Breakfast the next morning was a low-key affair. All the teams were sitting together, talking in low voices. Kayla was the last to arrive, and Eric walked to the table with her. Before he turned to leave, he clapped Dillon on the shoulder and said, "Calen was good for over a hundred hits on our page, just this morning. He, or more likely his publicist, posted a picture of you and him sitting together. They got a good shot of you two in close conversation. It looked like the old mentor and his new apprentice, and they captioned it with 'The Next Highway Warrior?' You know, the movie that made his reputation? Anyway, that got his fans flocking to our page, and the comments are flying."
Shrugging, the young driver said, "I really don't remember a thing he said."
"Don't matter, kid. However… If you can manage to pull off a maneuver or shot that reminds people of the movie, your ratings will go through the roof. They're going to be watching you."
Eric gave Kayla's shoulder a squeeze when he walked away. Sighing, Dillon picked up a fork and started on the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. There wasn't any coffee, just orange juice, and it was fresh. After a few minutes, he realized his partner was only picking at her food.
"You okay? Did you get enough sleep?"
She shrugged, eyes focused on the plate. He tried again.
"Have any problems with the interviews? I looked for you after I was done, but Eric said you'd gone to bed. I'm sorry you had to do that all by yourself. I really wish–"
She cut him off. "No, really, it was fine. I've done plenty of press releases and interviews for work, so those weren't too hard. Of course, I've never done five in a row, and like I said before, you're saying the same things, just in a different way." She stopped talking abruptly, letting out a shaky breath.
Turning to look at him, she asked in a low voice, "How can you be so calm? All those people that are going to be watching us now, hanging on our every move. Not just our fans but Martins’ also. They want us to be like him, and when we’re not, our ratings will take a dive. Your little reporter friend will pick up on that and run with it. Why aren't you worried?"
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He picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. "I've always had that kind of attention on me in the arena. Fans are brutal. They'll pick your moves apart in the online forums, second and third guessing every decision and every shot you made. I even got it when I worked for my parents. Waiting tables or working the counter, the customers are watching you. The worst ones will justify any mistake as a reason not to tip you."
Waving the half-eaten bacon around the room, he continued. "Just do what you need to, based on what you know. Never read the comments. Never listen to the post-event analysis by the commentators. They didn't have to make the hard decision in the heat of the moment. They're judging you from their comfortable chair, without the adrenaline flowing and the smell of sulfur and burnt metal. More importantly, they don't hear rounds hammering into the car, wondering if one is going to make it through and paint the inside of the car red."
Laying her fork down on her plate, she sighed again. "My job is to analyze hundreds of data points and figure out the patterns and trends. My programs give me tables and graphs that show when something isn't working right, and I have to figure out why. How am I supposed to set that aside?"
He put a hand on her arm. "By listening to your own inputs. You said you wrote most of that code yourself, right? You know what's working and what isn't. Listen to the car. Listen to your weapons. When the rounds start flying, it's time to show them what you got, not what you thought you might have had. Kayla, you've already done it! That fight in the Springs, with the crazy bikers? You reacted great, and I didn't see any hesitation or second-guessing. Trust yourself, okay? I told your dad I thought you could do this, and so far, I'm right. Just keep doing your job. That's all."
She looked unconvinced, and after a few seconds, nodded. After a bit, she even managed to eat something, which Dillon considered a win.
Outside, in the cold morning, there was no sign of the celebrities that flocked to dinner the night before. Instead, the racers went through their vehicle checkouts in relative peace, and soon they were on the road.
Once again, the police escorted them to the city limits. The rally didn't officially start until they crossed that imaginary boundary, and the Angels made sure they led the pack to that point. Dillon was content to let them take the lead and Kayla said nothing, concentrating instead on her controls and the system checks that she'd run three and four times already. Given what happened yesterday, he wasn't worried about who was in front, since it was looking like things could change even more rapidly than in the arena.
