Trackside

Shallow Waters

Prompt: "...a short fic about the atmosphere at the 2016 end-of-season Piston Cup awards ceremony from Strip Weathers' point of view. How would things feel with all of the changes over the season (Cal retiring, Lightning crashing, etc.)."

___

He's not there. Neither of them are.

It's after dark on the east coast, the awards banquet has been going on for an hour. It's televised, but the nearest television is several miles away in the vacation house. And it's off.

Here, it's almost dusk. The late evening fog is starting to rise off of the gentle river before them. The water makes soft gurgling noises as it flows past, disrupted only by the jump of a fish every once in a while. The fish aren't biting. Their fishing poles haven't been touched since they've been cast. Strip almost feels that he prefers it that way.

Cal hasn't made a sound since they left the house. He thought he'd miss being present at the banquet. Technically, he should be there. He did race most of the season. But Bobby wasn't there. Nor was Brick. Lightning was every bit a ghost as the others. Without them, without his team, there was no reason to go. A trip out west was better suited for retirees anyway.

The crickets and the bull frogs launched into their nightly lullaby. Strip took a deep breath of the chilled air and focused on the sounds as the sky grew darker. Nothing could replace this brief moment in time. Nothing should.

There's an end to everything. Nature itself tells him that. Beautiful, powerful, uncontrollable forces control life in ways they aren't meant to understand. And Strip's accepting of that. He's humbled by the notion that he doesn't have complete control over his life. He's thankful, actually.

He's not thinking about the awards ceremony. He's been to dozens of them and they're all the same. They're full of glamour and riches, fame and cameras and paparazzi. The ceremony is nothing but crafted show. Someone somewhere has control over it, when it starts, when it ends, the agenda in between. It's so artificial.

Strip knows that it's not the end for Cal. It might be the end of racing for the Piston Cup, but despite their mutual love for the sport, he knows that other, potentially more rewarding things await. It's not for him to determine. That's Cal's duty now. He's got to find his role in this next part of his life. And he'll do a good job - he always does.

The sun's gone now, completely vanished behind the mountains. The sky's a delicate greyish-purple that no artist could dare to render. It'll last maybe fifteen minutes, he knows. And the best part? In ten or so hours, that sun's going to rise again to the east, and another day will come. And they'll do some other activity tomorrow. And the sun will set, just like it has, again and again.

He looks over at Cal. The dying light illuminates the white of his nephew's eyes, staring absently at the water. Behind the dissociated haze, there's a lot of life left in them. There's so much left for Cal to enjoy and do, he just has to find it. That's what Strip did. That's what every retired racer does. And sometimes, sometimes the journey to find that thing, that object of new interest, is the best part.

A slight breeze rustles through the grass around them. Click. Click click click click.

Cal looks down at his baitcaster. It keeps clicking, and he hesitates.

"Get ready," Strip tells him quietly. "That thing's gonna start ripping line any time now. It's been a while since you out-fished me."

Cal cracks a halfhearted smile and reaches for the pole. A few more quick clicks break the silence before he flips the clicker off and prepares to set the hook.

"You're goin' down tonight."