“Wesleyan College swim team.”

“You telling me I’ve been hustled?”

“Fork over the smoothie, baby.”

“I’d call it a tie.” He was prepared to be gracious.

She placed her palms on the pool deck, slipping her slick body out of the water. “Photo finish, but I won.”

“You sure?”

“I’m positive.”

He laughed and gave it to her, resting his gaze on her clinging swimsuit. Fact was, he’d buy her a hundred smoothies, or anything else she wanted, no race necessary.

He hopped out of the pool beside her. She was taller than most women. He had maybe four inches on her, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the perfect height.

“Do I get a rematch?” he asked.

“Not today.” She made a show of stretching out her arm muscles.

He smiled at that. He didn’t have a rematch in him today, either.

They strolled across the deck in silence, stopping at the bank of lockers for their towels.

Larry draped his around his shoulders and retrieved his wallet. “You live in Charlotte?”

She nodded, rubbing her towel over her hair before securing it at her waist. “I grew up here. Funny that we’ve never met before.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time in the garage.” When he came to a race, he was often in a motor home or up top with his son Steve who spotted for his nephew Kent, another NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.

“And I’m usually somewhere else,” she said, as they headed for the all-weather carpet and white plastic deck furniture of the snack bar.

“Do you watch the races at all?”

“If I’m at my parents’ house, yeah. My dad hasn’t missed one in about thirty years.”

“But you don’t come out to watch at the track?”

She shrugged. “Occasionally.”

They crossed into the snack bar where a dozen tables were clustered in an atrium. About half were full of families or couples.

“Ever seen a race from the pits?”