. Maybe until he can’t hear anymore. “I’m so okay. The okay-est. Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine, yeah. Just worrying about you.” He’s not okay, but. He signed up for this life, and she didn’t. Charles asked for this, worked hard to have this. Sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be upset when stuff like this happens, all things considered. 

“I can hear it in your voice. You’re mad. Talk to me. I have fifteen minutes until I have to get my kids from art.” Tuesdays mean art class, he was right. He knew. 

Charles groans, thinks that this must be how toddlers feel right before they throw a tantrum, when they have all these contradictory thoughts flying around every corner of his brain and he can’t make sense of a single one of them. “I just. God, I just. Fuck, I feel guilty to get upset, you know?”

“I know. You don’t have to feel guilty with me, though.”

“I don’t know, sometimes it is just,” he’s pacing again. He wishes more than anything, more than anything, that she could just be here. That they could be having this conversation on a couch somewhere together. Missing her is hard when things are going good, because all he thinks about is how much better they’d be if she was there. But when things are bad, when he’s about ready to channel his sixteen-year-old self and punch a hole through a wall, he can feel all four thousand and seven hundred miles. “It makes me angry that less and less things are mine. I can not even walk down a street without getting a call from my press officer. I belong to everyone but to me, and I know that I am very lucky to have this life I have, and I love driving more than anything. It just gets bigger and bigger and more out of control. And God. Fuck, I am so mad about this,” he pauses, waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She just holds the empty space. “I don’t know why I’m so mad about this one. I mean, I know that it’s because it’s not just me, it’s you too. But fuck, I’m pissed off.”

“You don’t need to protect me,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. He knows he doesn’t need to. 

“I know, but I want to. I want to be able to.”

Without pause, she says: “You could. I mean, I felt safe enough to fly halfway across the world without telling anyone I was leaving, right?” He smiles. God, it really bugged him that she did that. She should have told someone. Anyone. We’re keeping it lowkey, she’s said and he didn’t know what to say. He remembers thinking it’s a trip, not the fucking nuclear codes. 

“It’s actually closer to a quarter of the way around the world, you know?” He jokes. It’s such a stupid distinction to make. Half the world, quarter of the world. Who cares, really? It’s all too far. A six hour time difference just feels a little easier than a twelve hour one. 

“Yeah,” she says quietly, and he’s certain she’s been making the same distinction, reminding herself of the same thing to make it that little bit easier. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

He leans against the wall of the narrow hallway, facing it, resting his forehead against the wallpaper and closing his eyes. He imagines he’s going back to a table with her sitting in the booth, that she’s inside the restaurant waiting for him. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“Are you?” 

“Yes,” he lies. She pauses like she can tell, like she’s trying to figure out if it’s worth it to call him on it. He really hopes she doesn’t, isn’t sure how much longer he can try to have a conversation like this with her while standing in the bathroom hallway at a random Italian restaurant. 

“Promise it won’t ruin your night?”

He chuckles. “I promise no such thing.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. 

“Two days,” he says, a reminder for him, a reminder for her. Two days until you’re in front of me. Two days and some change, for him—less than that for her. That’s what happens when you’re on different ends of the world, even your days are measured differently sometimes. 

“Two days.”

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