Braking Points by Tammy Kaehler Page B

Siebkens restaurant on the other side of the green from the Tavern. The place was deserted with all the racegoers gone home, and we sat in their screened-porch room with a bottle of wine. Stuart and I held hands under the table, while Holly pretended not to notice.
    After twenty minutes of comparing notes on the questions Stuart and I were asked by the sheriff and local police, we agreed we had no idea what happened and put the topic away for the rest of the meal. The next most interesting subject, at least to Holly, was my wreck. I hadn’t seen the news since I discovered the avalanche of e-mails. According to her, I’d missed a number of developments.
    â€œTell me.” I drained the wine in my glass and filled up again.
    â€œRacing news sites had articles this morning,” she said. “Race reports, covering the wreck, Miles’ injuries, and your rant at that stupid fan.”
    â€œThat’s not so bad.” Stuart squeezed my hand.
    I watched Holly’s face. “There’s more.”
    Her red, corkscrew curls bounced as she nodded. “The racing sites did a follow-up interview with Nash Rawlings, adding the information they’d gotten from Miles’ camp that he’ll be out of his car for four to six NASCAR Cup races.”
    I covered my eyes.
    â€œThat means no championship this year, which everyone, especially Rawlings, blames you for.” She tapped a fingernail on her wine glass. “The racing sites are full of Miles’ lost championship hopes, and the major networks are picking up the fan story now.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, the fan story?” I glanced at Stuart, who shrugged.
    â€œFrom the non-racing media’s perspective,” Holly explained, “the story is an individual who’s so fanatical about his hero he’d get in your face, crying and ranting. Your story is the focal point for illustrating how far fans will go, along with coverage of the growing NASCAR fan community, hero worship, and so forth.”
    I blinked. “I’ll go down in history as the instrument of destruction. Like Sterling Marlin tipping Dale Earnhardt into his fatal slide and pitchers giving up home runs to lose the World Series.” I sighed. “Stuart, how much does the Series hate me?”
    â€œNo one hates you. Officially, the Series is disappointed in how Miles’ participation in the race turned out. Personally, anyone who understands racing—who isn’t blindly, emotionally attached to him—understands that this was a racing incident.” He paused, softening his voice. “This will pass, Kate.”
    â€œThere’s another thing.” Holly chewed on her lower lip. “Have you heard about Racing’s Ringer?”
    â€œHeard the name.”
    â€œI forgot, you’re the queen of social media avoidance. Stuart, you know it?”
    He nodded as a waiter arrived with our food. I wound pasta around my fork as Holly explained.
    â€œIt’s a blog, started this past summer, with a fast-growing audience. An insider’s perspective on racing. Anonymous. Loaded with gossip, innuendo, and rumor—and usually dead-on correct. Whoever’s writing it is well-connected and can clearly get people to spill secrets for publication.”
    â€œBut he’s no bastion of journalistic objectivity,” Stuart put in.
    Holly nodded. “He’s opinionated, even passionate about his likes and dislikes. Vicious sometimes, when he takes someone to task for poor behavior—which he likes to do. He’s funny, unless you’re in his crosshairs.”
    I looked at Holly. “The punchline?”
    â€œHe’s going to town with the story of the wreck, the fan, and your ‘redneck’ comment.” She grimaced. “He’s being pretty nasty.”
    â€œHow nasty is nasty?”
    â€œHe’s calling you a no-talent, whiney crybaby and suggesting people who agree with him write letters